Letter to a Middle School Parent

Mommas and daddies of middle-schoolers, I have to tell you something.

We pretend like the first day of kindergarten was the hardest first day.

We pretend like those tears we shed were just a one-time thing, and that it’s just because they’re so small and vulnerable.

That’s a lie.

Listen, we know how hard it is to send your vulnerable not-always-little guys off to a building with 1000 other vulnerable kids just like yours. It may even be harder than that time you discreetly wiped tears as your 5-year-old ran to climb the huge orange slide. 

Because so many of our 5-year-olds knew what they wanted out of life, at least that day, and that was enough. They were looking for fun, they were looking for knowledge, they were looking for friends. And many of them just knew that those things were waiting for them on that playground. That kindergartener knew that his answers were right, that her parents loved her, and somehow that friends would miraculously appear. Even if he wasn’t sure, you could be sure for him. You knew that, even if not right away, she'd make friends, letter sounds would click, and she'd do great. You may not have thought you knew that, but, you did. Deep down, you knew your kid would eventually learn to read, with very few exceptions to that rule. Sure, we worried, but we really figured it would all work out in kindergarten. But now, your sweet little boy or girl knows that school can be hard, and friends come and go, and that when they're gone, it hurts. She knows about insults and rumors. He is so unsure of everything, and nothing you can say can bring back that 5-year-old confidence you once admired. What's worse, is you no longer have that deep-down assurance. 

Like your child, your fears have grown. They're bigger and hairier and maybe even an octave lower. It's not a matter of "Will the other kids let him play tag?" anymore. Now it's school shootings, and bullying, and suicide, and sex. And even when it’s not those, it’s the right friends, and for your kid, the right clothes, and suddenly that’s a puzzle you can’t decipher.

Look away from that hairy fear. I want you to look over here at me, your kid’s teacher.

What you need to know is that we know. And we care. 

We know how hard it is. For you and your kid. 

We know what it's like to walk down those halls, lockers slamming, basketball players rushing past, girls snickering, and wonder what planet you fell onto, and how to survive. 

We may not know what it's like to watch your child walk through those big double doors, but we try to imagine (and some of us do know). 

We know which kids are quieter and have a hard time finding friends.

We know which kids are louder, but are really insecure.

We know they struggle with concepts that are beyond them for a time. 

We know they’re just trying to figure out who they are and where they stand. 

We know they’re stranded somewhere between kids and teenagers, a place our culture doesn’t acknowledge.

We know the cool kids in middle school are often the worse off as adults. 

We know all these things because we care about them.

We care for them because we want so many things for them.

We want them to succeed.

We want them to be people who have compassion for each other, who not only see, but fight for the underdog.

We want to see them figure out that they have a talent for something, and how to make it grow. 

We want to protect them, and keep them safe from all types of harm. 

We will never care or watch as carefully as you do. Maybe that's good. This is an early step of the process to becoming an adult who does all of these things outside the view of his guardians. They have to learn how they will stand when you're not there. But, for now, when you're not there, they're not alone. They have us. Watching them, cheering them on, fighting for them to accomplish the challenges that necessarily are put in their way. 

You remember how hard it was to walk away from that small human that first day of kindergarten? It might actually be harder to drive away from a middle school, knowing what awaits them inside. But, just like back then, they have a teacher - or 6 or 7 - who is waiting for them with a smile, hoping to calm their fears and create a safe place to become the teenager they will soon be. 

One more thing. This letter isn't only for you. It's for me. See, we teachers are sometimes parents too. We see your kid walk in our room, and we see our own. This week, I dropped off a kindergartener and a middle-schooler, (and a 2nd grader for the first time in public school, and a 4th grader who hated public school, and a preschooler for the first time - momma's gonna need a good cry), and I had that same feeling of entrusting my very heart to another person each time.

Relax, mommas and daddies, myself included. They're in good hands. 

A middle-school teacher

Take Me To Church

It may or may not surprise you, but this pastor's wife did not worship at church last Sunday morning. I think I literally heard 2 words: "The Cross..." and could not get my voice to sing a single word. My throat was too tight with tears.

But I did have church.

At home. In my bathtub. With the blood of Christ, a full worship band (on Pandora), bath salts named "Heaven," and teaching from Rachel Held Evans newest book, Searching For Sunday. And this was exactly what I needed. Today. 

Let's back up to what was essentially an abysmal Easter morning. Scott had to leave at 6:30 am because we're a vagrant church in the process of changing buildings, and things didn't go as planned, so we ended up with no building to worship in on Easter Sunday, and ended up having our Easter service in a park.

To quickly sum up, I didn't help my husband on one of his biggest work days of the year, I yelled at my kids, I didn't get to wash -much less curl- my hair, we were late because I shaved my legs, I was given the stinkeye and a reprimand at church when I tried to walk quietly to the back during prayer (which I was actually taught to do - walk while eyes are closed, but is, apparently, a whole thing), was called out for not singing during worship (whispered out? I don't know.), and I forgot extra clothes for my son being baptized. I was a mess before the second song finished. 

I stood separate from the service, thankful that my freckled skin gave me an excuse to move to the shade. I thought about how the church is where I feel most judged. How I put on my fake face at church more than anywhere else. How I'm more honest with 7th graders than I am with the people that I call my "church family." How I grew up living in a fishbowl, and somehow willingly jumped into another one. How church really stresses me out - getting kids ready, looking decent, saying the right things. Keeping the kids from running rampant through the building, answering questions I'd rather not, smiling and nodding. I wonder what people think of me, and if I'm honest, it's because I'm judging too. Wondering why someone lets their kid do something, or why someone thought that outfit was a flattering choice. Most of the rest of the time my motto is "to each her own" and "whatever works for you!"and I try to rein it in, but I feel so open and vulnerable, and (again with the honesty) wounded, by the church in general that I default to that nearly every time.  I was convicted that I need to "judge not, lest ye be judged."

That's my boy, getting baptized in full Easter attire. 

I made it through the service, then did the whole family dinner thing, the egg hunt thing, the clean-up thing, the pack-up the kids thing, the late Easter basket thing (because dad left crazy early), the promising to play with outside toys tomorrow thing, and the bedtime thing. 

Then, I went to church. 

As I read Rachel's section on Communion, I dissolved into tears. She was describing an experience giving communion to each and every person at a youth retreat - nerdy, cool, athletic, needy, white, black, chaperone, student. God welcomes us all to the table. She said, "This is Christ's body, broken for you" to each and every one, over 300 times. We are all welcome at God's table, as we are. No need for new dresses and shiny new shoes. No need for clean hair or shaved legs. No need to fix all your doubts and insecurities first. Just come to the table. "Communion has a way of flattening things out like that, a way of entangling our roots and joining our hands." - Rachel Held Evans

We need the table. We need the church. Rachel quoted Norah Gallagher, "On those days when I have thought of giving up on church entirely, I have tried to figure out what to do about Communion." We need the experience of family around the table. I have always felt that my favorite time with my kids is dinnertime. I've never been able to pin down the reason, but it has something to do with intentionally looking at each other, sharing the same experience, and stopping everything else that swirls around us in our busy days. Rachel (she responded to a comment of mine on Facebook, so I'm taking liberties and saying we're on a first-name basis) discusses how communion doesn't have to be the wafer and grape juice, but can be the casseroles and desserts we bring to families, or the spaghetti dinner that lasts well into the night, discussing God, life, parenting, school, work, and all the myriad other things affecting our lives. 

I discussed with Scott right away about how to bring more Communion into our lives. I feel like I'll be able to open up more in my own home, over pasta, brownies, and a bottle of wine. Perhaps that vulnerability (will people notice the stains on the walls? the broken couch?) will push me to remember the way I really feel - to each their own. That experiment will be underway soon. How do you have Communion?  

Also, a full review of Searching For Sunday will be on the blog next week! Look for it! If you already want it, you can preorder and get free gifts! See www.SearchingForSunday.com for more details. 

Birth Story, A Decade Later

I woke up early. I wasn't feeling anything other than jitters. I was supposed to go in for an induction that day! The day before, they told me that because my induction was "elective" and they had a full floor, I would have to wait. I told the nurse, "No. Mine's not elective. My doctor said I had to have an induction as soon as possible." She politely told me that mine was considered elective, and I asked if my insurance would still cover it, knowing that they didn't cover many "elective" procedures. She said they would. I was so confused at my non-elective-elective induction, but I trusted my doctor, and did what she said. I called again, on September 3rd, 3 days before my due date. They weren't sure if they'd have room, they'd call me. I hung up disappointed and upset. How could they just tell me to wait? My doctor said it was urgent to have the baby!

I know now that I was in no danger. I was dilated to 3cm, and my water was unbroken. She told me I was at risk of an infection. The risk of infection increases with every dilation-check they do, but to limit those was never brought up as an option. I was never told of my Bishop's Score - an indication of how likely it is that an induction will work, based on several different factors - or even that such a thing existed, probably because mine would have been so low to recommend no induction. 

I signed in to the hospital, got hooked up to all the machines that go ping! at about 9am, and settled in. My contractions weren't strong. My back hurt a lot, but I thought it was the bed and my huge belly. My family all came to the hospital, someone picked up my mother-in-law from the airport, who happened to be flying in that day. Around 5 o'clock, the doctor said that I was finally at 5cm, far enough along that they could break my water and speed up the process. So we did.

Immediately, I started to feel those contractions that I hadn't been feeling. I was unprepared for the pain, and although I had planned to go "as long as possible" without pain medications, I asked for the epidural within the hour.

This is why I highly recommend childbirth classes and a doula to every new mom. You need to be prepared. You need to have an idea of what to expect, and what to do when the pain comes. Even if you plan on asking for the epidural the moment you're in the hospital room, you should have something in your back pocket in case you do get to experience natural labor. Yes, I said "get to" - it is one of the most empowering experiences of my life. 

The anesthesiologist joked about how he was about to head out, but his wife would have made him turn around and come back if she knew he'd left me there, asking for him. What's funny is, while I was waiting for him, I did what I did in all my other births - I took it one contraction at a time. I told myself to just deal with that one, and not worry about the next. It never occurred to me that I could do that all the way through labor - until I did it with my second-born.

The next few hours were somewhat boring. We all hung out in the hospital room. I kept asking my dad to lift my foot up for me and set it right. I could feel enough that it was slightly uncomfortable when my toe pointed forward, but not enough that I could move it. At about 9 or 10 pm, I realized I was snapping at people, and they were all seriously annoying me. My sweet daddy came close, patted my leg, and gently asked if maybe it was time for all these people to get out of my room. A lightbulb formed above my head. OH! Maybe that's why I want all these people to Just. Shut. UP. Maybe that's why I want to hit some of them in the face. Maybe I'm in the middle of birthing a baby, and my body needs to focus! haha! Having been through several more births now, I know that when I get to transition (the part of labor right before pushing, the most intense part), that when I'm in a contraction, I want everyone in the room to Just. Shut. UP.

Everyone left, except Scott. The nurses came to check me, and said, Yay, you're at 10cm! Time to push! I remember asking what to do, how to push, when to push. The nurse kept saying to do what my body told me to. That would have been fantastic advice. Except, I couldn't hear my body. I felt like I had put a muzzle on it. It couldn't send messages into my brain to tell me when to push or how. I would ask the nurses, one who was holding my leg up towards my chest, "Now?" as they watched the machine that goes ping! contraction monitor. I tried to read their faces and guess when the right time was. I tried to find a rhythm that felt like it was what I was supposed to do.

I feel now, like we've done ourselves a terrible disservice by not watching our mothers, sisters, aunts, friends labor and birth (and breastfeed). We have no idea what it looks like. No idea of the wide variation of normal, and we - at least, I - try to do what we think it should be like, based on a few scripted scenes. 

Over and over again, the doc would come in. She would ask how we were doing, tell me "twenty more minutes" until she'd have to do a c-section. After an hour or so, it became "ten more minutes" every time she came in. I still have no idea why I escaped a c-section that day. She is still one of the local docs with one of the highest c-sec rates in town (right at 50%, I believe - if half the women that come into your general obstetrics office are not capable of birthing on their own, there's something wrong). It was late, she'd been on-call, she'd been waiting on me all day. I couldn't even tell you why I didn't want one. I knew the recovery was a bit harder, but it seemed very normal to me.I had friends who told me they preferred it, even. Their opinions made sense to me. But I knew I didn't want one.

After hours of pushing, the doc came in to deliver the baby. She gave me an episiotomy, which is the exact place I tore with every baby after that, even my gentlest births. She had to use the vacuum to suction the baby's head and pull her out.

At the moment her head was delivered, Scott said, "WHOA! There's her face!"

Babies are usually born face-down. This allows them easier passage through the birth canal. A face-up baby usually causes painful back labor, which would explain why I didn't think my contractions were very strong at first, and why, when my water was broken and they intensified on top of the pitocin, when I had no plan to deal with pain, I so quickly wanted an epidural.  

They whisked her over to the pediatrician, because she had passed meconium. She didn't cry. I distinctly remember the OB telling me, "That's ok. We don't want her to cry yet." I heard her cry a few moments later. I asked Scott to go check on her while they stitched me up. I had no idea that she had been in danger, and asked Scott if she had red hair. While the doc spent 45 minutes stitching up some wicked tears, I also distinctly remember the OB asking the pediatrician how the baby was. They were married, and the pediatrician was one of my Starbucks regulars. He said, "She's fine. We had to baggy-baggy a little," while making a squeezing motion in front of his face, like the breathing mask, "but she's fine now." They never mentioned to me or my husband that she was in any danger.

I can't decide if that was harmful or beneficial. It was only a short time, and it might have worried us unnecessarily. Maybe they didn't even have time to say anything, but just reacted quickly, and handled the situation. I still felt somewhat deceived by the whole thing. They never explained her Apgar scores, or that she was not doing well right off the bat. Was that to protect us? Or protect them? 

I finally held my baby at least an hour after she was born. I hadn't even laid eyes on her until that point. Thankfully, that was one of many things that I never experienced again. I would have told you then that her birth was fine. I even defended it vehemently once to a doula, and had to go back and apologize. I knew though. I think I knew even then that something was off. I had a blind faith in that doctor. In her goodness, in her knowledge, in her abilities and experience. I will never have that kind of blind faith again. Yes, we turned out fine. But that birth story is filled with anxiety, fear, and frustration. It is so different from my other birth stories. I used to wonder if it affected my relationship with her, and I worked very hard to be sure that I didn't treat her or look at her any differently than the children whose birth stories I love.

While I don't love her story, I do love my journey. This experience led me to look for something more. It led me to doulas, and then to midwives, and to homebirth, and waterbirth. It led me to want to share in that experience with other women. It led me to the woman I am today. There is a point in my life, somewhere between the births of my first two children, that I chose to walk an unconventional path. Without any one of my births, I would be different. Even aside from each of my beautiful, lovely children, I cherish their births for what they did in me.

Happy tenth birthday sweet baby girl!

You're Going To Miss This

I had one of those moments of bliss today. My baby wanted me, and I was able to just sit with her. I was with people who could help with bigger kids, and no afternoon plans. It's been a busy week for us, with many arms holding this little girl. At that moment, all she wanted was me. And the bliss was, at that moment, I wanted the same thing.

"You're going to miss this." That phrase has been both vilified and held high. It's been a battle cry and a thing to be scorned. 

In the trenches filled with dirty diapers and dishes and laundry, I've thought, "I most certainly will NOT miss this." It's hard, so hard, when people tell you that in the hard moments. It's like the one time you feel it might actually be justified to punch an old lady right in the throat. 

Yet, we say it to ourselves to remind us to take joy in these small moments. It is a mantra for some, to remind them of the importance of these little years. 

I've been wondering: which approach is right? The one that says, "No. You don't remember what this is like. You don't remember the days of bickering, and answering questions for literally hours' worth of daylight. Or what it's like to be so exhausted you cry over spilled milk." Or the approach that says, "Suck every bit of joy out of these moments, because once they're gone, they're gone." I've wondered if one is the prompting of God, and the other my selfish heart. In different groups of mom-friends, I've been dealt guilt for either of those sides. I've wondered which of those moms is more true to me? 

The answer is simple. They're both right. They're both me. We can believe both of those statements, even at the same time. So often, without meaning to, we make problems where they don't exist. We create unnecessary divisions among moms. You don't have to choose to be just a snarky mom, coming up with examples of things you won't miss. And you don't have to just be a sunny skies, enjoy-every-moment type of mom. You can be both. 

Beth Woolsey talks often about "Both/And." Motherhood is both wonderful and difficult. Vacations with kids are both ridiculously stressful and amazingly fun. (I know I link to her a lot. What can I say? I feel we're kindred spirits, fighting the same fight and laughing at the same ridiculous things. As if to prove it, I wrote that vacation line before her last post. About Vacation. Being exactly what I said there.)

"You're going to miss this," Is both infuriating and enlightening.  It's okay if some days I think, "I will never, never ever, never in my life, miss potty-training." And it's great if I can stop and say, "You're going to miss this someday. Stop and enjoy it now," when one of my kids just wants some of my full attention. 

Today, I'm letting my almost-2-year old baby nap in my arms. Because it's something we both want. A few nights ago, all I wanted was for her to just freaking go to sleep. Both of those are okay. I won't miss the nights when we're both exhausted and needing different things. I will miss sweet snuggles and light snores on a lazy afternoon. And that's okay. I can be both of those moms.

More and more, I'm realizing it's all about Balance. It's okay to be both of those moms, but I don't want to be either one ALL the time. For me, one of those moms is bitter, and the other becomes resentful. (I understand that some moms are better focusing on one side over the other, I'm just talking about me here.) When I allow myself the freedom to feel what I feel, and be okay with it, I also give myself the ability to move out of it. If I get caught up in a cycle of guilt and shame over what my feelings truly are, I can't escape. When I've accepted that it's okay to not enjoy every single moment, I have more energy to enjoy the moments I really do want to remember. Sometimes, just being snarky and honest is what helps in the grumpy moments.

So, for me, the idea of Mommy Wars takes another blow. I'm both those moms. I'm snarky and joyful. Grumpy and reverent. Now that I think of it, I'm more than okay with it. I'm happy to have the experience of both. I'm glad to give myself the freedom to take the knowledge that each view offers. 

What about you? How do you balance both views?

I'll try to believe you if you say you're one or the other. Really, I will.