mamoore's Open Salon Blog

"So, You Think I Don't Understand?"

Tue, 31 May 2011 10:05:20 -0400

Helpless.

Once again in my parenting career, that’s exactly how I felt. No words could ease my daughter’s pain. No band aid could heal the wound. A hug couldn’t stop the fear. Not even the promise of a giant cream-filled donut could make a dent in her sadness.

As my children grow older and begin to experience the realities of true hurt, not emergency-room-hurt but my-parents- will-NEVER-understand-this kind of hurt, I feel like I have been knocked down time and again trying to find a way in. Not to make it all better, but to let them know I get it.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in that familiar place -pacing the halls, wracking my brain, trying to find the right words, wanting desperately to ease my child’s burden.

Maybe it was a strong wind that blew in off of Lake Michigan and cleared away my brain-clouds. Or maybe it was the quiet voice of my 11-year-old self that had finally found a way to be heard. Regardless, I suddenly knew what to do. Stashed on a high self in the back of my closet was the answer.

Without thinking twice, I took my daughter by the hand and said, “So, you think I don’t understand?”

And from the depths of my past, I pulled out my sixth grade journal.

Curled up together on my bed, I read it out loud to my daughter in the same way I had read so many books to my kids over the years. As the words of my childhood came tumbling out of hiding, I could see my daughter’s eyes in constant motion. Back and forth between the twirly-girly cursive handwriting that poured out my most heartfelt secrets and up to the woman with the wrinkles and the reading glasses that is known to her only as a mom.

You think I don’t understand about grade school love?

“At the beginning of the year I loved liked David G. Then I couldn’t stand him. Then I had a crush on Tim S. I went with him about 3 months. Then I realized it was dumb to go with him because nothing great ever really happened. So I broke up with him. But we are still good friends. Chuck D. is sooo cute. I go crazy over him. But I hate David G., Greg M., and well Tim. I still think Tim’s cute.”

Yes, that was all one paragraph. Probably best if read out loud using only one breath.

You think I don’t understand people making fun of the way you look?

“I just found out that David and Greg and Tim call me “fat lady” because of that patch on my new jumpsuit. It says some kind of French club name but they told me it says “fat club.” Joey said that Chris C. will never ever go with me unless I pump up my flats. Chris thinks I’m a creep but maybe my luck will change.”

It was like one massive run-on sentence of a life.

You think I don’t understand about being afraid to go to sleep at night?

“I don’t think anyone really understands me. I am really scared of sleeping up in the attic alone! I want to trade rooms but no one will believe I’m really scared.”

Looking back, the attic was really cool. Remember the attic Marsha and Greg Brady fought over? Way cooler than that. But still, I had terrifying nightmares almost every night.

You think I don’t understand wanting to be something other than what you are?

“From now on I’m not going to eat any sweets except from Mrs. Anderson. I’m going to try to lose some weight and get more pretty. I’ll keep my room clean and do my homework and be a different person. I wonder if I’m really pretty or if it’s just me that hopes so. Well at middle school next year I’ll find out!”

I’m still working on a few of those things.

You think I don’t understand what it feels like when best friends break your heart?

And this is where I pulled out the secret weapon, the heavy artillery in my battle to reclaim my relationship with my children.

The Letter.

Back when I was in sixth grade, I returned to school after a family vacation to find a letter waiting for me inside my desk. Hot pink words screaming at me from neatly folded notebook paper. The letter sat menacingly on top of my language arts folder. I knew before I even opened it that it contained certain social ruin. It was from my best friend. She knew one of my closest held secrets and I could tell from the drawing on the outside of the letter that she was going to use it against me.

To this day, what I saw when I opened that letter makes me cringe. Not only had she revealed my secret, but she had collected signatures from all of my friends, including all of the boys on my crush list. My journal tells me I let my anguish be known to my not-so-best-friend-anymore but what I really remember is the feeling that there was nothing I could do to erase the damage that had been done. Even so, I had no choice but to continue on through that school day and return again the next.

As we both stared in silence at the horror of that letter, my daughter began to ask me all kinds of questions. Did you cry? Did you tell anyone? Did the boys tease you? Did you still stay friends with her? What was most important was that she knew that I had survived. And thrived. Clearly, she was listening. Not to the words of a 48-year-old, but to the voice of someone just like her.

Maybe it was the handwriting that made it real to her. Or the ramble on sentences and heart-dotted “i”s. Or the names of my boyfriends written out in capital letters to emphasize how much I loved them. Or the folded up notes that reflected the roller coaster ride of friendship. No way could my grown-up voice have conveyed that world in the same way that reading the journal had.

What I do know for sure is that my daughter survived.

And thankfully, there’s a whole box of my middle school journals stashed under the stairwell just waiting for their moment.

This post was orginally published on mommologues.com

Careful Hearts

Mon, 14 Feb 2011 07:02:24 -0500

A few years ago, when our youngest daughter was just four, she tip-toed into my bedroom on the morning of Valentine’s Day as I was getting dressed to go to work. She had caught me in one of those hurried intervals, somewhere between packing lunches and signing 4^th grade reading logs, when I was trying to make myself semi-presentable. One of my few moments alone amidst the kind of craziness that ensues at 7:30 a.m. in households across the country. Which is why she was probably tip-toeing. Because on more than one morning when she had needed my attention, I am positive I said something less than kind to her about giving me a few minutes to myself.

So there she was in her mismatched outfit, nest of sleep-hair still tangled in the back of her head, holding something so very carefully in her cupped hands. It was the same way she held all of her treasures: the pretty rocks from the neighbor’s driveway; the wood chips from the Montessori playground; the seagull feather from the beach; a glittery plastic bead from under the bed. This time, it was not something that she had found that she held with such care, but something she had made.

My Valentine.

With her still-pudgy hands she had cut two hearts, almost rounding the edges but missing the curve a little here and there so that there was an endearing imperfection in their outline. She handed me those scotch-tape-joined-together-hearts so gingerly and with such expectation. It turns out that the shape was of little importance. What she had poured herself into was the message.

“Be careful with this. I Love You.”

Though I think she only meant to indicate that the paper hearts were fragile, her words could not have been more profound. A reminder to me of what I signed up for when I became a parent. Of the expectation our children have that as their parents, we will always keep them safe. Not just their physical selves, but their emotional selves and the things they treasure most. Always.

Somehow, I knew as I held those crooked paper hearts that it was a goal I would continuously aspire to and one I would have to fail.

Allowing my kids to feel the aches and pains of growing-up is one of the toughest life lessons I will ever have to learn. It’s not the stuff of Hallmark Valentines. When they look at me with the expectation that I will make it all right, I will always struggle with the desire to hold onto them as if they were as fragile as those paper hearts. Always. No matter how old they get. Even as I let them go.

Be careful with this. I love you.

Faith in a Moment

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 10:01:09 -0500

It felt like it came out of nowhere. I had been struggling to find it for years, trying to reach this place, arrive at this moment. But I wasn’t expecting it – at least not then.

I had been valiantly searching for the little kernels. The perfect memories caught in time, hanging there waiting for me. Even in those rare moments when I could catch one, I could never make it feel real. As a result, I thought I was going to be formalizing my list of bullet points. Writing them out. Expanding the details. Creating the book that would tell the poor-me story.

Instead, there we sat. In the moment. Side by side. Eyes forward. Shoulders just slightly grazing each other as we shifted to find comfort on the long wooden pews. A warm summer breeze blowing through, stirring up the musty smells of the countless souls who had been here before. Listening to the singing. Young voices. Full of optimism and hope. Naive.

“Every long journey is made of small steps. Is made of the courage, the feeling you get. You know it’s been waiting and waiting for you. The journey’s the only thing you want to do…Every long journey, what drives you to go, it’s half what you know and it’s half what you don’t…”

I love that song but I found I could only silently mouth the words. There was something about this moment. I knew if I sang too loud I would start to cry. Trying to control my emotions, I took a deep breath in and once again felt her shoulder brush mine. I glanced over cautiously from the corner of my eye and, as I saw her tears freely flowing, realized those lyrics held the weight of a lifetime for both of us.

Then, out of nowhere, it came. Suddenly, it was so obvious. Why had I made it so hard?

It wasn’t weight. That was the wrong word, the wrong feeling. It was beauty. It was pain. It was life. It was this moment. This was it. The kernel. Finally, it felt real.

In that small moment, I felt the burden of forty-seven years lifting from me. I found faith in the process of life.

I understood.

I was not meant to go back. I was meant to stand in this moment and step forward. I could not recreate, but I had always possessed the power to create. I just hadn’t wanted it. I had wanted someone else to do it for me. Plus, I had the balance all wrong. I thought I was supposed to make the past equal the present. It never will.

I said a silent thank you to the journey that had brought me here.

I took a first small step onto the path that I had worked so hard to find.

I leaned in closer, allowing my shoulder to rest on hers.

This was originally posted on my blog - www.animperfectheart.com

What You Can't Pack in a Box - For Annie

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 07:07:59 -0400

The sound of a neighborhood.

The teachers who loved your babies.

The teammates who communicate without words.

The pile of mama's nerves stacked under the bleachers.

The endless cupcakes shared and eaten with or without good reason.

The visits from clouds that ask more questions than they answer.

The nights spent holding hands in shelter from a storm.

The laughter of friends who have grown comfortable.

The seeds scattered by the first cool autumn winds.

The moments viewed from a kitchen window.

The feeling of knowing.

It's lucky our hearts have an endless capacity

for carrying the things that won't fit in a box.

Of Report Cards and What a Great Teacher Knew

Tue, 1 Jun 2010 13:06:39 -0400

Last fall, I visited my mom in Wyoming. She used the opportunity to do some major house cleaning - which included the passing on of a lifetime of paper treasures. Every finger painting, mother’s day card, letter to Santa, and term paper I had ever created was ceremoniously dumped in my lap one evening. I relived a lot of moments leafing through those papers. Some good, some not so much. The things that took my breath away, that I couldn’t put down, were the report cards.

In my hands I held the perfect penmanship of my grade school teachers. As I read their words and looked at their assessments of my abilities, I started to see how I had become and not become what I am today. Holding onto those fragile pieces of paper, I felt my adult-sized body begin to shrink until I was once again the girl wearing my favorite smiley-face jumper, the one my mom had made me at her Sears sewing class.

I loved school. I loved how it felt safe and you could always count on it to smell like a bologna sandwich and oranges. I honestly can’t remember much I didn’t like about school. Maybe that’s why I was caught by surprise when I read my old report cards and discovered that my teachers did not always see the perfect student that I had intended to be.

1^st Grade – Mrs. Muzzey

“Oral: Good but needs to read a little louder…Writing: Melissa can do nice writing when she tries but sometimes she hurries too fast to do her best work.”

I can still feel it now. That painful shyness. The fear of being wrong. The courage it took me to read my page of Tip and Mitten or Jack and Janet out loud to the class. And I remember not wanting to be left behind. I was always running after, always trying to keep up, always trying to grab someone’s hand. Because I was quiet, maybe I thought I would be forgotten. I’m not sure how to interpret the 1969 grading scale except to say I had a lot of check marks by the word “occasionally”.

3^rd Grade – Mrs. Hunter

“likes to talk to neighbors…can’t always listen…doesn’t always add to discussion even though she has good ideas.”

This was the year I discovered that my friends lived in worlds I would like to inhabit. That they could take me places, even if just through a classroom conversation, that I could not go at home. It was the year I began to understand what I was hearing and learned to block it out. It looks like the fear of being wrong, of not putting yourself out there just incase you had made a mistake, was pretty ingrained by this time – even though I knew I had good ideas. I knew it.

4^th Grade – Mrs. Reddel

“yes, but quiet…yes, volunteers…yes, dependable…yes.”

I guess by fourth grade I was learning how to work the system. My grades were good enough but more importantly, I was pleasing, I was doing what I was told, I was speaking up - though quietly. I think fourth grade may have been my academic and good behavior peak.

I entered 5^th grade in 1972. Our classroom was in a “pod” with moveable walls, we had “learning contracts” which allowed us to complete our own weekly lesson plan, and we did a lot of “alternative thinking”. That was the year I fell madly in love with my teacher, Mrs. Molloy. Just writing out her name makes me sigh with longing. There was something about her that I wanted to wrap myself up in. I would have lived the rest of my life in her classroom if given the chance. She was magic.

Luckily, 1973 and 6^th grade brought me back to Mrs. Molloy for language arts and social studies, the two classes where I really shined. I survived the rest of the day just so I could sit in her room and watch her at the chalkboard. And that leads me to my last grade school report card. The one that brought me to tears.

"Don't you ever worry - I couldn't be more proud. Love, Mrs. M."

I have absolutely no recollection of ever reading these words before that moment at my mom's this past fall. What did she know? Even now, my heartbeats faster, I choke back tears, and I long to run to her and ask. What did you see in my eyes? What did you read between the lines of all of those stories I wrote for you? What did our neighbor, your fellow teacher, share with you? Why did you write that? Those words, I touch them over and over again. There is something in those words that only a great teacher could convey. Something that now, 37 years later, makes me feel so understood.

Mrs. Molloy? Remember when I thought my name was too different? No one was named Melissa back in the 70’s. I could never find my name pre-printed on a mug or a key chain. Under the wise council of my best friend, Liza, I decided I’d like to change my name to Lissa. Somehow, I even found the confidence to make this desire known to you, though I never told my mom. I’ll never forget that moment when I raised my hand to answer a spelling question and you said, “Yes, Lissa?” I shrunk back in my chair as the whole class turned to stare at me, but you stood there straight-faced and patiently waited for my answer. Plus, you never returned my papers and asked me to use my proper name.

"Monkey's First Day, by Lissa"

And, when I quietly started writing my full name on my papers again, I didn’t need to say anything, you knew that it was time to go back to calling me Melissa.

Then there was that time when I wanted to write the very best story you had ever read and I didn’t believe that I could do it without some extra help. So I re-imagined one of my favorite picture books, Fredrick, about a field mouse who absorbs everything lovely and shares it with his family during the cold grey winter. I changed it just enough to make it sound like just maybe it had been my own idea. I remember you marveled at it, looked at me trying to assess whether or not I had written it. You said out loud, “Wow, this is a great story. You wrote this?” And I couldn’t lie to you. I was more afraid of losing your respect for lying than of getting into trouble for cheating. So I told you the truth. I don’t remember what happened next, but I know I never felt afraid or ashamed. And I always wrote my own stories after that.

You never let me not do my best. You wouldn’t let me just get by. Maybe you knew that I could do that at home. There was too much other stuff going on behind our big red front door - as long as I wasn’t making waves, passing was good enough. But not for you. You made me feel like I could step out of my brother’s shadow and find my own way to shine. And you always made sure to focus on what I was doing best before you gently implied there were places I could do better.

"Melissa continunes to work independently and to achieve at a high level. Please ask her about arithmetic homework."

You saw the “needs to talk louder” me. The” likes to talk to neighbors” me. The “in a hurry” me. The “not performing up to potential” me. But you made it safe for me to show you the rest of me, too. I don’t know what you knew exactly, but you knew something was getting in my way. Even before you told me you were proud of me, I felt it. And while your wish that I should never worry didn’t really come true, it comforts me to no end that you dreamed that dream for me.