“I don’t like it,”, he said as we stood face to face.

“You don’t like being taller than me?” I asked.

 “Yes, I don’t like it.” 

“You’ve wanted to be taller than your friends for a while, but being taller than your mom is a bit strange isn’t it?” I replied in an empathetic tone.

“Yes.” he said with some relief that without explanation, I seemed to understand.

His vertical angst today caught me off guard as he has been longing for height for the past two years. His peers, in particular his female friends, surpassed him in height early on. It was in this moment that I was reminded that we are both adapting to his physical and emotional development. It isn’t just me that feels the pang of bittersweet emotion with his evolving independence and obvious physical transition into adolescence.

At times I find myself selfishly wallowing in this transition, feeling rejected and insecure. I quickly assign meaning over what his seeming withdrawal from my physical and emotional affection means. I am prone to catastrophizing and can take a very typical adolescent-parent interaction and turn it into an indictment on my poor parenting or a vision of the future.

And today, he put into words part of this bittersweet experience for both of us… “I don’t like it”.  He too is struggling with our changing dynamics; If he is taller than me, can I still be his safe place?  Does his surpassing me in height change my role in his life? How can he need me and resent me at the same time?

And likely, knowing Grady and his old soul, there is something in his angst about the passage of time. Something we share.

 I have to remind myself regularly of all that is happening for him in this developmental stage.  My feelings of rejection, insecurity, and uncertainty about my parenting identity are parallel to, or perhaps pale in comparison to, his development tasks of identify and autonomy. When I personalize his remoteness at the end of school day or pester him constantly with “What’s wrong? Why are you upset?”, that furthers the confusion and disconnection for both of us. Rather, he needs me to be steady. He needs me to not get triggered with my own stuff but to be that safe place that he can be distant, where he can express and explore his own identity and know that my love and acceptance is a constant.

I know we will both continue to experience the internal tug of war of inevitable, beautiful, messy change. I will try to be more mindful of when we both “don’t like it.” In those moments, I will aim to be taller than my insecurities-providing grounding, empathy, and perspective when he needs it and can receive it.  

As his vertical ascent continues, I hope he will realize that no distance between us can change the steadfast of my love and support.

We ran to Walmart for mosquito repellant, pineapple juice, and bananas (and odd assortment I acknowledge).  “Can we go to the fishing section?” he asks.  “Sure,” I say, aware that this detour to the fishing aisle will extend our Walmart stay and likely result in a request for a gift, a loan, or bargaining a chore for a purchase.

As I stood patiently amongst the lures, rods, tackle boxes and reels, I listened to his enthusiastic chatter; “…and this is a Whopper Flopper.  It has this thing right here that slaps the water, making a loud sound.  It irritates the fish so that they will go after it.  I do not have one of these.”  I am always impressed with his knowledge about things (in this case gained mostly from YouTube fishing videos) and I love his passion for fishing and life in general. As he carried on about the benefits of the Whopper Flopper, my mind took me back in flashback like fashion to many other such occasions in the aisles of Walmart or the like over the years. Same scene, different aisle.

His first passion, bordering obsession, was trains. Diesel trains, Smokies (steam engines) as he called them, Box Cars, Tank Cars, Open Hoppers…. we knew all about them and regularly visited the aisles of any store that sold little wooden trains, and accessories. Then it was fire trucks, followed swiftly by police cars. At one time we had enough mini emergency vehicles to protect most of Metro Atlanta!  It was an extra treat when we would happen into a store and discover the local fire company shopping for groceries. On more than one occasion these encounters ended in an opportunity to sit in the cab of the fire truck. 

After the first responder phase we moved into dinosaurs. It started with an innocent introduction through the 90’s series, “The Land Before Time” and evolved through exposure to the Jurassic Park retail empire to more menacing prehistoric creatures. We spent many a story-time being corrected on our pronunciation of “Dilophosaurus” and the like. Our bounty from Walmart during that time often included a Therapod or a Sauropod.

Nerf guns had a concurrent run with Hot Wheel cars. Specifically, the “super car” version of Hot Wheels-little Lamborghinis, Porsche, DeLoreans filled our playroom (but never our driveway)!

Then the army phase arrived. Little plastic army men are easier on the pocketbook, yet rough on bare feet when stepped on (little plastic land mines)!  Elaborate battle scenes filled our bay window surface. While his interest in this genre of toys gave me pause (if I am being honest, I would prefer that he not choose to serve his country through the military), I was comforted when I recalled the trains, police cars, firetrucks, nerf guns and dinosaurs that came before and I would lighten up a bit. 

Being the opportunist that I am, I never let a moment of reflection pass without a plunge into parental guilt and despair.  The Walmart aisles represent in part, my weakness as a parent; How many times over the years did I acquiesce in the aisle of the time? “This hot wheel car is just one-dollar mom.”, “I’ve really been wanting one of these, mom! “I don’t have an army set like this, mom.” So went the pleas. 

There was a time when I rehearsed in advance of a shopping trip the following phrases: “It’s not in our plans to purchase that today.” And “We are just shopping for ____, but you are welcome to look.”  As good as those phrases make me look, the ratio of my using those lines to caving-in to his requests is definitely on the side of caving in! The worry seeps in and spirals to an imagining of his future credit card debt from his not being able to delay gratification.  And it surely started in the aisles of Walmart with his mother. 

My perilous parent-guilt trip was interrupted by another excited exclamation from Grady; “Do you see this here; this is a fluke.  A fluke mimics an injured fish. These are really good lures to have”.  Back to my guilt trip I go, thinking of all of the times that I half-listen to his rambles about his interests. Being fully present to our kids is hard, probably impossible, on a daily basis. The tedium of chatter about things that do not feel as pressing as our to-do lists or grown-up awareness, can make it easy to nod and say “ah” but not really listen. And they know it, just as we know it when we are not being heard.  I call these my “Cat’s in the Cradle” moments if you know the musical reference.

Being objective, I have not done the best job of being intentional around providing opportunities for delayed gratification and financial literacy… one of many things to fast track into our parenting while he is still at home I suppose. Likewise, as I have just confessed, my being truly present to him varies by the day or moment.

There are many different ways we parents mark the passage of time: potty training, the first day of kindergarten, the first “drop off” birthday party, losing those front teeth, riding a bike, and for me, the changing aisles of Walmart. These occasions and transitions represent our children’s development, our delight, and sometimes, our bittersweet loss.

All of this coming to me (and now you) in the aisles of a Wal-Mart.

Lest I end on a despairing and overly dramatic note-here’s what I am choosing to take away from my “aisle awareness” today; whether it is in the in the aisle, in the car, or at the table, I will choose, as much as possible, to be present to the chatter about this or that. I want to be open to and welcome those moments (that will of course dissipate some by nature in the adolescent years) when he wants to bend my ear. Listening, taking time to delight in his passions, being open to what he has to teach me, (even if it is about the mechanism of a fishing lure), embracing the stage we are in, knowing it is ever evolving as it should– these are gifts I can give him and myself.

One day not too long from now, I will go to Walmart alone. I will dutifully go through the aisles on my shopping list without negotiation around visiting this aisle or that “just to look.”  Check back with me then, but you may just find me digging through the Hot wheel bins, looking at the newest nerf gun or admiring the colorful fishing lures. All with a smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

Until then, I will see which aisle comes next.

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There are army toys strewn throughout the house, and ear buds on his bed. There’s a baby comb in the bathroom next to the hair gel he occasionally uses too much of. He wants a new hot wheel track and in the same breadth asks for a new video game. He won’t walk down a dark hallway by himself, and yet increasingly wants privacy for dressing, etc. He cuddles up with us on the coach at night, but is subtler with his affections around others.

As we approach his eleventh birthday, the juxtaposition between his boyhood and emerging tweenhood is with us every day.  We notice his burgeoning independence around his own self-care and yet his boyhood ignorance of appearance is evident on his shirt and dirty knees!  He navigates many things without help and yet still requests my company to lie down with him as he settles in to sleep. Subtle and not subtle signs are here, indicating that change is coming… and that it is not yet here. We are in- between.

As an admittedly overly sentimental person (I will absurdly never get rid of that baby comb for example) the in-between is an interesting place to be as a parent. It is delightful, on the one hand, to be needed less for his own self-care, to see his increasing mastery of things and the pride it brings him.  And at the same time, the in-between leaves me with twinges of sadness of what we are leaving behind and some uncertainty of what lies ahead.

I wonder how he will experience his impending adolescence. Will he reject our affections completely? Will he turn his nose up at our routine weekend nature walks? Will he decide he is too old for bedtime stories? Will he no longer invite me into his twilight thoughts as I lie next to him?  My next line of thinking turns inward – how will I navigate his important and developmental need to push away, push back to test out his autonomy? Is there a way to prepare for that? Is there a way to shore myself up to not be triggered by his seeming adolescent rejection? I suspect it is like most things in parenting, or at least my experience of parenting; you anticipate, you declare how you will handle things (perhaps differently than your own parents), you might even read a book or blog or two. And then reality hits and you bumble your way through as you face what you couldn’t have anticipated and find that things are harder, and easier, than expected. So you just wing it imperfectly. Time will undoubtedly tell.

Knowing that I am prone to holding on to what was, I have been conscious and intentional in my embracing of the letting go. I encourage his increasing independence and confidence therein, and remind myself regularly to ask more of him, to push him towards self-sufficiency and household contributions, (which is sometimes met with an “on the other side” sulk).  Yet at every turn being available with open arms for when he crosses over the in-between into the safety of our literal and figurative arms. Holding on, letting go, slowly down, enjoying what is, thinking fondly of what was, and marveling at what’s to come.  The beautiful in-between.

In honor of the half century mark of me and many of my peers, I wrote a little ditty about my first month of 50 to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. I took a few liberties with the order and quantities of happenings.

 

On my first day of 50, the universe gave to me,

A referral to a colonoscopy.

On my second day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the third day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the fourth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the fifth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the sixth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the seventh day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the eighth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Eight muscles aching,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the ninth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Nine reading glasses,

Eight muscles aching,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the tenth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Ten invites to AARP,

Nine reading glasses,

Eight muscles aching,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the eleventh day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Eleven hairs a graying,

Ten invites to AARP,

Nine reading glasses,

Eight muscles aching,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy.

On the twelfth day of 50, the universe gave to me,

Twelve antacids,

Eleven hairs a graying,

Ten invites to AARP,

Nine reading glasses,

Eight muscles aching,

Seven hot flashes,

Six retinal products,

Five memory lapses,

Four varicose veins,

Three new wrinkles,

Two compression hose,

And a referral to a colonoscopy!

So grateful to see 50, I’ll take the gift and 50 more!

Here’s how the “game” goes:

Grady: “Mommy, tell me how much you love me. Say a lot of words about that.”….

Me: “I love you more than all of the trees, all of the raindrops, all of the stars in the universe…”

Grady: “I love you more than all of the blades of grass, the cars, the stars, the planets, infinity! I win!”

This is the game that we play, telling each other that we love each other more than a variety of everyday and universal things. He prides himself in one upping me with how much he loves me-to the point of absurdity. For example, once he told me he loved me more than all of the toilets in the world! “I love you one thousand infinity” is another common winning phrase he uses.

I play along, always losing this war of love words. I smile and quietly accept defeat. I think to myself: How much longer will he want to engage in this playful loving banter with me? Surely there will come a time not too long from now, when saying he loves me is something he does reluctantly or not at all. Will he be embarrassed when reminded of our game? Will this be a silly loving tradition he starts with his own child some day?

I hope that he does remember and continue this ritual with his own child. For when he does, then he will know: When his child says “Daddy, tell me how much you love me, say a lot of words about that,” he will realize that his love for his child, my love for him, is so big that words are inadequate. He will realize that there are never enough words.

We were saying our goodbyes to my family after a seven-day holiday visit. We were in an old grand train station no less- complete with marble floors, high grandiose ceilings and ornate woodwork all around.

I imagine similar goodbyes of years past took place right where we were standing: Families gathered after long separations, folks dressed in fine traveling clothes, hats on their heads, and square hard-sided suitcases by their sides. Saying goodbyes for them was likely followed by a long train trip back from whence they came. Their separation from one another more poignant without the instant communication of text, facebook, skype and the like of today.

And there we were-having visited the old train station with my then seven year old son, sharing one last meal together with his teenage cousins, his divorced aunt and uncle and my folks. It was time for us to travel back home via airplane.

My child, who has been historically reticent to hug people outside of his mom and dad, was locked in an intense embrace with his teenage cousins. He then made a running leap into the arms of his aunt, my sister. His uncle, who he has interacted with minimally due to the divorce, received multiple embraces as our time came to a close… and it hit me… his family, his whole family, is perfect in his eyes. Just perfect.

While certainly children are perceptive of and affected by family dynamics, even beyond their own comprehension, they are also more forgiving and tolerant of our messiness. My son does not see the brokenness in our bonds, the occasional dysfunction in our interactions, the sadness in his uncles eyes (or does he?) or even the disapproval of his grandmother.

He just sees what he needs right then-his family who loves him, enjoys him, (well the teenage cousins mostly enjoy him) and wants to be with them.

He does not think about the unspoken history and hurts that I see. He is not aware of my disappointment in missed opportunities to connect; he does not feel hurt or annoyance over passive critiques dropped here and there.

He thinks, sees, hears, and feels the perfectly imperfect love that surrounds him. His family is perfect.

Thanks for the reminder kid.

 

Our family ornament this year-a ladder with a heart. Here’s what I wrote to Scott and Grady:
“One might think that a Christmas ornament commemorating your fall is in poor taste. I have a different perspective for us that is worth remembering. Without a doubt, it’s been a difficult time for you, for us. Physical pain, fear. And uncertainty. And yet, what we found at the bottom of the metaphorical ladder was love. From Friends and strangers rushing to help, to caregivers for our son, nourishment for our bodies, help with expenses and many cards and loving reminders that ‘every little thing is going to be allright.’ Yes, what we found at the bottom of the ladder was love.”

So much Thoughtful To Us

It started with a parade of concerned neighbors, strangers, and even a film crew-all in response to Scotts hollering after his fall. Then a bathrobe, caretaking of Grady in his distress, early morning drop offs, late night wine, stubborn dog standoffs, house cleaning, snacks, school supplies, kid pick-ups, meals and frozen peaches. Those things are just some examples of the artifacts of kindness given to us in our time of unexpected need.

While in the hospital, Scott’s 85-year-old hospital roommate, Mr. Knox, who had a long list of medical issues keeping him bed bound, cheered Scott on as he made little bits of progress each day. One day, when Mr. Knox’s doctor came for rounds, the first thing he said was: “Mr. Piper is doing so well, he took a walk today.” In the midst of his own discomfort and crisis, the first thing he said to his own physician was a celebration of Scott’s progress. Love incarnate indeed.

Small but mighty acts of kindness like these have filled out lives over the past months. There has been lots of pain, uncertainty, grief, frustration and fear. Yet the balm of kindness has soothed these things beyond measure.

I recently complimented Grady for a thoughtful deed he had done for someone at his school and his response to my flattery was this: “Well, they’ve done so much thoughtful to us.”

Indeed, he is right. So much thoughtful…So much gratitude.

We have hit the three-month milestone since Scott’s back surgery. To recap, he fell ten feet from our roof to the concrete while cleaning the gutters. He broke two vertebrae necessitating an urgent surgery followed by a ten-day stay in the hospital.   We anticipate that the doctor will soon “release” him to “bend, life and twist” or BLT as they said. I joked that when this happens I am going to throw a bunch of stuff on the floor and watch him pick it up!

The most recent imaging of Scott’s back indicate that the rods and screws put in to stabilize his spine have done their job; Allowing the bones and ligaments to heal without threat of injury to his spine. The experiential evidence also shows us that the healing is happening as each week there is less pain and his tolerance of car rides and other activities slowly builds. Yet as the physical trauma abates, it has become more evident that the bone healing is just one aspect of recovery. The emotional injury if you will caused by the experience also demands healing may not progress as predictably as his body. The replaying of the fall in his mind, the memories of vulnerability, the experience of a “close call” that brings your own mortality and the fragility of life to your consciousness – these are all of the side effects of that physical event. These types of breaks if you will, catch us  by surprise, do not have a “standard of care,” and clearly have a healing demand and timeline of their own.

Our son Grady is also grappling with some emotional injuries because of the fall. If we could take a picture of the after effects that Scott’s accident had on Grady, it would show a mind swollen with worry, old fears resurfacing and new ones appearing. It would also show the sadness that comes from understanding for the first time in your development that bad things happen that are out of your control and that people you love, people who take care of you, are vulnerable.

Then there is me. In moments of reflection, I am aware of the “soft spots” that I feel from this injury: The first soft spot for me is in remembering the events immediately after the fall, when the paramedics were tending to Scott. I had to go into the house to finally rinse the soap out of my hair from my interrupted shower and throw some clothes on to go to the hospital. Grady appeared in the bathroom and broke down in sobs. I embraced him and assured him that his daddy was going to be ok, but that he did need to go to the hospital. What Grady needed in that moment was so much more than I could give him-time and comfort in particular. I had to hurry the moment along to get on my way to the hospital. His sobs, his fear, having to leave him abruptly in the care of loving neighbors, was a necessary, but broken moment for me. Likewise, each time I had to leave Scott at the hospital during that ten-day ordeal I would feel a wave of pain and fear when I drove out of the parking garage. Similar to leaving Grady in his moment of great need of me, it was the pain of helplessness leaving Scott there in his vulnerability.

Last year when Grady broke his leg in a baseball collision, we experienced this same physical and emotional injury and healing process-though not nearly as visceral as this one. Each visit to the orthopedic over a three-month period included an x ray of his leg, chronicling the amazing healing capabilities of the body. Each x-ray showing a fainter “fault” line where the break had occurred and etches of new bone forming in and around the break-amazing. Yet similarly, as the cast came off and assurances were given of the strength, in fact, extra strength, of the healed leg, the fear of pain and memory of vulnerability became the necessary focus of Grady’s healing.

It is these recent experiences, coupled with my own history, and the many stories of brokenness and pain in the news of late that have me thinking a lot about the nature of emotional healing and the ways in which we are all interconnected in our brokenness and in our recovery.

One of my favorite movie quotes comes from the movie “Spitfire Grill”. The quote spoken by the lead character goes like this: “Do you suppose there are wounds which go so deep the healing of them hurts as much as the wounding?” I certainly cannot speak for others but in my life this has rung true. Perhaps this intensifying of pain during healing happens in part because our amazing bodies and resilient souls give us protective rush of adrenaline and a thick coat of denial to endure, to survive, physical and emotional pain. As we engage in a healing journey, the denial wears thin and the pain throbs. Facing the truth of the original injury without those protections can feel unbearable and most of us can only endure that in small bits and pieces.

Much like a flesh wound that heals from the inside out, layer by layer, emotional healing often happens as we are ready to face another aspect of our wounding and/or as a healing presence or opportunity presents itself. Our emotional wounds need the light of truth telling, of being seen, receiving empathy.   This process can also feel tenuous, as the vulnerability necessary for healing to take place increases the risk for re-injury. A story in the news, a memory, a book or movie, an insensitive comment (intentional or otherwise) or some other triggering experience can easily re-open a tender spot.

Long ago, I expressed to someone in my life; “I don’t think there will ever come a time when this will hurt less, when my pain and shame won’t consume me.”

The wise counsel present to me at that time offered this analogy:

“Think of your life as a beautiful stained glass window being formed with each passing year. Each Payne of colorful glass represents your experiences-your joys and your sorrows. In the building of the window, as in your life, sometimes one shape or color dominates the window refracting the light in such a way that the color may dominate all the others. Over time, more panes are added to the window diversifying the colors and refractions. The Pane of glass that represents your wounding is always a part of the whole, but over time, it is less dominate, less defining. It is just one color admits a beautiful tapestry or quilt of glass.”

So as another set of bones in my house progresses through its course of healing, and as all three of us face and move through the unintentional injuries that have come along with this experience, my mind has been drawn back to this stained glass window analogy. I know that that for Grady and Scott in particular, this newly added pane of glass to their windows is quite dominating right now, coloring if you will, all that they are thinking and feeling. I am also very mindful of the many stories of late, which have given us a glimpse into the panes of glass in other people’s windows. Many of these stories, shared so courageously, sometimes many turns around the sun since the originally wounding, remind us of the complexity and layers that healing can have. I have been personally touched, triggered and validated in hearing stories of others speaking their truth-bringing light to their wounds- as a step in their healing. Their bravery gives permission or perhaps insistence to attend to our own healing, to check the wounds and assess the progress.

All of these events remind me of how amazingly resilient and yet tender we all are. I am also reminded of how important it is for us in our own way and time to share our truths with others when and where we are able, and to listen and support those around us as they share the light reflected through their own beautiful and complex stained glass windows.

Here’s to healing.

 

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