Testing...Testing

Part I
Can you get an A on a stress test?

I am going for a stress test tomorrow. Tell a teacher she needs a test (any test) and she will try to study for it. I have been eating quite healthily the past few days and walking extra fast during exercise. I do NOT want to be the 40-year-old who passes out on the treadmill. I am not worried...really. I am not sure what I think or feel about this test. I am not sure what I want from this test. I know that my doctor thinks it is a good idea, and my husband very, very much wants me checked out. I guess my best hope is

to get to know my heart better...to respect my body by learning more about it.

I will be honest. I am not looking forward to it, but I recognize the good that can come out of it (and Chris is going with me). :)

Part II

I talked to Anthony's speech therapist today. I just wanted to check in with her to see how he is doing. She has not finished the beginning of the year tests yet, but she has some results.

When we first started with speech therapy two years ago, we had many speech concerns. One of the biggest worries was his receptive communication. On average, 3 year olds have higher receptive language than expressive language. In other words, most preschoolers understand more than they can say. In Anthony, that was not the case. His receptive language was lower than his expressive. During his first round of testing, he scored three standard deviations below the mean in receptive language. His language was less than the 5th percentile. For non-stats people, that is quite far below his age group. Right now, his receptive language is testing just ONE standard deviation below the mean. He is testing at the 40th percentile for his age group.

I was ecstatic! This is amazing news to me. I had not dared to hope that he would be catching up at this rate. He is clearly working very hard and I am so proud of him. And, of course, I am extremely relieved that he is progressing faster than he is aging...

As I was mentally cartwheeling all the way home, I realized how much motherhood has changed me. That I am a reformed grade-grubbing, score-crazy overachiever tickled pink for her son scoring in the 40th percentile. I swear this kid could win the Nobel Peace Prize and this will be the moment I remember as my proudest...


Scores...grades...tests

They are necessary. We need to know where we can improve. We should identify areas of concern. Once all the useful information is obtained, though, I find it a good idea to let them go. They are a snapshot of one aspect of myself. They do not measure anything important about who I really am.

There is no grade for Life...I think. If there is, I'm really hoping for some extra credit right before the final.

Love Your Heart

"...hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize."
-Beloved by Toni Morrison


(heartbroken)



The walls of my mind are papered with hearts these days.

(heartsick)

My father died of a heart attack when he was 38. My mother died of lung and heart disease when she was 52. We have had an aunt and an uncle die in their 40s. And (a lifetime) 2 and 1/2 months ago, my sweet brother John's heart betrayed him.

(heartache)

I want to love my heart, but mostly I sit in the dark and listen to her beating (how many more).



I kiss my children (heart of hearts) and smile (heavy heart).
I search the faces and voices of those I love (near to my heart), desperately trying to see into their veins (get to the heart).
I keep reminding myself to focus, to care (have a heart), keep trying to be a better person (take heart).
I strive not to take my Life for granted (cross my heart).



But I have to admit that sometimes I am afraid (don't lose heart).
I still love it here (heart's content).
I want to see my children grow (pour out my heart).



And yet, I have lived an amazing Life, so full of joy and love (open-hearted) than I ever imagined when I was little (eat my heart out).
I found Chris (heart and soul), and he found me, and we saved each other in so, so many ways (heart in the right place).



I still cry easily (heart on my sleeve) and I am afraid (steel my heart), but I think I can love my heart.

Right now, I have this moment (heartbeat).
I'll take it.

Faking It...

Parenting is the greatest form of hum-a-few-bars-and-I'll-fake-it-skills.

Duma Key by Stephen King

...and fake it I do...

Today, we went to a checkup with Anthony's developmental pediatrician.  I love this guy.  I adore this guy.  I lurve this guy (Woody Allen reference).  He listens to what I am saying while looking me in the eyes.  He "gets" Anthony and cares about my boy's comfort level now and the long term view of his overall health.

Anthony has not been doing well at home the past couple of weeks.  We are back to the brittle, fragile, emotional child we had seen in the spring.  It doesn't take too much thought to come up with the reasons why.  The past two months have found us leaving him with a friend for several days, taking a week-long family trip to Michigan, taking a trip to Kentucky, and starting kindergarten.  Add that to a mommy that cries during Umi Zoomi, I think we found a reason for some anxiety.

The good news is that he is doing great at school.  He is very quiet, but will communicate.  He is not showing any abnormally anxious behavior at school.

I took that information to the doctor, and he suggested we increase the medication. I wasn't floored, but I was certainly surprised. I asked the doctor if time could make these "at-home" behaviors better, and he replied "yes, but at what cost? And how long will we have to wait for that?"

Those words helped me view this whole "medication" thing differently. I had an epiphany, as my friend Amy likes to say.

This medication is (and always has been) just a small comfort. Of course, this medication is optional. The same way a visual schedule is optional. The same way a predictable bedtime routine is optional. These are ways to help Anthony handle a world that does not make sense to him right now. Someday, he will be able to fill in these holes for himself. We thought so long and hard about medicating Anthony, that it was easy to overlook the long-term benefits of creating a childhood for him that was not completely awash in fear and confusion.

Of course I am faking it. But I realized today that every parent is faking it. None of us really have concrete answers. We show up (as my sister-in-law Rose often says), we love these little people as hard as we can, and we fake it...

The Threshing Floor

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all your laughter, and weep, but not all your tears.

The  Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

This is one of my favorite quotes. (I know.  I say that often.  I love quotes.)

I have very few items on my bucket list, save this last phrase.  I very much want to "laugh all my laughter and weep all my tears."  It is my best hope for my Life.  I have seen too many people I love shellac their hearts after loss out of fear and pain.  I can't say I don't understand.  I can't say it isn't tempting.  But I want to choose differently. (timshel)

As Hurricane Grief continues to shake my roots, I am pretty sure I am weeping all my tears.  I cry at the drop of a hat.  No yoga session is without tears.  Very few rides into work are dry-eyed.  I am so uber-sensitive to casual remarks that tears sometimes appear in my eyes before I can fight them back.  

Lately, though, the saltwater rain passes more and more quickly.  I am learning not too fight too hard.  

I am learning to just let the storm wash over me.  It means letting people see me cry in places like Wal-Mart. (Just don't tell me if you see me on the people of Wal-Mart website, please.)  It means crying in my van.  It means crying in more public places than I ever have.  Sometimes it is embarassing, but not nearly as much as I thought it would.  No one really stares (especially in Wal-Mart).

As a painful as it is, I trust myself.  I can make it through with my heart open.  My world is not seasonless...  I am so grateful to be here.

So grateful that I cry at Born This Way (I know.  I said that before.  I still cry.  Those lyrics get to me.)

So grateful that I choke up when I am with my friends that I love so much.

So grateful that I tear up when Anthony's teacher sends home a note to tell us he's been announcing the "weather report" in his class every morning over the microphone.  It justs makes me so proud that he is brave enough to talk in front of his class like that.

This process is hard.  As my sister-in-law says, "we hurt so much because we love so much.  And it is worth it. 

The Other Side of Timshel

I am not doing well.  That happens with grief sometimes.  I am going along and I am ok.
Then, suddenly, I am very much not ok.

Right now, I am not ok.

I am struggling to sleep, to act normally, to stop bursting into tears, to make sense of Life, to keep reassuring myself that this is worth it.

I know that Rilke said, "Just keep going - no feeling is final".  But the contrary part of me thinks, why?    Just keep going toward what?  More pain?  More loss?  More failure?  I know I should feel that this is all worth it, but some days I feel like such a sham.

I can speak a good game about "thou mayest", but my broken heart is screaming  "F$%# timshel".  I am sad and mad and confused.  It takes so much energy just to get out of bed the past couple of days that I don't have anything left over.

Grief kills empathy with a chainsaw.

I.just.don't.care...



I want to try to care.  The care simply costs too much sometimes.  I can't pay the price today.

When I insisted a few weeks ago "I'm ok" to a good friend, she corrected me.
"You are not ok, but you will be."
The one thing I can do today is hold that idea.
I can hold it carefully in my hands, and try not to drop it.

S.S.S.S. (not to be confused with S.S.D.D.)

I am always a big, dorky nerd during our Back to School week full of meetings. I get caught up in the Fall semester energy at the college. We have plenty of professional development opportunities, for which I am very grateful. I love working at an institution that gives me so many options for growing as a teacher.

Having said that, I do have this contrary streak. Commonly, there are "Best Practices" presentations where honored teachers are featured. I understand the spirit of the session - sharing successes. I get it, and I applaud it. However, the global declaration of "best" makes me want to argue. Who decided these practices were best? For whom were they best? When were they best? Why?

I pretty much complain about this title every time I hear it. I suggested an alternate title, but my friends told me that Some Things that Work for Some People Some of the Time and Some Reasons Why (S.S.S.S) would not be a big "faculty draw."

But the more I think about it, the more I like that title. It is one of my theories of Life. Every piece of advice really comes down to S.S.S.S. In my opinion, every baby book should come with a Some Things that Work for Some Babies Some of the Time and Some Reasons Why sticker. Every relationship advice book would sport the S.S.S.S. sticker as would EVERY weight loss program. Teaching, parenting, marriage and fitness require creativity and individual tailoring to be successful.

I comes down to my belief that no one else has my answers. I have to figure it out for myself. I love getting (and giving) advice. I benefit so much from sharing ideas. In the end, though it is me...

me, standing in front of the classroom
me, mothering my children
me, communicating with my husband
me, rolling out my yoga mat
me, drooling looking at a tray of cookies

Someone else's reasons...methods...words never feel quite right. I have to find my own.

And, eventually, I do find my own reasons to be healthy, my own authentic teaching methods, my own words to speak my joy and sorrow.

And, of course, they are always S.S.S.S.

Timshel

I am a bit of a reader. I have not read much since John died. Other people's drama just does not seem very interesting to me right now.

However, I have taken comfort lately from flipping through one of my favorite books ,East of Eden by John Steinbeck. It is an amazing book.

In one scene, two characters discuss the nature of God's edict for humans. Some Bible versions command "Thou shalt triumph over sin" and some rejoice in the predestination that "Thou surely will triumph over sin". Sam and Lee are not sure which is correct. In the story, Lee takes this question back to his elderly spiritual advisors in China, who study the question over many years. They believe they find the answer in the ancient Hebrew translation.

The original phrase is timshel. The best translation is "Thou mayest". Timshel becomes one of the main themes throughout the book.

Timshel has become one of my mantras in the past few weeks.

I think I now truly understand this idea of acceptance that I have been grasping for these last two years. Timshel...Thou mayest.

Thou mayest open your heart and heal. No one is forcing me. My friends and family do not ever judge me for talking (extensively) about my pain and fear and insecurities. But I MAY let them go. Not because I have to; not because something terrible will happen if it don't. But, because.I.may.

It is my choice to hold on or let go.

It does not mean I will not hurt when I see what every other five-year-old can do and Anthony can't. It doesn't mean it won't sting when I see another flippant comment online about how it is ridiculous to medicate a child for anxiety. I will still cry when I start to dial John's number and realize again that he is gone.

But thou mayest...

I may live with my heart open. I may parent without second guessing myself. I may love knowing I could get hurt.
I may heal. I may laugh. I may hope.

Anthony has started kindergarten this past week. Add that to a visit to Kentucky for John's memorial, and we have had some anxious nights. It will get better. Or it won't and we will go back to the pediatrician for help.

John's memorial service this past Saturday was a joyful celebration of his Life, but leaving my family behind was very painful. Life gets easier, then gets harder. That is Life.

It is all worth it. I am not voluntarily leaving this dance floor yet...not when I feel like I am finally learning some fun steps. I still gots some moves.

Timshel.