And Furthermore . . .

I was looking through my baby book a few months ago and found one of my report cards from early elementary school. Most of my grades were good enough, but I was surprised to see an especially low grade in writing. I looked to the teacher’s notes for an explanation and read something like this:

“Glennon is struggling in writer’s workshop. She is going to need to really apply herself to catch up with the other students."

I know Bubba and Tisha well enough to be certain that they were very concerned about this writing problem, concerned about what it meant, concerned about me.

Now.

At the risk of tarnishing my reputation for humility (of which I am so very proud) . . . I think I eventually learned how to throw together a sentence.

So let’s just breathe and hold them tight this weekend and celebrate whoever it is they are, instead of worrying ourselves with who they’re not. Once we've practiced on them, maybe we can try it with ourselves and our spouses and our parents and our friends, too. Because He's not finished with them, or us, yet.

Before I sign off for the weekend, I just wanted to say that I love this place. I love that we have a safe place to check in each day and laugh and cry and be honest and be gentle and know that others will be gentle with us. It's just a dream come true for me. Thank you for coming to my love party each day.

Now...Happy Weekend To All. I command each of you to take a bubble bath tonight.

Love, G

P.S. If you have comments about this topic, please continue adding them to the post below. I'd like to have them all in one place, so we have a convenient place for worried mamas to rest and learn that they're not alone.

On Gifts and Talents

for little e, and l

"Don't worry, Scout, it ain't time to worry yet," said Jem. He pointed. "Looka yonder."

In a group of neighbors, Atticus was standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets. He might have been watching a football game. (*He was actually watching the house next door to the Finch home burn to the ground.)

"See there, he's not worried yet," said Jem.

(8.105-107) To Kill a Mockingbird

I’ve been thinking about my mama friends for whom the start of the school year is a difficult time, because the classroom has proven to be a tough place for their child to display his particular brand of genius.

For these precious mamas, starting school means revisiting old worries and facing new ones. It means tears and tense phone calls and scary conferences and comparisons and lots of fear and anger and suspicion and Oh My God, Is He Allrights and What Are We Doing Wrongs?

I have some thoughts about this and so I’ve just sent up a Twitter prayer to the G-O- D that it’ll all come out right. Sometimes I know something to be true, down deep in my bones, but when I try to turn it into words, it changes. Gets all jacked up. Like how blood is blue till it hits oxygen and turns red. Which is why I predict we’d be better off if people talked less and just quietly knew more. She said, as she wrote her 367^th blog post.

Here I go. I’d like to talk to you about your brilliant children.

Listen.

Every child is gifted and talented. Every single one. Everything I’ve ever written about on this blog has been open for argument, except for this one. I know this one is true. Every single child is gifted and talented in a particular area. Every single one also has particular challenges. For some kids, the classroom setting is the place where their genius is hardest to see and their challenges are easiest to see. And since they spend so much time in the classroom, that’s a tough break for these little guys. But I know that if we are patient and calm and we wear our perspectacles and we keep believing, we will eventually see the specific magic of each child.

Like my student who was severely dyslexic and also could’ve won Last Comic Standing at age seven. “Hey, Miss Doyle. Were you really busy last night or something?” Yes, actually, I was. Why do you ask, Cody? “Because your hair’s the same color it was yesterday!” The boy was a genius.

Like my precious one who couldn’t walk or speak because of his severe Cerebral Palsy, but whose smile while completing his grueling physical therapy inspired the rest of my class to call him the “bravest.” Genius, that kid.

Like my autistic little man, who couldn’t have hurt another living being if somebody paid him to. He was the most gentle soul I’ve ever known. And he loved animals like they were a gift made just for him by God. Which, of course, they were. But nobody in our class knew that but him. Undeniable Genius.

Like my third grader who read like a kindergartener and couldn’t add yet. But one day I stood behind her at recess, where she played all alone, and heard her singing to herself. And that was the day I discovered her gift. It was also the day that she discovered her gift. Since I FREAKED OUT. And marched her over to the rest of the teachers to make her sing for them. And announced to the class that we had a ROCK STAR in our midst. And she quietly beamed. And she sang all the time after that. All the time. Actually, it was a little much. But we let it slide because you don’t mess with artistic genius.

Or the little man in one of Chase’s classes who was always getting in trouble. Everyday, getting in trouble. And Chase came home one day and said, “I think he’s not listening because he’s always making pictures in his head. He’s the best draw-er I’ve ever seen. He’s going to be famous, I bet.” Chase was right. I’ve seen this kid’s work. Genius.

Or my little one who was gifted in learning the classroom way, and was miles ahead of the other kids in every single subject. But had challenges being kind and humble about her particular strengths. So had a lot of trouble making friends. Sometimes it’s tough to be a genius.

Every single child is gifted. And every child has challenges. It’s just that in the educational system, some gifts and challenges are harder to see. And lots of teachers are working on this. Lots of schools are trying to find ways to make all children’s gifts visible and celebrated. And as parents, we can help. We can help our kids who struggle in school believe that they’re okay. It’s just that there’s only one way to help them. And it’s hard.

We have to actually believe that our kids are okay.

I know. Tough. But we can do it. We can start believing by erasing the idea that education is a race. It’s not. Actually, education is like Christmas. We’re all just opening our gifts, one at a time. And it is a fact that each and every child has a bright shiny present with her name on it, waiting there underneath the tree. God wrapped it up, and He’ll let us know when it’s time to unwrap it. In the meantime, we must believe that our children are okay. Every last one of them. The perfect ones and the autistic ones and the naughty ones and the chunky ones and the shy ones and the loud ones and the so far behind ones.

Because here’s what I believe. I think a child can survive a teacher or other children accidentally suggesting that he’s not okay. As long as when he comes home, he looks at his mama and knows by her face that he really is. Because that’s all they’re asking, isn’t it?

Mama, Am I Okay?

In the end, children will call the rest of the world liars and believe US.

So when they ask us with their eyes and hearts if they’re okay. . . let’s tell them:

Yes, baby. You are okay. You are more than okay. You are my dream come true. You are everything I’ve ever wanted, and I wouldn’t trade one you for a million anybody elses. This part of life, this school part, might be hard for you. But that’s okay, because it’s just one part of life. And because we are going to get through it together. We are a team. And I am so grateful to be on your team.

And then, before we dive into “helping.” Let’s just eat some cookies together and talk about other things. There are so many other things to talk about, really.

And then our kids will see that we are like Atticus Finch . . . Hands in our pockets. Calm. Believing. And they will look at us and even with a fire raging in front of them they’ll say, “Huh. Guess it’s not time to worry yet.”

And then we’ll watch carefully. We’ll just watch and wait and believe until God nods and says, “It’s time.Tear open that gift, Mama.”

And we’ll get to say our Mama FAVE. Told you so. Told you so, World.

It's Still There

According to Paolo Coelho, author of The Alchemist, this is why we don't Follow Our Dreams:

"There are four obstacles. First: we are told from childhood onward that everything we want to do is impossible. We grow up with this idea, and as the years accumulate, so too do the layers of prejudice, fear, and guilt. There comes a time when our personal calling is so deeply buried in our soul as to be invisible. But it's still there.

If we have the courage to disinter dream, we are then faced by the second obstacle: love. We know what we want to do, but are afraid of hurting those around us by abandoning everything in order to pursue our dream. We do not realize that love is just a further impetus, not something that will prevent us going forward. We do not realize that those who genuinely wish us well want us to be happy and are prepared to accompany us on that journey.

Once we have accepted that love is a stimulus, we come up against the third obstacle: fear of the defeats we will meet on the path. We who fight for our dream suffer far more when it doesn't work out, because we cannot fall back on the old excuse: 'Oh, well, I didn't really want it anyway.' We do want it and know that we have staked everything on it and that the path of the personal calling is no easier than any other path, except that our whole heart is in this journey. Then, we warriors of light must be prepared to have patience in difficult times and to know that the Universe is conspiring in our favor, even though we may not understand how.

I ask myself: are defeats necessary?

Well, necessary or not, they happen. When we first begin fighting for our dream, we have no experience and make many mistakes. The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and get up eight times.

So, why is it so important to live our personal calling if we are only going to suffer more than other people?

Because, once we have overcome the defeats-and we always do-we are filled by a greater sense of euphoria and confidence. In the silence of our hearts, we know that we are proving ourselves worthy of the miracle of life. Each day, each hour, is part of the good fight. We start to live with enthusiasm and pleasure. Intense, unexpected suffering passes more quickly than suffering that is apparently bearable; the latter goes on for years and, without our noticing, eats away at our soul, until, one day, we are no longer able to free ourselves from the bitterness and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.

Having disinterred our dream, having used the power of love to nurture it and spent many years living with the scars, we suddenly notice that what we always wanted is there, waiting for us, perhaps the very next day. Then comes the fourth obstacle: the fear of realizing the dream for which we fought all our lives.

Oscar Wilde said: 'Each man kills the thing he loves.' And it's true. The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt. We look around at all those who have failed to get what they want and feel that we do not deserve to get what we want either. We forget about all the obstacles we overcame, all the suffering we endured, all the things we had to give up in order to get this far. I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal-when it was only a step away.

This is the most dangerous of the obstacles because it has a kind of saintly aura about it: renouncing joy and conquest. But if you believe yourself worthy of the thing you fought so hard to get, then you become an instrument of God, you help the Soul of the World, and you understand why you are here."

**Also, If you haven't yet read the The Alchemist, Pretty Please Do.**

Love, G

Always, Always, Always . . .

For Aprile, who has suffered enough. I love you, girl. Hang on.

Well, it’s Friday. We made it. It’s been a good week.

Next week won’t be, likely, because I was checking Craig’s Blackberry yesterday and saw that his only calendar update for Monday says: “EXPECT THE WRATH.” Confused, I said, “What’s the wrath?” Craig said, “The wrath is you. I schedule your PMS.”

Kay.

Anyway, since we kicked Meltoncholy’s little bottom this week, I thought we’d celebrate today.

As many of you know, last November I came down with Lyme Disease. It was a bummer. I was sick, sick, sick for a long while. We ended up moving far away to focus on my recovery.

I’ve been feeling really healthy lately. For the past few months I haven’t had a single Lymie symptom, except for when there are a lot of dishes to do or it’s bath time or there are little fingernails to cut. Then I often relapse on the couch.

I went to see my Lymie doctor recently and told her how good I’d been feeling and I asked for another Lyme test. She said she’d do it, but not to get my hopes up because since the Lyme test detects Lyme antibodies, once a patient tests positive, she often tests positive forever. Okay, I said. Let’s just do it anyway.

Three days later, my doctor called and said:

“G, I’m surprised and excited to tell you that I’m standing here holding your negative Lyme test. You don’t have a drop of Lyme left in you. You’re done, G. You did it. You’re all better.”

Since I was silent, she went on to say:

“It must’ve been that last blast of antibiotics.”

And I finally said, “Maybe. Maybe. I don't think so, though. I actually think it was the Bay. And my family. And all the praying Monkees.”

And then it was my doctor’s turn to be silent until she said, “Yeah. Hm. Welllllll. I guess praying monkeys would be pretty powerful. Umm…are you okay?”

Yes. Yes. Yes! I’m okay!

I’m OKAY!

Thank you Monkees, for Loving Me Through Lyme. I believe, with every bit of my grateful little heart, that we beat this thing together. A million thank yous.

Soak up the Little Beautiful Things this weekend. And then put them to bed early and hit the couch. Heaven, isn't it? Post-bedtime-couchy-time?

Love, G

Rejoicing

I get very anxious about Chase being away at school for eight hours each day. Don’t get me wrong, I would get much more anxious if he were NOT away eight hours a day, but still. That’s the thing about parenting. Anxious if you do, anxious if you don’t. I’ve been trying to figure out what my anxiety is really about lately. It’s not that I don’t trust the school, I do. It’s not that I think they’ll teach him too much . . . as a matter of fact I worry they won’t teach him enough. Chase and I have a little ritual. I say, “What did you learn today, honey?” And Chase says, I learned about Christopher Columbus!” And I say, “Great! Grab a cookie and sit down. Let me tell you that sweet little story from the Native American point of view.”

The thing is that I’m not worried about my little man’s brain. I’m worried about his heart.

When I was in elementary school, all of these little teeny things happened to me that made me embarrassed, or confused, or sad. Like when I had to stand against the huge cafeteria wall with my nose pressed against the big purple painted grapes, or when all the girls teased me at my lunch table because my hair was greasy, you could start a car with all that grease, they said. Or when the boys never chased me at recess. Or when a classmate brought a Playboy to school, or when my friend Jennifer called me a gay wad. What’s a gay wad? But these things didn’t seem big enough to talk about, and I didn’t want my parents to know that all wasn’t perfect . . . so for whatever reason, I kept all these little sad and confusing things secrets. And keeping secrets became second nature to me. Which didn’t turn out so well for me for a couple decades.

So when it comes to how my kids are doing at school, I don’t worry about academics. I worry about social things. I worry about their time at lunch, at recess, on the bus. Mostly, children learn to read and add and sit still eventually. But not everybody learns that he deserves to be treated with respect and so do others. And not everybody learns that he is OKAY and loved and precious and that it’s all right to feel hurt and all right to hurt others, as long as he cleans up his messes. And not everybody learns that different is beautiful. And not everybody learns to stand up for himself, even when it’s scary. So I worry about that. Seven is young to navigate a big social sea all by oneself. I feel like thirty four is too young sometimes.

Last week, I snuggled in bed with Chase and told him all about the embarrassing, sad, scary little things that happened to me in elementary school. I told him that I never gave Bubba and Tisha a chance to help me, because I kept my worries in my heart. So my worries became problems. I told him that this was a shame. Because the beautiful things about being a kid, is that you don’t really have any problems. You might have worries, but if you share those worries with your parents, they don’t have to become problems. I told him that his daddy and I are his team. That his worries are really our worries. And that the most important thing in the world to us is his heart. And we talked a lot about this scripture.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again, Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." - Philippians 4: 4-7

I explained to Chase that every night before bed, he and I were going to lay in bed together and try to remember any sadness or worries that he might have had during the day. And I told him that we were going to talk about them and then pray to God to help us with them. And then he’d be able to relax and sleep soundly. Knowing that God and mommy and daddy were on it.

Over the past two weeks, as Chase and I have laid in bed together and remembered his worries . . . I’ve learned a lot about my little boy that I didn’t know before.

Like . . . He thought that the first few weeks of school were a “try out” and if he wasn’t perfect, he could get cut. I was tempted to let him keep believing that one.

Li Like . . . the reason he always wants his dad to take him to baseball practice is that I embarrass him by cheering for everybody whether they hit the ball or not. You’re not supposed to cheer and yell THAT’S OKAY when people drop the ball mom. It’s NOT GOOD to drop the ball. I don’t know if you really understand baseball, mom.

L L Like . . . there's a big girl on the bus who may be a bit of a bully. And Chase is scared of her. He told me this Sunday night. I told him that his job on Monday was to find out what color her eyes were. That’s all. Just find out what color her eyes are, Chase. I need to know that. Chase came home yesterday and said, “MOM! Her eyes are BLUE! But listen . . . while I was looking at her eyes to find out what color they are for you . . . she quit her mean face and looked away! And she didn’t look at me mean the rest of the bus ride! And then on the way home . . . she didn’t look at me at all! She just passed right by!" Yep, always look them in the eye, buddy. Mean can’t handle the truth.

Anyway, I’m just happy about this. This worry talk is a little ritual that’s worth keeping. Because if we empty our hearts every night, they won’t get too heavy or cluttered. Our hearts will stay light and open with lots of room for good new things to come in.

Tell me your worries, honey. And we’ll pray. Because that’s what God, and family, are for.

For Tisha . . . To Remind Her That It's Going to Be All Right. In Fact, It Already Is

My Sister walked onto a big silver airplane and flew back to Rwanda last night. I felt myself getting very sad on Friday afternoon, and I knew I had to do something to ward off a full-on-funk. I have this tendency to fall into a strange state of mind that they used to call "melancholy." Now they call it depression, but I still prefer melancholy. Makes me feel very Emily Dickinson-y. Either way, what helps me fight off the funk is to hold a little meeting with myself and demand that I pay close attention to the Little Beautiful things in my life. To look for them, notice them, and insist upon being dazzled by them.

I now present to you my weekend of Little Beautiful Things.

The Melton weekend always starts with a Friday Night Dance Party. After dinner, Chase sneaks over to the IPod and busts out some Miley Cyrus. I don't know who can possibly remain seated during Party In The USA., but it's nobody at this house. The only Dance Party Rules are: everybody dances and last song is always Man in the Mirror.

When I tell my friends that Amma has been break dancing since she was fifteen months old, I'm never sure they believe me. So here's proof.

Every single time I give him the camera.

Saturday morning, mommy works on her hair while daddy makes breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Since mommy's still doing her hair after everyone's done with their pancakes, daddy does the dishes too. My mom used to have a sign on our kitchen wall that said, "No woman ever shot a man while he was doing the dishes." I liked that sign.

Then we headed off to a Fall Pumpkin Festival to celebrate the beginning of Fall. Because there is just nothing cozier or more comforting than Fall.

Next stop: Hay ride. Which we climbed onto before remembering that Craig is allergic to hay.

This is when I modeled for Amma how to be brave and touch the goats. Go ahead honey, touch the nice goats. it's okay. You'll notice that I never actually touch the goats though. Because eeewww, goats.

Craig took this picture right after I said, Make sure you get my watch in the shot. This is my new watch. My mom and I bought it last weekend. After I'd been wearing it for a few hours, Tisha looked down and said, "Are you going to set it?" And I said, "What? I never thought of that." Because I always just think of watches as bracelets, really. I once wore a watch for two years without setting it, and when people asked me what time it was I just looked apologetic at them and said, Oh, I'm sorry, it just broke.

But when Tisha suggested really setting this one, I thought the idea might really match my new and improved organized self, So I did! I set it! And then I spent all day at the farm hoping someone would ask me what time it was. So I could tell them and appear to be the type of mom who totally knows what time it is. But nobody asked. Not even this goat, who was like six inches away from my watch and had to have seen it. I mean it's bedazzled. I'm just saying that I thought ignoring my new snazzy watch was a little passive aggressive of him. Whatever, goat.

Here are two of my best friends on the whole Earth, Manal and Lida, with their little beautiful things.

One of the things Momastery readers often say to me in emails is I wish we were friends in real life. And I always think.....Eh. You'd be disappointed. I'm actually not a great friend. I don't stay in touch. I don't remember birthdays, I don't don't really understand how to keep track of people. But I've promised myself that this is the year I'm going to learn. I'm going to take better care of my friendships. And I'll be watching Manal to learn how it's done. She doesn't know it yet, but she's going to tutor me, so I can learn from the best.

Oh, also, Happy Birthday, Manal. I remembered.

When Lida hugs me, she always holds on for a little bit longer than necessary. She just squeezes and squeezes with blatant disregard for basic human hug timing etiquette. She hugs me like she trying to send me a message . . . like she's saying, all is forgiven, you are loved. She hugs me like she's recently heard that I'm in a tough place. And every single time, even though I know those extra few seconds are coming, I get choked up during my Lida hugs. Because Lida knows that we're always in some type of tough place. And so Lida's not in a rush to let go, even when she knows it's probably time. And that is why we're still friends.

I wanted to slip an index card with the Momastery link to this Mama Pig. I just felt like she needed us.

Right after this extreme feat of bravery, Amma turned around and screamed, "I TOUCHED THE COW!" Oh well, third kid, not as much time for farm animal lessons.

I live for little beautiful moments like these. When a hundred kids are running, running, running up the hill to take their coveted place in the long slide line. And suddenly you notice that your boy is letting them all pass. So he can help his baby sister make it up the hill too.

And you think, well, we certainly don't have this parenting thing all figured out. But something is going very right.

Thank you for this one, Universe. Thank you for Craig. I promise, promise to take good care of him.

Then off to baseball practice. We are doing it, guys. We are showing up at practice, and sometimes (not often, but sometimes) we are actually hitting balls!

Home again, home again, jiggety jig, and while the girls eat a vegetarian, protein packed lunch (what can I say, I'm a choosy mom) . . .

. . . Craig works on prying open the bathroom door that Tish locked and then shut. For fun.

Craig thought that this was a big problem. I thought it was a nice opportunity to keep the bathroom clean. Until I realized that my zit cream and hairdryer were in that bathroom. At which point I said Husband don't you stop 'till that door is OPEN. Three hours later . . . hairdryer rescued.

Then off to dinner at Leigha and Pablo's. For dinner with friends. Dinner with friends. Love that. So grown up.

Pablo and Craig doing what they do. Discussing walkways and stuff.

This is Anna, who belongs to Leigha and Pablo. Last year, she was eating with us and asked if she could say grace. She said, "Dear Gosh, Thank you for our food." Then, on Halloween, she dressed up as Cinderella and introduced Leigha as her "Fairy Goshmother." I have never known a person who goes to such great lengths to avoid taking the Lord's name in vain. Anna is one of the beautifulest little things I know.

Here's Lexi. She's Anna's little Sis and stays busy being too cute for anyone's good. She and Amma are Best Friends Forever and Leigha and I pray that one day they will begin using their two year old powers for good. Let's just say it's gonna be a long year for Leigha and me.

This shiny blondie is Kerstin, and she belongs to my Angel Friend, Karen and her hubby, Eric. Karen and Eric managed to avoid my camera all evening. But they cannot hide forever. Jeesh, it's like they think I'm going to publish their pictures for the whole world to see. Paranoid.

And then it was down to the fire pit for Smore's in Leigha's driveway. And it was little glowing faces covered in marshmallows and the warmth of the fire on our outstretched hands and then staying a little too long into the night just to squeeze out a little more little beauty.

And then it was into the van and we're home and up the stairs and into bed without brushing their teeth. And it was tucking my little beauties into their warm beds and kissing them goodnight and remembering to silently say Thank you, God, for good friends and sticky little cheeks and warm beds.

And then it was a good night's sleep.

And we woke up on a lazy, lovely Sunday and made breakfast and started saying to each other...you know, maybe we should start going to church again Next Sunday. Yeah. That'd be good.

Which was okay. Because we're fairly certain that God is at the Farmers' Market, too.

And then home with our peaches for MOMMY, MANDY AND JOHN ARE HERE!

And then it was Sweeties...Faith is believing what we can't see. Which is why we're still Redskins fans. Get your jersies on.

And then out to the front yard for baseball with John at half-time. And watching John with Sister and the kids and listening to him teach Chase to throw the ball with three fingers, buddy. And realizing that he brought his own glove just so he could teach Chase how to throw. And thinking, I LOVE this guy. He is one of Us, this guy.

And then it was God Bless Us, Every One.

And Goodbyes that weren't fit for shooting.

But left us feeling like this:

And Even So.

It was staying up late and putting together this post and looking at all of this little beauty. And then it was laying my head down on my cool pillow and realizing with amusement that the weekend's final score was:

Glennon: 1

Melancholy: 0

Here's to a beautiful little week.