Comfort

If you asked me last week what things were comforting and soothing, I would give you a list of all the things I have designed to be so.  Long baths.  My husband and kids and I all snuggled up on the couch watching a movie. A long hike. Time alone for writing and reading. Sweat pants on a rainy day.

I wouldn't have been able to name comforts beyond my own making.

And right now the world finds itself in great discomfort.   Plans, routines, jobs, appointments, errands, all screeching to a halt.  People in isolation.  Fear threatens logic. Too much news.

Although I adjust on the fly and plow on, I have felt an absence of peace in my life.  It's hard to nail down exactly and it feels self-absorbed to do so.  Other people are dealing with things much worse, right? What is the value of my pain in something this large?  An on and on with the reasoning that lets shadows grow by refusing to look at something head on.

So I stuff it down.  This feeling isn't necessary. Keep going.

But three days ago as we were driving near the base of a mountain, I spotted a lone fisherman standing knee deep in the cold water of a trout stream and a lump formed in my throat immediately.  Both the idea of being him- standing upright against the current, hearing the water, ring finger resting on the line to feel the bump of a bite, as well as the familiarity of the shape of a wading man, pulled at my heart.  Tears spilled out of my eyes before I could fight them off.  I felt a comfort at the sight of him.

Two days ago, I was making a long drive home.  My family in the car, the dimming light, the splattering rain mixed together with the already pulsating anxiety inside of me.  Each subsequent hour brought my palms sweatier and my breath harder to find. I sent the radio to seeking and suddenly heard the familiar voice of a nationally syndicated radio host from my childhood.  And for a brief second, I wasn't the driver in charge of keeping my family safe through tough conditions, I was the kid in the backseat. I was the one without the weight of responsibility, but with complete trust in those in front of me.  I let that radio station play until it gave itself over to the fuzz of distance.

It is disingenuous to deny my thoughts, feelings, and fears.  It is irrational to not ask for comfort when comfort is needed.  But it is a gift to be given bits of restoration from unexpected, unsought-out sources.  Looking around, keeping my eyes and ears open gave me a brief respite from the noise in my head and I am so grateful that relief came unexpectedly from my mom and dad.

I know my parents comforted me when I was scared or upset, but those images are blurry and don't easily come to mind.  Yet, the small moments sail back to me with full imagery and color.  These benign things done without intention are the pixels of reflection.

Right now in these extended days at home, my kids are absorbing these little nothings that may come springing back to them in times of stress and confusion.  I can't know what they might be. They'll just be little treasures of familiarity and comfort lying in wait until they are needed. 

Mother's Day

(I sent this essay to my mother for Mother's Day this year)

Every year for Mother’s Day I walk the aisles of Target, peruse Etsy, and search Pintrest for the right gift.  Every year, the options fall short, because what is the kind of gift that says “I am sorry for giving you lice”?  Mother’s Day is tomorrow and my mom is still washing her bedding and replacing hair brushes.  What kind of gift could possibly negate the damaging effects of having been given an invasive parasite?

My mom’s favorite Mother’s Day gifts were the handprint crafts we made at school.  Add in some googly eyes or some cotton balls and that craft was definitely a keeper!  Being 32-years-old, it seems like a reach to break out a stamp pad and some construction paper, but what then do you give to say, “Look at the life you made!  Good job!”? 

While head lice is the most recent of the inconveniences afforded my mom by her children, it is not the worst of it.  I can think back to time when my siblings and I all had the chicken pox, one right after another, leaving my mom with at least one whiny, fevered, and grumpy child for a full six weeks.   Or the multiple times she (alone) made 12-hour drives with the three of us in tow (and on multiple years at least one kid was in diapers). Not to mention the last-minute costumes, forgotten permission slips, dirty laundry, the homework, the bleeding knees, the stomach viruses, the dates of the sporting events, the beautiful flowers planted years ago in anticipation of a spring bloom brought into the house in the dirty fist of a child, packed lunches, that year I grew four inches and had to get new clothes and shoes (twice), oh, and that other time I brought home head lice.

The things we have done to our moms. 

Since becoming a mom, I have found myself scrubbing vomit out of car seats, or lying in the cold tub with a fevered child, or losing a lot of sleep due my children’s bad dreams.  In those fearful, exhausting, and frustrating moments, I think of my own mom and I think- I know what to do because it was done for me.  

In my efforts to find the right gift, it finally dawned on me- the only gift I could give my mother, is love my children well.  To repress the gagging and smile at the sad, sick boy with his head in the trash can.  To sit next to my daughter’s bed at 2:30 am and rub her back, soothe, and assure her.  To stop what I am doing and savor because these are very moments that will float back to my children’s consciousness when the sweet weight of parenting lands on them.  When the decision to choose self or other is before them, they will, without thought, pick up the child covered in bodily fluid and love them well.

Facing (my biggest) Fear

A few months ago my son got lost at the beach.  So lost that we had to call 911.  The next month, my daughter was incoherent, burning up with fever, and ended up in the ER.  I started a long detailed blog post about those events, but in usual form, I didn't finish it.  It felt cathartic to write out what had happened, but it didn't feel good to read it.

The purpose of writing it was to acknowledge my deepest fear.  The fear of losing a child. It is a fear that lives in all parents and motivates us to fight endlessly for our children's survival, but it is not a sentence that we say out loud.  I feel that many people like me, fear the fear of that fear.  But what is that?  Fearing the fear that is caused by a fear? I have had enough cognitive behavioral therapy to know that that is load of crap and I have been challenging that fear recently.

After facing two situations where losing a child became a real possibility, the retaining wall I had built around that fear began crumbling.  And I was left facing it.  It is possible to lose a child.  It is possible for me to lose my child.

When it was my turn to step to that line of possibility, I felt myself at a decision.  While my breath escaped me and heart raced, my mind was on high alert and working beyond normal bounds. In both crises I went into action recalling all the tips and tools offered to me over a life of experiences.  I remembered in blaring clarity to activate a team of people to help find my son.  I found myself laying in a cold bath with my daughter, yet I don't remember undressing or turning on the tap.  Each word of advice from parents before me was accessible and ready for use.

I felt fear in those moments, but I also felt this great perseverance.  There was no stopping or giving up or thinking of myself, there was only action and energy and focus.  In both of these situations, the fear that has haunted me since my first positive pee test, stood before me. And while it existed as rapid breathing and shaky fingers, it had no power over my mind.

To have both situations resolve with the best possible outcome has brought me gratefulness and joy- two things that are opposite of fear.  Those feelings have stayed with me.  They forced me out of "what if" and into now.  And I look back wondering- how much of my life has been lived in "what-if"?

My husband has been on a journey with mediation and mindfulness for the last year.  I have taken on some of the ideas and practices, and there is a quote I recently heard that has stuck with me.  A small truth about our projections, our fears, and our doubts.  Something that comes from a place of reflection.  Like for me- encountering my fear and then looking at it square on.

"We suffer more in imagination that reality."- Seneca

There are poignant things to be said here, but I would fail to do them justice. I want to you encourage you if you read this at a time of fear.  You won't feel this way forever.

Poor Old Michael Finnegan Begin Again

Do you remember that song?  The one about the poor old man who's beard kept growing out and then back in again?  I feel like he probably just wanted to have a beard or not have a beard, but the cycle just kept repeating.  That is me and this blog.  I go weeks without thinking about it, then log in and start another draft (currently up to seven) and never finish it or post it.  Then feel guilty about not sticking with it, and that I have done less with this post since my second child was born (i.e. she has fewer posts), and that so much time has passed that to do a recap would be an affront to the amount of life lived between posts.  So I won't recap.  I also wont post anything of substance today.  I'll just make a post.  The Finnegan beard?  It is back out again.

Butt cheeks!

Somehow the little hummingbird that started this whole adventure into motherhood and led to the creation of this blog, started kindergarten this week.  

It seems impossible.

Regardless of how it seems to me, he is in fact enrolled and attending kindergarten at public school.  I  have watched him get prepared over the last two weeks- counting down the days left at daycare, celebrating with a daycare/preschool graduation, getting a light-up backpack and supplies, and generally morphing into a school-aged kid.

We prepped him on the important things like listening to the teacher, being brave and talking to new friends, and being calm with his voice and body.  He sort of listened and we felt we had done to the due diligence required for the starting school pep talk.

After the first day of school, we asked him a million questions to try to learn all we could about the school routines and skills covered in kindergarten.  He vaguely answered some questions, lots of "I don't know", and lots of changing his original answers.  At this point, it was clear that he had done his best all day and was starting to come unglued.   

First, it was just some bouncing on the couch, then he was standing and jumping on the couch, then he was jumping on the couch yelling, "Butt cheeks!  Butt cheeks!  Butt cheeks!"  He was hysterically laughing as he continued to let loose his string of profanity and jump up and down.  I turned away and felt the tears well up in my eyes as I tried not to laugh.  I couldn't resist- I too started laughing loudly watching him explode into life.

It was clear that he had kept it all together just as long as he possibly could and it was now the time to unwind and let go.  It was funny.  It was Monday.

Tuesday brought additional jumping and also an excessive amount of gas.  Wednesday brought "the worlds most uncooperative dinner attendee" out of him.  Thursday he got some special dad-hang time and we were mostly spared from explosions.  Friday he was deciding how to feel and picked sad- "I am going to be sad because I miss God."  (this was interesting for a variety of reasons).

It is clear that school is a transition unlike any other.  He has been in daycare since he was 10-weeks old, but this is so very different.  He doesn't nap anymore.  His sister is sad every morning because the kindergartener and I leave before she is dropped off at daycare.  I now have a chatterbox along for my morning commute.  We have to do way more laundry (stupid dress code).  All of us are feeling the effect.

But I feel happy about it.  I love seeing the papers that come home demonstrating scissor work.  I like hearing him talk about keeping is choices-tracker on green.  I like hearing about the mean girl and hearing him talk about dealing with her.  I like that he is growing and becoming ever more his own person.  I like knowing that my husband and I managed to get him this far, even though he was once just a bunch of farts on parade.

Three Posts Started in 2017 and Never Finished- A Summary

Below are there titles and summaries of blog posts that I never finished.  I feel like there are little nuggets in each that I care to remember and share for posterity, so I will post them in mini-version here.


Okay, so where did we land?
A 2017 check in, notable changes: baby that walks, a kid in the pre-k lottery, a husband that left his established career to pursue a graduate degree and new road forward, and a me with a diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.  It was a summary and reflection on how far we have come and where we are going with extra focus on continual change but an underlying joy.

Attending Funerals with My Children
This was a post about the five funerals I have attended since becoming a mom.  The highlights- at four of those funerals I held an infant in my arms while looking into a open casket (talk about unavoidable self reflection on the matters of life and death), comforting my son as he grapples with loss, and notes about unspoken agreement with my husband about how to support each other in these events. The general vibe? Immeasurable love and a good bit of sadness.

The Name You Carry
This about seeing the first pictures of my daughter's namesake.  Summary- I had only ever heard stories about the woman whose name my daughter carries, but (during a funeral) I saw the first pictures and was reminded of the excitement and weight of naming our children.  There is a feeling of guilt if the chosen name only comes from one side of the family, but that there is also an absoluteness about the name choice upon getting to know your child over time- its like "Of course that is your name!  This is who you are!  You couldn't be anyone else!" I also love looking at my cousins, nieces, and nephews and knowing that their name and identity is directly connected to someone worth honoring with a name.

"Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness"

I have been rewatching The Wonder Years. It is one of my top five favorite shows of all time.  Today I watched the episode called "The Wedding" (S:5, E:22) in which the older sister, Karen, gets married.  I have cried every time I have seen that episode, but in the emotion explosion due to my baby turning one, I really cried.  I have always loved the poem that Karen's mom reads and so I looked up. It is powerful, spot on, and so wonderful I wanted to share it here. Enjoy.