If you ask me how I’m holding on to your childhood, I’ll tell you this.
Are you a tween yet? Most sources say I have another year. Either way, I know that time is precariously close and you are starting to take definitive steps in that direction.
I sense the need to prepare. Photographs and saving your love notes and stick figure drawings are suddenly not enough.
I’ve started stashing away memories to get me through the years ahead, snapshots of you that will live in my mind forever. Some days are harder than others. Sometimes my fist and my heart are exhausted by the end of the day, muscles worn out from holding on tight to the slightest scrap I might’ve caught at the last minute before you say goodnight. Though many days are easier, convincing me that maybe I need not worry yet. Like when you ask me to read to you (which is notably rare these past few weeks). Or like the way you sometimes still sit like a rapt preschooler, knees tucked under, toes sticking out. Barefoot. Always barefoot. But those days are already starting to dwindle.
Sometimes I stroke your cheek at night, cool and smooth while you breathe deeply in slumber with vestiges of babyhood tucked in all around you. The plump apple curve of your cheek reminds me of when you were an infant, at least when your room is dark. Your school pictures tell a different story. I find the changes harder to ignore with each passing year. So please accept my apologies for stealing away in the late hours to briefly touch the past and convince myself otherwise.
When you were just two or three you would stare intently at the pictures of each page of a book, gathering all the details. It didn’t matter if you had already read it a thousand times. I catch you still doing that. It slings an arrow into my heart every time. I collect those broken arrowheads from my most vulnerable spot and hold them tightly in my palm. I’m not letting go.
I could make a hundred jelly sandwiches out of the purple spot that comes home every afternoon on your cheek, usually the left one. I look for it every day. I’ve stored away a good supply of witnessing your unbridled bliss, the kind where you close your eyes as you sink that sweet smile into a frosted cupcake, sprinkles sticking to your lips.
The way you can be amazed by the simplest of things. Like cookies from a vending machine and putting out Christmas decorations. Like getting to feed the neighbor’s cats and swimming in hotel pools. Like finding a hawk feather and being taken out for surprise ice cream.
I still get pangs of nostalgia when you say “aminal” because it reminds me of all the other words you used to mispronounce when you were learning to talk. I’m not letting this one go without a fight. And when you play with your dolls, I feel slightly victorious that you have not crossed over to the other side just yet. Somehow you’re still inside the whisper thin bubble of pretend play despite all the growing up going on around you.
Hugs still come spontaneously and you often still grab my hand, but I can already tell these instances are fewer than even just last year. I think I’m having the hardest time with this one. So I squeeze tighter, longer than maybe I should. Please forgive me. I still haven’t mastered how to hold on while still letting go.
Copyright (c) 2015 Kristen M. Ploetz
With almost precision timing for Mother’s Day, the towers of lilac buds growing along the southern side of our yard silently burst open, revealing their pale pinkish purple flowers within. It’s a mystery how these ragtag, decades old bushes time it for the second Sunday each May. No matter what Old Man Winter throws their way, they rarely miss. Though the explosion of blanched color is a private affair, it seems, waiting until my attention is turned elsewhere.
Their perfume floats like a veil on the warm spring air for only a few days. It reminds me how transient the most humble of beauty and service all too often is. They are not like the summer marigolds or hosta, those guests who linger at the party that’s gone on way too long, making their hostess grow weary and resentful of the tidying still to come. No, the lilacs are not like them at all. Rather, they are the diffident butler who quietly lets you into the grand mansion of spring, but go missing when you want your shawl.
Today we cut a few lilacs for my daughter’s first grade teacher: snip, tuck into wet paper towel, wrap in a short strip of foil.
You remember. I certainly do.
While we were walking to school, she clutched the quaint bouquet for her beloved teacher, the manufactured film of clear plastic wholly incongruent with the bark and bloom within. Seeing her small fingers wrapped tightly around the stems, I was thrust back onto the saffron yellow school bus I rode as a child in elementary school. I was carrying my own bouquet, though it was forsythia and they were intended for Mrs. Sherry, the bus driver. I remember her bouffant salt and pepper hair and navy blue polyester pants, with black boots poking out. I remember the smile she gave as I handed them to her. I remember how I felt when she did that.
How can I recall that scene in the accordion doorway of a hot school bus—some thirty years ago—yet cannot recall more than a handful of high school teachers or what kind of cake we had at our wedding? It baffles me. But that instant is like a pressed flower in my mind, its forsythia yellow color still vivid even though the petals might be a bit brittle and dry.
Will today’s lilac bouquet and teacher’s smile press just as firmly into my daughter’s mind? Or will they disappear like the butler?
Copyright (c) 2015 Kristen M. Ploetz
Come April, we will mark a decade in our modest Cape. The house is 75 years old and sits on just 2/10 of an acre. What I’ve learned in that ten years is that a small house on a tiny lot can feel like a manor on an estate if you have the right mindset.
When we bought it, I was sure of two things.
1. I adored the built-in bookshelves in the “extra” bedrooms on the second floor. Somehow, I was able to see past the bright salmon-rose colored sponge paint left behind by the prior owners. I claimed it as mine. It would become a future workspace and sanctuary. I’d fill it with a desk and my books.
2. Neither of us seemed all that interested in having children, and having none was certainly within our realm of possibility.
For a time, that room was mine. We painted it a tranquil seafoam blue. A secondhand futon and a whitewashed desk tried to fill the space, but it always seemed empty in there. No matter. I put my deep blue geode bookends on the shelves—a flag on the moon, as it were. This was the first space I could call my very own since I left home for college.
Of course, it turned out that I wasn’t so sure about that second certainty after all. And, because I’d claimed the bigger of the two “extra” bedrooms, it looked like I was also going to get evicted from my sacred space and downsize into the room next door. A baby was on the way.
We transformed the room and painted it a second time. We didn’t know if this baby would be a boy or a girl, so we played it safe with Veranda View. I’ll remember the name of that paint color for the rest of my life. The light green paint still lives on the walls today, but splashes and swaths of pinks, aquas, lilacs, and yellows fill the room too. A young girl lives here now.
Her bookshelves are filled to capacity with books, some of which have been in rotation since she was born. We get lazy at night and often just toss the books we’ve read to her on the space between her bed and the built-in. It’s a precarious place to navigate on foot given that this is also where the dormer ceilings prevent her father and me from standing upright.
I am usually the worst offender when it comes to tossing books on the floor, so the other morning I felt compelled to clean a bit of the mess myself. I glanced down at the pile of upturned spines and stacked covers. The ruled pages of an open journal looked up at me from the wide pile. I thought it was her sketchbook, the one where she doodles inventions and shows us regularly. It’s not private so I picked it up to see what she’d created recently.
Except, I was wrong. It wasn’t her sketchbook, it was her diary. And I knew this only after I skimmed two pages. It was an honest mistake, but I still felt like I was holding a bag of stolen money. I quickly put it back the way I found it and felt guilty the entire morning.
I won’t tell you what it said, but I will tell you this: seven year olds can have secrets too, just like us. I think that should be honored. Whether it be telling one trusted friend or a sibling, or writing it down, unleashing a secret is where we reveal, and discover, some of who we are deep down.
I want her to feel safe in her expressions on private paper. She wrote something that wasn’t polite to say out loud, and something else more profound that she is working through. Two different types of secrets, but things that she felt compelled to put down on paper, maybe to move on or maybe to consider again later. It reminded me of the days when I was young and kept a journal. That’s why I didn’t peek through the rest of the book, even though I admit I really, really wanted to.
There is something deeply moving about reading the innermost thoughts of your child set down in their rudimentary handwriting and creative spelling. It sets your heart afire in a completely unexpected way. It was hard to set the book back down and just walk away without reading the rest, but I did. Yes, she keeps secrets from me now. It’s where we are on our mother-daughter journey together. If she feels the need to grab a pen in lieu of my hand sometimes, I am OK with that. I have to be.
Did you journal when you were very young? Do you encourage your child(ren) to do so too?
Copyright (c) 2015 Kristen M. Ploetz
When she was around four years old, my daughter was fascinated by people who had obvious, visible disabilities or physical differences. Her interest was pure curiosity and genuine intrigue in order to understand the world around her, as is the case for all children at that age. There were no sinister motives behind her stares. Whether it be the man in the post office who used a cane, or the woman in the grocery store who had a severely scarred face, my daughter wanted to know what she was looking at.
And, not surprisingly, she peppered me with lots of (loud!) questions. I didn’t appreciate the awful acoustics of the marble foyer in the post office until that day she crossed paths with that man. I didn’t hush her or get embarrassed, and instead matter of factly answered her questions. In some cases, I would also later suggest a different (better) way of asking and talking about other people who might act, think, speak, or look different than she does.
So much of raising young children is showing them the way. We teach them not just the what and why, but also the how. Over time, we hope they learn how to talk about what they are experiencing or witnessing in life in a way that uses the filters of empathy, compassion, and respect for others. We (hopefully) lead by example, sure, but we also need to give them the tools so that they can, eventually, ask themselves whether what they are about to say or write will be hurtful or regrettable. Yes, we fortunately live in a society that protects free speech, but just because we can say something, doesn’t always mean we should, or at least not in the way that comes to mind first.
It dawned on me recently that I more or less use this same process when filtering my own writing, especially blog posts and essays. I’ve always had a general list of mental questions that I cross-check against something that I might eventually share for public consumption. I don’t always hit the brakes if something is questionable or fails to meet the mark, but I at least pause to consider the potential ramifications. They are very much like the things I want my daughter to start considering, especially when she’s saying something about someone else.
Today I share these questions with you. Whether you are a parent trying to coach a child and/or a writer, maybe you will find them useful. (For most of them, if the answer is “yes”, the follow up question to ask is, Do I care?)
Is what I am about to say/publish hurtful to my reputation?
Is what I am about to say/publish hurtful to my friends or family?
Could my words be construed in a way that I do not intend?
Will I lose control over these words (i.e. through editing, posting online elsewhere) and their use/reception?
Will I regret this tomorrow, next year, in ten years?
Am I breaching any kind of confidentiality that I owe somebody else, implicitly or otherwise?
Do I sound entitled, whiny, or out of touch?
Have I taken into consideration the “other side”?
Are my words tone deaf? Do they consider the plights/lives of others?
Do my words contain bias, prejudice, or stereotypes?
Am I being hurtful or unfair toward a particular group of people?
Does this sound racist/classist/sexist/privileged/etc.?
Am I basing my assertions or arguments on anecdote, assumptions, facts, emotion, and/or hearsay?
Am I being honest in my motives and through my words?
What about you, parents and writers? What question(s) do you have your children ask themselves or do you ask yourself before you unleashing words? I’d love to know.
Copyright (c) 2015 Kristen M. Ploetz
I try to protect my daughter’s privacy a little more here now. Part of it is that she’s getting older, but some of it is also that a few people who know us “in real life” are aware of my writing here. As I’ve learned from other pieces I’ve written, I cannot control the way things might be interpreted or used, so I try to be more careful when it comes to her life. One can never, ever get the full picture from just one essay or blog post, but some try to and then it leads to unfair assumptions and prejudices. It’s one thing for me to take that on, but I’m not willing to do that to her.
So without getting into the specifics, the other day she came to me after she’d been playing by herself for a while. Something was definitely on her mind, so I asked her what she was thinking about. Tears immediately flowed. She was feeling very alone about something (which she and I talked about) and wished she’d had a girl friend to talk about it with, not just me. She wanted someone to be comfortable with and not be judged. Don’t get me wrong. She has a few friends and classmates that she plays with regularly who are all equally sweet and kind children. But what she was looking for was a trustworthy confidant to share something very personal that she’s been thinking about a lot lately, and it is a topic that is certainly provocative for many.
After a long, long chat with her on the stairs, she seemed to perk up a bit. She seems hopeful that the specific kind of friend she is seeking is out there, and one day they will cross paths. That is the best kind of outcome for a parent when you know you can’t fix things for them, and that they have to find their way. You have to at least guide them to the path of hope, but then they must take the journey. She went on to play, almost as if nothing had been wrong to begin with. That’s what makes children so awesome–their ability to let go, move on, and live in optimism.
But after she left my side, I was struck with how inept I feel about talking about the subject of friendships with her, primarily because I have struggled for so long to find the particular kind of depth that I know she seeks (at least in her seven year old way). In a nutshell, I don’t have that in the way that I’d like. I am (I think) friendly and have the tools to teach her those kind of social skills. I have friends, yes, even a few good friends. But a deep, soul bearing confidant (that is not my husband)? No. I do not.
This year in particular that has weighed me down quite a bit. In fact, I wrote a deeply cathartic and personal, if not shame inducing, piece about it all just weeks after I turned 40 earlier this year (it was declined for publication–and hence my post from last week about what to do with those kinds of pieces; I’ve shared that piece with two people but I am not sure about anyone else at this point). In a word, I feel like a fraud. I feel alone and lonely much of the time because of this, and, as a result, I am not entirely convinced that that kind of friendship is actually achievable for every single person. So when she comes to me, I feel like I’m selling her a bill of goods. I wonder if that kind of friendship as an ideal—despite how much I’d like it—is one that I can adequately sell anymore. Yet, if I am her role model and teacher for so much of these things, am I supposed to fake it? I’m wondering. But sooner or later, she’s going to see the gaps in my own life that I am trying to help her fill in hers.
I realize that this might all sound hopeless and pathetic, but the truth is that this year has also been a year when I have mostly made peace with what is my life in this particular regard. And that, I hope, is the other message that I can ultimately convey to her: that your solitude can be its own source of strength too.
Copyright (c) 2014 Kristen M. Ploetz
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