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and she loved a boy very, very much- even more than she loved herself. ~the giving tree~

It is my son's birthday. I think back to the first real surprise on that day five years ago. It wasn't the disappointment of an unexpected c section. It wasn't the deliriously happy moment I first heard his cry. It wasn't the seemingly endless time I spent alone in recovery waiting to see him again. I had expected to feel this tremendous pride. After all, look what I had done... I had created this 8 pound 10 ounce child from scratch! But I didn't feel that. It was him- this little bundle that I finally held, kissed, studied, marveled- who had created a mother. Me. I was so humbled that I was chosen to be his. From that moment, I loved like never before. Fiercely, with roots. Knowing that this was love for the long haul. Tenderly, with wings. Knowing I was raising a man who would go on to love his wife and children much in the way I would love him now. How I miss those baby moments, all drools and coos and cuddles. We were both blissfully unaware what really to do with one another, a thousand miles from home, no friends in anyone but each other. We read endless books, we jingled toys, we rocked for hours in his nursery. He held on to me in a world that was always changing. I held on to him through a marriage destined to end in heartbreak. Being a Midwest girl on the East cost that first year was hard. I was desperate for someone--anyone to talk to. I would trip over the check out girl at the grocery store and enthusiastically talk about the sunshine, the heat, the snow. I walked around with an invisible SOS over my head, begging the world to send me a friend. After ten months, I was rescued. I met a group of women that would be my foundation. Finally I could make plans, talk with other grown ups, laugh, breathe. We share this incredible journey of raising children together. This herculean effort to maintain the balance of laundry, organic snacks, vomit, more laundry, relationships, and look somehow good/rested/fulfilled while doing it. Mamas, you are enough. Not because you cleaned or folded, hugged, comforted, or planned. Because you show up- day after trying day.

As for me, I remain amazed by my boy every day. He is funny, he is sensitive, a deep thinker. Each day is a gem I wish I could keep my eyes open long enough to write about more often. Yet, I sometimes forget that these days are fleeting, that he won't always want one more story or five more minutes to cuddle. All this time, he is growing on the outside, eyes sparkling and limbs stretching. But I am changing on the inside. Memories, laughter, hopes, and dreams encircling my heart like the rings on a tree trunk. He may be growing up but I am growing strong, resilient, and ready to be a lifetime of home for my little boy.

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The Best Place for New Beginnings

I’m packing up my house. In a few weeks, I am moving home. Crossing those thousand miles to the small corner of the world I left 14 years earlier. I remember that goodbye, my hand waving out the window of a U haul with the entire contents of my world in the back and a kitten next to me in the front. I was literally in the drivers seat, ready to make something spectacular of my life.

It didn’t go exactly as planned.

As I was packing, I came across a creative writing assignment from senior year of high school. In it, I wrote about the most influential people in my life (so far). One of them was a boy who sat behind me one year in study hall. He was directly responsible for my knowledge of plane geometry and quite possibly the happiest person I’ve ever met. He taught me to view life with humor, and with an assurance that everything will work out fine.

Reading my words, I fell in love with our sweet and hopeful 18-year-old selves. Are we still sweet and hopeful, I thought?

I am 36, recently divorced, and about to leave my life in Connecticut to begin again in the best place for new beginnings- home. My last fortune cookie said: You are domestically inclined and will be happily married.

Was the universe being ironic? Hopeful?

I put it on my fridge.

Here’s what I know. We can be different. We can rise from the remnants of bad decisions, past hurts, and cruel disappointments. We can crumble that pain into the soil of our souls, so that we can bloom again; brighter, fuller, and stronger than ever.

Outside winter is losing its shape, revealing the promise of new life that has been waiting, cleverly hidden and kept safe. Spring is respectfully advancing, like the affectionate but firm hug to the last party guest at the end of the night.

Spring allows us to unfurl our buds of hope, let the breeze air out our fears and worries. I try not to think of what I am soon leaving behind, only what I am allowing to become.

This time the truck will be filled with just things in the back (mostly matchbox cars and train sets) and my whole world in the front: my son (and my old cat). This time, it’s not the wave goodbye I want to remember. It’s the arriving that I value; ever hopeful and ready for new beginnings.

Everything will work out fine, of that I am sure.

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feminism is for boys too

As a self-proclaimed girl of the 80s, gender equality wasn’t something we talked about. It was just accepted. Like the earth was round or the sun rose in the east; it was such a given I didn’t even know there was a word for it. Technically I was born in 1978, but I grew up in a very rural town in Michigan (the 80s just lasted longer up there). In any case, I was one of three sisters who were taught we. can. do. anything. We outsmarted some boys, outran others, we stayed out all day on our bikes with no fear of rapists or child abductors. Never in my life did my parents say, but she’s just a girl.

As some point, it started to dawn on me that boys and girls were very different. On my High School Bowl team, I answered questions about literature and science. The boys would buzz in about sports, government, history. Hmmm.

In college, I realized in a flash of fury that I had it. all. wrong. Contrary to how I was raised, I lived in a world that classified male and female into very distinct categories. I was aghast. I remember raising my hand during my psychology class and asking what do you mean gender inequality? But the mounting evidence was hard to ignore. All those grey haired old suits in congress, a ceiling of glass, unequal pay in the work force. This had to be a joke.

Fast forward to having my own child, a boy. He is funny, sensitive, and a very deep thinker. At five, I don’t have to dream about what kind of man he will be, I already know. I don’t think for one moment he will turn into some hulking, irresponsible adult male. But, all of a sudden, people are worried for me. They say school isn’t set up to favor boys, that their learning styles were different, that teachers would find a way to set him apart. Be careful, they say, I fear for boys today.

Wait. What?

Why are we worried about boys now? I thought we were supposed to keep encouraging girls to like science and math. Honestly. We simply can’t hold one gender to a different standard. That is feminism, at it’s core. I had it a bit wrong in the beginning, but I understand now. Each child is different, unique. With some similarities to other children and a good amount of differences, no matter the child’s age, personality, temperament, or gender.

I, for one, am grateful for my childhood filled with adventures and encouragement. How about we just keep doing that? Let’s help each child be the kindest, bravest, most unique boy/girl human they are meant to be.