Thumbs up to letting go

I'm learning to let go. My son's going to a new sitter after school this week, and he has to cross a busy street to get there from his bus stop. He may be seven, but he's still my boy. I'm filled with self-doubt, thinking that I've done a poor job of helping him become "street-smart." Yesterday, I met Noah at the bus stop and walked to the sitter's with him. He was so happy-go-lucky, running and skipping, and I reminded him that there are several driveways and parking lots along the way, and that cars could come from many different directions, not just the street itself. We stopped at the intersection, with his little hand firmly in my grip, and crossed the road when it was safe to do so. He was so excited about going to his new sitter's, since his brother and sister go there, and he anticipated having so much fun. That was yesterday. Today, unbeknownst to my son, I nipped out of work for a few minutes around the time the bus was expected to arrive, and parked my car just out of sight of the bus stop. Sure enough, my little boy hops off the bus, followed by several teenagers (the bus goes to the high school before dropping off the elementary school kids). With his Pokemon backpack strapped on, and his Wall-E lunch box swinging in one hand, he takes off in a run. Then, just as he's about to cross the first driveway, he comes to an abrupt halt,...looks to make sure nothing's coming,...and then zooms off again. I'm all set to cheer! Then he reaches the intersection, stops, puts out his hand, just like children are told to do, and waits for a car to stop and for the driver to clearly indicate he's letting my son cross. Noah hurries across the roadway, and then races down the road toward his sitter's. "Hooray," I feel like yelling, "he did it!!" And he did it well. Perhaps he's more street-smart than I give him credit for. Mothers are like that sometimes. I decided my covert op was now successfully concluded, so it was safe to reveal my presence. I drove down the street a bit and caught up with Noah. As I rolled down the window, he casually asked, "Mom, what are you doing here?"
"Just thought I'd see how you did with crossing that street, and you did a good job," I say, with two thumbs up, to show my approval. "See you later son."
"See you later, Mom. I love you."
Yes, Son, I'd better let you go. But, thank God, not all at once.

Reason to smile

We can make ourselves happy. Or make ourselves miserable. And by happiness, I don't mean the feel-good, smiling-all-the-time state that surely can't be real. I mean contentment. I know a lot of people, and I would include myself at times, who spend a lot of energy focussing on the negative things in life. I bemoan the things that go wrong, instead of realizing how blessed I am in so many ways. We have all had bad things happen to us. Some people have unbearable things happen in their lives. And I'm not suggesting that we just suppress the pain, wear a smile and pretend everything is okay. My heart goes out to those who know the pain of grief, sickness or abuse. But most of us have reasonably decent life situations, if we'd only stop to realize it. Perhaps my job or marriage isn't perfect everyday. Whose is? But the fact is I have it really good compared to a lot of people. I am thankful to HAVE a job. I am thankful to HAVE a loving, faithful husband. I am thankful I have caring co-workers, and that I enjoy what I do for a living. I am thankful for my healthy son. I can focus on how he gripes about homework. Or I can remember that he's only young for a short while, and this is the time I have to influence him to become a person of contentment, or a person of negativity. I can try to model for him how to approach tasks we'd all rather not do, like homework. How we can get down to the task at hand, focus on getting it done, and reward ourselves with a walk outdoors or a game of Yahtzee when it's all done. How we can feel good when we've accomplished a task. And remembering that little eyes are watching and little ears are listening, I can try not to gripe when the pot boils over, and instead be thankful I have food to eat. I can try not be impatient when the driver ahead of me is going too slowly for my liking, and instead be thankful I have a car and don't have to walk. It's all in how you look at things. If we all looked at the bright side in most instances, perhaps we'd all have a reason to smile more often.

Memories and photographs

I spent a bit of time on my day off this week, looking over photos of my dad. They're the ones all the family collected together for the memory boards at the funeral home. It's the first time I've pulled them out since. So many of the photos made me smile that it wasn't sad in the way I might have thought. It was pleasant to think about all the good times we had, birthdays and anniversaries and Christmases, and tons of times when it was just dad and my son being together, building a tower of blocks, walking on a beach or sharing a hearty laugh. What a precious collection of memories I have to help my son remember his Poppy. And I am thankful for that. I am reminded of the importance of photographs to chronicle our lives. I wonder, do I take enough photos to capture the fleeting moments with my 7-year-old? As I looked at snapshots of my nephews and niece when they were my son's age, I realized that the years until he's grown will go by just as fast. There's a children's book by Karen Kingsbury that I bought last Easter called Let Me Hold You Longer. It's all about how we celebrate our children's "firsts," but the "lasts" slip by unnoticed, until we realize that stage is gone forever. My son and I read the book together sometimes, either at his request or my suggestion. And we cuddle together and look through the pages, as the baby boy grows into adulthood. Part of it reads: "One day you will move away and leave to me your past, And I will be left thinking of a lifetime of your lasts." I hope my son understands that Mommy doesn't mean to rush through life, and that I really do want to "hold him longer." If I'd known that my dad's birthday in November 2008 was going to be his last, I would have held him longer, too. Now, instead, I'll hold onto the photographs and memories and, of course, to "Pop's boy". Dad and Noah represent the bookends of life for me. And I'm so glad their paths crossed, even if only for a few short years.

Thanks for giving

I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I can list them all off, if I focus on all the blessings I enjoy in my life. However, I often don't focus on the blessings. I fail to have an attitude of gratitude. It's easy to complain, about the weather, my son's messy room, hectic days, weeks that move too slowly when it's Tuesday, and weeks that went too fast by the time it's Friday, again. The fact is, if I have all those things in my life to complain about, I'm pretty lucky. I have health and strength, a healthy son, a devoted husband, a loving family, including my mother, now in her eighties. When I think about it like that, what DO I have to complain about, what reason to NOT be thankful? So I'll take this Thanksgiving weekend as an opportunity to be thankful for all the people who've blessed my life, right from childhood until now: The uncles who always made sure there was an extra card for every birthday, and an extra present under the Christmas tree. My brothers who always encouraged me along the way, whether it was by helping me with long division, or attending my high school graduation, or picking up for me when someone else was being unkind. My parents who believed in me no matter what, and demonstrated unconditional, self-sacrificing love. My friends, Paul and Esther, who told me about the love of our God, from which nothing can ever separate me. My friends, Donna & George and Vicki & Brandon, who saw me through some of my darkest days, and showed me "love in action" by being there for my son and I, when we were on our own. My husband, who loves me as I am, faults, frailties, weaknesses and all. My son, who gave me the best gift when he made me a Mom, and without whom I can't imagine my life anymore. And most of all, to God, who created me and gives me His peace which passes all understanding.

A peace of my mind

I was reading some Proverbs earlier this week when one line in particular set me to thinking. It said, "Let your heart keep my commandments; for length of days and years of life and peace they will add to you." Peace. Isn't that what we all really want? To have peace in our world. To live in peace in our homes, and workplaces. To have peace within us. Who would say they don't want world peace? The makers of armaments, perhaps. It's easier for me to go about my daily routine when I'm getting along with my son, my husband, my co-workers. But conflict is everywhere. Or, reasons for possible conflict, at least. And the conflicts around me can really affect my peace of mind. I've had people say I need yogic breathing, or guided imagery, or just a daily exercise routine. I wish it hadn't taken me this far in life to figure out that peace isn't something that just happens. You can't just sit around waiting to experience peace. Because our natural inclination as human beings is to be self-serving. Put a whole bunch of self-serving people together, and conflict is bound to happen. So I have to actively seek out peace. I must find ways to identify what I have in common with others, what I like about my son (and there is so much to like), instead of harping on the things he does "wrong," and I need to reaffirm the goodness in everyone I know, because it's there in all of us, if we look hard enough. The writer of Proverbs promised peace if our heart keeps God's commandments. And one of the greatest commandments outlined for us is to love our neighbor as ourselves. So I will try to look to the common good, and even sometimes what's good for others before myself. A more optimistic outlook won't change the world overnight, or at all. But it will change me, and the lives of those around me.

What a rush

Every now and then, I would like to be able to have a single, solitary thought, one at a time. My head is usually full of to-do lists, some for work, some for family. Sometimes those lists spill over onto sticky notes, when I think my brain just can't contain them anymore. I don't think it's a sign of aging. I think it's a sign of the times. We're all trying to do too much, too fast, too often. I know I'm creeping up on 40, and I'm okay with that. What I'm not okay with is the kind of world my son is growing up in, where he's hurried along (by me) from school to homework to piano lessons to swimming. And what kind of world it's going to be by the time he's grown. Perhaps my fondest wish for him ought to be that he'll buy a plot of land to call his own and do subsistence farming. What a slower pace of life he'd have then, with time to think and reflect. No Blackberries, or agendas, or sticky notes. No voice mail, or even e-mail, unless he wanted to, on his time. I've given this so much thought lately that I've resolved to make Saturday (after the morning swimming lesson, that is) all about free time for him. Remember free time? When time away from school meant you could play, or watch TV, or run around outdoors for hours, using your imagination, making up stories, learning to whistle with a blade of grass, trying to balance on the big old beach rocks that lined the pathway to your grandfather's house. I remember that. My son's pretty lucky these days. He gets the bus after school to his dad's place, and gets to be in his own space, with his brother and sister. So Saturdays, too, are now about being in our own space. Use your imagination, my son, and create racecars out of K'nex, and costumes for your stuffed animals out of construction paper. Don't let me drag you into my world yet, of deadlines and to-do lists. Enjoy every minute of your childhood, and perhaps you can help your mom to catch some of those moments, too, when all we have to do is BE, and think.

Leaves and light

Fall in this province is beautiful. The rich red, orange and gold colors are glorious to behold. But, for me, it's a reminder that darker days are ahead, both literally and figuratively. I don't need an expert diagnosis to know that I am deeply affected by the change of seasons. Sunlight is life-giving, energizing and makes my heart sing. In the summer, I often get up an hour before my alarm clock goes off, just because I can. That extra time makes me feel more productive and gives me time for meditation, or just to think. Then, along come the fall winds, the first frost and -- wham -- I feel like something knocked me over. I can barely drag myself out of bed when the alarm goes off. I find myself wishing I'd gone to bed earlier the night before, even though 10 p.m. is a late night for me. I crave the light. And, when there's not enough of it in nature for my liking, I find myself turning on every light I can find indoors. If it's dull and dreary, I want no part of it. Thank goodness we've reached the stage in our society where Seasonal Affective Disorder is recognized as a condition which many of us suffer through. But having a label may legitimize what I'm feeling, but it doesn't make me feel any better. This fall, I'll try again to find reasons to be optimistic and do more than just endure the winter. I'll strap on those cross-country skis again with my son, and be happy that the sun's warmth doesn't completely leave us in our part of the world. And, in this, Mental Health Awareness Week, I'll just try to remember I'm not alone in my lust for light.

Skittles and hearing aids

I learned an important lesson yesterday. Skittles and hearing aids do not mix. At least not at my house. My 7-year-old son rarely -- and I mean once in a blue moon -- gets candy from me. So, when I was at the bulk food store (More for Less, not that other one), I figured I'd pick up a few Skittles as a treat. That was last Saturday. But, knowing how sugar tends to affect my boy, there just didn't seem to be an appropriate time to unleash the treat. Until yesterday. Swimming lesson over, mid-afternoon snack of grapes dutifully consumed, what could be the harm of a few candies coated in, well, more candy? My son casually snacked on them, and calmly practiced adding numbers, and counting by twos, just for fun. What a great kid I have, I thought. He somehow managed to contain his exuberance for more than two hours until the inappropriate time: His grandmother came over for supper. And, like a time-release arthritis medication, the Skittles kicked in. He was talkative, he was loud, he was hyper, he was singing, he was humming, he was whistling, he was dancing, he was running, he was hilarious. Except if you're wearing two hearing aids. I will tell you this, my mother is a very patient woman. And, true to form, she did not complain. I did my best to silence the frenzy, mostly unsuccessfully, until a nice warm bath intervened. And I've made a strong mental note to never buy Skittles again when company's coming. Even if they don't wear hearing aids.

Drifting away

It's hard to believe it's been more than a month since sorrow touched my life. As Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote, "no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it." As always, time is passing far too quickly. But there's a pain and heartache now. The days since my dad's passing have turned into weeks, the weeks into more than a month and, although I know that even death and time cannot truly separate me from the one I've lost, I feel like I'm slipping farther and farther away from him. I spoke with a friend about this, and he compared it to a boat drifting away from shore. Land is still within sight, but it's getting harder to see. And I can't stop the waves of time. I need to remind myself that my memories hold my father close to my heart, even as the weeks and months pass, and, yes, even the years. I never understood before how it feels to lose someone precious. The finality of death was just an abstract concept. When I see a funeral notice now, I grieve with those who grieve, because I know their pain. I know how much that simple card of condolence means, a smile, a hug that makes you believe life will somehow be okay again, even though "normal" will never be what it was. And, as St. Paul says, I do not grieve as those who have no hope. For "we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands" (2 Corinthians 5:1) A tent is a decent enough temporary shelter when I'm camping in Sandbanks Park but, when the storms of life are beating against me, it's a building with a firm foundation that I desire. The Promise that is ours is what keeps me from losing heart even when tears blur my vision, and my boat is adrift.