Kayaking - a 17 year anniversary adventure

We had just passed the yellow sign tacked to a tree alerting us that we were on mile four of the river. I’d been doing great, surprising myself. I was in the lead, Greg trailing behind me. I had managed to navigate the river like this wasn’t the third time I’d ever kayaked (first time in a river), dragging my paddle when I needed to slow down, digging deep when I needed to speed up. It’s safe to say, I was impressed with myself. 

So impressed, in fact, that I started to think I might have missed a calling. Are there adult rowing teams, I wondered as I navigated around a small rapid. My shoulders had never felt stronger, my posture never better. Just minutes ago, I had paddled UPSTREAM in order to wait for Greg when he was stuck on a log. I was basically a pro. 

And then. Ahead, hanging over the river was a fallen tree, reaching out over the water. And from that tree hung some branches. I’d come up against branches before, ducking under them, making it to the other side. Sure this branch was thicker than the others, more dense. 

I felt the instant it happened, that tree trunk in the sky hooking my life vest, snagging me, yanking me back. My kayak tipped, spilling me into the river. I curled my toes, trying to keep my new Teva flip-flops on my feet. I scooped up my favorite Reds cap, grabbed for my paddle, all while hanging on to the kayak. My feet sank into silt. 

I looked back at Greg, trying to drag his paddle to stop to help. 

“Do you still have your phone?” he hollered. I felt my pocket. I nodded, pulling it out, noticing I was getting text messages as the river rushed around me. I handed it to him as he floated past. Priorities. 

Thankfully there were some experienced kayakers just ahead of us. They noticed me standing there, chest deep, Greg trying to stay even with me. They paddled up the river, talking me through how to get myself back on track. They crowded me into a calm spot. The bearded guy, the one who looked like one of my former students, held my paddle, sidled his kayak up to mine and held it steady.

“Go ahead,” he said encouragingly. 

“This isn’t going to be pretty,” I said to him, laughing but embarrassed. Putting my pride aside, I plopped my body back into the kayak. 

Thoughts of joining an adult rowing team were dashed as he gave me the most rudimentary lessons in kayaking — things I already knew, but he felt like he needed to tell me: how to hold the paddle, how far to dip them in, how to turn. That’s how ridiculous I looked to him. 

The group of men let us go ahead of them; they with their life-jackets stowed near their feet, playing a game of catch, their ease on the river a mockery of my mishap. We said our thanks and continued on our way. 

A mile later, not yet dry, I tipped again. Same situation. Trees dipping reaching towards the river snagged me. It was as if I were a magnet for these dense, cataclysmic branches. This time, I knew what to do. I flipped the kayak back over and shoved it to the small beach I’d been trying to avoid. Once again, of course, I had an audience. 

Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers. I hurried to get back into the kayak, glancing up river. I did not want to be wading in the water when my rescuers from earlier came around the bend. 

We made it the final two miles without much fanfare. I managed to avoid any more trees, only getting caught and stuck once. I had given up my dream of an adult rowing team by mile seven, right around the time I got beached up against a snarl of tree branches and had to push myself off twice. At mile eight, I paddled my kayak into the small bank and barely dragged it up to the grassy area. 

It was a good day. Inspiring & invigorating. Humbling. 

I'm not a Karen; I'm an Angela

We're sitting by the pool tonight and suddenly a group of five 20-somethings shows up. They're in full Spring Break mode, even if we are at a pool that is mostly populated by families with kids 15 and under. The first boy (man? man-child?) loudly proclaims, "Watch this," and does a front flip into the pool. In the shallow end. Three feet. His friends cheer and the next two boys do the same. 

Greg and I sit in our chairs watching, shaking our heads. I glance at our own boys in the pool. They're grinning ear to ear, loving every minute of it. 

Justin, our youngest and most-likely-to-dress-as-Jim-Belushi shouts, "Do a black flip!" And the boy-man does. a. back. flip in 3-feet of water. He jumps up and as his friends admonish him, he says, "The kid wanted a back flip." 

You can imagine Justin's reaction. I shook my head and told Justin to stay out of it. 

For the next half hour, the Spring Breakers flip into the pool, tossing the two girls in the group on their shoulders and playing chicken. I sat in my chair and cringed at how close they were to the edge, my shoulders raising in anticipation, looking around for Someone In Charge. 

Finally at 9, when the pool was supposed to close but showed no sign of closing, my family gathered our trash and pizza boxes and goggles. It was time to head back to our condo. As I passed by a few of the Spring Breakers, I couldn't stop myself. I leaned down and said, "I'm your mom's voice reminding you to be careful tonight. Have fun, but be careful."

The kids looked up, mid-flirt, disoriented by alcohol and hormones. They smiled, not hearing me, not really. 

My own kids were mortified. With a capital-M. 

"Moooooooom," they whispered. "You are such a Karen." 

"I am not," I told them. "I'm an Angela. I can't stop myself. When you are a 20-something and doing dumb stuff I hope someone tells you the same. That your mom is always there."

They rolled their eyes. Because that's what they do to me now. I remember doing the same to my own mother, but it doesn't make it any less annoying on this end of things. What's the kid-version of a Karen? That's what I want to call my kids, doing the time-worn dance of the young, acting like they're the first to ever feel mortified. 

In the meantime, though, I'll keep watching out for the young adults who aren't quite done being kids. Everyone needs an Angela.  

Kids Cooking

About six weeks ago, I realized that Jacob needed a goal. He's doing remote schooling and it got really hard after winter break. He needed to feel good at something. And based on the way he was doctoring the pierogies he was making for lunch, he had some innate talent around cooking. Those pierogies were banging. 

First, I did what I always do: I texted my mom and sisters. Then I started looking for kids cooking classes. Due to the pandemic, though, everything is shut down for the time-being. Uncle Matt to the rescue! My brother-in-law is the best cook any of us have met. He makes burgers that rival anything you'd pay for in a restaurant. Our mom requests his ribs. Even his grilled cheese is elevated (he uses garlic powder). 

I encouraged Jacob to reach out to his uncle for dinner ideas. And they delivered. They sent Jacob a recipe for hamburger egg rolls and he did such an amazing job making them. They were perfection. And the best part was that he did not ask for my help once. It was so cool to see how excited he was to plate the food and watch our reactions. He did a thing that I notice people who love to cook do: with each bite he took, he would mention an improvement he'll make next time, but also would say something about what he liked. 

His confidence soared. 

And because the other two saw how delicious and cool it was, they wanted to cook too. So the following Tuesday, Emma made tiktok pasta. It was wonderful! And then Justin, courtesy of Uncle Matt, made fish tacos (with fish sticks...right up our alley). They were so happy to be contributing and proud of their efforts. 

I'm noticing too that the kids are so much more willing to try new things when their sibling makes it. Who knew??? Uncle Matt, apparently. 

I also ordered a new cookbook, in the hopes of us all being inspired and getting new ideas. Lo and behold, the cheeseburger egg roll recipe is in there, so that bodes well for our family's taste! 

Moving forward, I think we'll do Tuesday nights as a Kids-Make-Dinner night. I can see it building their confidence, making them feel like they're really contributing to the family in a meaningful way. And giving me one night when I don't have to hear "Chicken? Again?"

Big Kid Mom

Things are starting to feel normal-ish. Tonight felt super normal. 

Justin, who is 11, had his neighborhood buddy show up around 2:30 today. I was grateful as I was hoping for a relatively screen-free weekend. The boys were jumping on the trampoline and playing with the dog. 

I looked out the window an hour later and there were two more neighbor boys jumping, laughing, horsing around. I couldn't stop smiling

I left for a bit to pick the twins up from a youth group event. When I got home nearly an hour later, there was yet ANOTHER friend out back. Now there were five kids jumping and laughing. My heart was singing! 

Every Wednesday Justin has been attending "Adventure Crew" after-school. Part of this experience has been learning how to start a fire, a skill which Justin has perfected. So tonight Justin and another friend started a fire in our fire pit. They tended to it, figuring out where to place the fire wood. Justin taught a third friend how to strike a match. 

I loved every minute. 

Having big kids is amazing. Watching them grow into these little people, with thoughts and talents and feelings that have nothing to do with me is both humbling and inspiring. I just love it. 

The kids kept the fire going long enough to make s'mores. They begged to jump on the trampoline in the dark. They got trampoline lights for Christmas and they've been waiting and waiting to use them. 

I listened to them gossip about school friends, talk about baseball, and strategize what foods to eat next. I listened to them laugh and tease and call each other by nicknames I didn't even know they had. 

I'm so grateful to be in this moment, to be a mom of big kids. 

Goodnight kisses

I feel like I've been waiting for this moment, the moment when my kids put themselves to bed. But then, it happened. And I was not prepared.

Last night my 13-year-old Jacob texted me "Gnight." 

He's been pulling away little by little. And I know it's normal. But damn, it hurts, doesn't it?

The twins' bedtime, at nearly 14, has been creeping later and later. For years, I tucked them in. I gave them kisses, rubbed their backs, said their prayers. In the last year or so, they now come downstairs and give me a kiss on the cheek when they're ready for bed. 

In the last few weeks, I send a text reminding them that it's bedtime. And last night. Oh, last night. I received this text from Jacob in response to my usual "bedtime" text.

I'm going to be very honest. I've been dreaming of this moment. 

And once it arrived, I wanted to take it all back. Wasn't he just in kindergarten?

Here's what makes my heart happy, though. A few minutes later, I got this text:

And, so, as my sweet babies pull away from me in the most natural way, I'm going to hold on to the emoji kisses. Because who knows, that might be the last time I get one of those! 

Sunshine Moments

Today we had a fire drill. I happened to be visiting a kindergarten classroom at the time, and as the kids lined up, I noticed one little girl plugging her ears, her face starting to crumple. 

"Would you like to hold my hand?" I asked her. She nodded and slid her palm into mine. As we filed out to the sidewalk in front of the building, she held my hand the whole time. I didn't know this kiddo, but I was so grateful to offer her a little bit of comfort. 

Before I knew it, my other hand was full too. Not wanting to be left out, another kindergartner had sidled up to me. For the next ten minutes, one girl talked my ear off while the other one stood quietly, never letting go. 

And then the fire drill was over and once back in the classroom, my two new friends headed back to their seats. 

This sweet moment today reminded me that it's been a long time since I've held a kindergartner's hand, probably five years since Justin was that age. And somehow, that kind of casual contact felt more bittersweet in light of the year we've had. 

I'm grateful for that moment of sunshine. 

Karma While Shopping

 It's part of my family lore that when I was a kid, I was insufferable to shop with. My mom hates shopping any way, and she really hated shopping with me. She even asked my aunt to take me shopping for my First Communion dress. I had lots of opinions about what I liked and what was unacceptable. 

I did not have good fashion sense either. I prided myself on pairing the most incongruous items together. My gray polka-dot pants only looked good when paired with my hot pink newsprint shirt. 

I was not only particular about styles and colors, but I also wanted the most expensive clothing items. This was the era of Espirit and Guess jeans and Coca-Cola shirts, all which were far outside my parent's budget. 

So yesterday when I took Emma shopping, I could feel karma laughing in my ear. We had three missions: 

1. soccer shorts

2. bathing suit for our upcoming Spring Break trip

3. shorts for the same trip

Well, we found soccer shorts. I spent $30 on soccer shorts. Don't tell my mother; she'd shake her head in disbelief. Now that Emma is almost 14, she doesn't want to come out and say it, but those cheap shorts I grabbed at Walmart for years aren't quite cutting it. And because I'm a sucker, and I remember what it felt like to crave the just-right-name-brand, I caved and bought the $30 Nike shorts. I still can't believe it. 

Then we headed to Target for bathing suits. Hold me, Lord. 

I held up a cute, modest green bikini top with a little stitched pattern. She wrinkled her nose, saying, "Mmmm, I don't love that pattern." There was no pattern, but mkay. 

"What about this one?" I asked, holding up a black and white striped top. She scrunched her face. "That's too stripey." Oooookay. 

"Sorry, Mom." 

And here she got me. I don't want her to be sorry for expressing her opinion. In fact, we've both learned our lesson after I've bought items of clothing she didn't really want, only for them to sit in her dresser. I've told her no more. She gets to have a say in what she wears but has to be honest. And I want to raise her to stand strong in her opinion, to know what she believes, especially about her own body. 

And so we kept searching. The white top with lots of geometric patterns was "too bright." The solid black top was "too plain." The pink top was "too low" (thank God). 

So the search continues for a bathing suit. Don't even ask me about the shorts. 

Once we got home I sent my mom an apology text. 

And just for fun, here she is yesterday doing an impression of a "Facebook Mom," whatever that means. 

Listening Fatigue: So Many Words

I drove the kids up to visit my sister today. Two hours. On the way up, we all had our ear buds or headphones in. I felt bad that we weren't more connected. I remember when I was a kid and we all had to listen to the same radio station on long car trips. Should I be engaging my kids in conversation? A rousing round of the initial game?

I continued listening to the latest Lovett or Leave It episode and ignored my kids. And on the way back home this afternoon I was reminded to soak up those chances. 

Because you know what? My kids have so many words. On the way home, they talked to me. A lot. 

"How much longer do we have," my 13-year-old daughter asked. We were about 45 minutes into the 2 hour drive. 

"We'll be home by 7." Translation: do the math. 

Ten minutes later: "Hey mom, how much longer?" the 11-year-old. 

Ten minutes later? You already know. The 13-year-old boy, the one in the way back, chimed in. 

That's the thing about having three kids. They might each ask a question once every 30 minutes or so...but that means you're fielding a lot of freaking questions. 

Once we arrived home, I walked in the door, the kids continuing to pelt me with questions. Can we have a free dinner? What time do I have to go to bed? Are we going to church? 

I looked at Greg. 😳  That emoji was created for the exact face I was making as we walked in. And for the next hour, each child rotated through the kitchen while Greg and I tried to have a conversation. Interrupting, asking questions, telling a story. 

I am exhausted, my friends. These little people have so many words. They have so many thoughts and wonderings and proclamations and complaints and they want to make sure I know most of them. 

Even now, at 10:29 pm, my daughter is currently talking to me while I type this blog. She's telling me about a chat room and a virtual game and some wigs they were all wearing. I just don't even know anymore. 

Listen, I'm trying to remind myself to listen. I know that how I listen now sets the tone for later. I know that what seems unimportant to me now feels very important to them. And so I want them to keep talking about important things. 

But I have listening fatigue. And so I will continue to refine my interested nod, my perfectly timed "ah! really?" and remind myself to actually listen every so often. 

Meanwhile, when you see me in the world, if my ears are bleeding, you'll know why.

Another Justin story

So you already know that Justin, my 11-year-old, is funny and a deep thinker. He's also very into video games. And since he's the youngest he just might get a little more ... freedom than the older two did when they were his age. I'm tired. Don't judge me. 

When I saw this tweet the other day, it really resonated. It's hard to know how to parent our children through this digital landscape, one we are so unfamiliar with.

It reminded me of something that happened earlier this week. Justin was in the basement playing video games. He came upstairs crying (it is not unusual for Justin to cry in a day). Sighing heavily, I asked him what was wrong. "Well, I'm probably kicked off the x-box now. We'll have to delete my account." 

He went on to tell me that while playing X-box live, he beat a competitor in a game. Allegedly, that person started trash talking Justin, calling him "the p-word, the s-word, the b-word." According to Justin's version, that was all of it. He logged off and came upstairs. 

But that mom intuition told me there was something more going on. 

About an hour later, Greg got an email from Xbox. Justin had indeed been suspended for 48 hours. As we dug deeper, we were able to see that Justin had a little more interaction with the person than he initially reported. According to Greg's research, Justin had written "What do you want, you little bich." 

We were properly horrified. We cooked up consequences and let's just say, the kid was lucky he was fast asleep. 

Still, though, we couldn't help but chuckle in his misspelling of a curse word. Somehow, we were comforted by this. He was still had enough little boy in him that he spelled a simple bad word incorrectly. 

The next day I was ready to have a stern talking to with Justin. I picked him up from his after school activity. "Justin, we need to talk about this X-box thing." His cheeks flushed. "So Dad was able to see that you were a little guiltier than you told me last night." 

I could feel his heat start to rise. "What do you mean," he asked. 

"Bud. You wrote, 'what do you want, you little bitch," I explained. 

I was ready for denials, apologies, tears, anything. Except for his actual response. 

"I didn't include the 't'!" he cried indignantly. 

Turns out, this not-so-innocent-after-all kid had intentionally left the letter T out in order to try to evade the censors. After I recovered from the surprised laughter that was threatening to bubble up, we had a conversation about how intent is more important than spelling. It's a lesson I truly couldn't have anticipated. We also talked about bad choices and how even though he was provoked, he shouldn't have used that bad language. We talked about our family expectations and that in our house, we don't talk like that (at least not to strangers). I reminded him too that he should never write anything that he'd be embarrassed to explain to his Grammie. 

Which brings me back to the tweet. These conversations around social media are so important. In the last month I've seen several instances of "great" kids doing not so great things on social media. Rather than banning it, though, I think we have to talk to our kids. 

We have to teach them how to be safe, just as our own parents taught us how to be safe when we first started riding our bikes across town. And then, when they break those boundaries, we punish accordingly. If I rode too far, my mom didn't throw my bike away. She grounded me for a short period of time and made me earn her trust back, and she lectured me like crazy. 

So that's where we are now. Earning trust back in small steps. But listen, bich, you best believe I'll be doing a lot more monitoring of his chats from here on out. 

I Miss Hugs

I'm a touchy person. I wouldn't have defined myself that way a year ago, but in the absence of casual touch, I realize that physical touch might actually be one of my love languages. 

I have a friend Colleen who is the best hugger I know. It's not just me that thinks so; you can ask anyone who knows her. She is a tiny person, but when she wraps her arms around you, you feel enveloped and safe. I think it's intuition for Colleen, but there's research that supports these kind of full-body hugs (The Power of Hugs). 

It's not just hugs either. I realize that I give my friend's pats on the backs kind of a lot. I reach out and put my hand on someone's arm to show them I'm listening. It has been in the absence of these gestures that I realized how often I do them. 

Yesterday I saw one of my very best friends at Kroger. Katie and I have had a few socially distanced get togethers at the parking lot of the middle school throughout quarantine, backing our vans up trunk to trunk. In January, Katie and another close friend came over and we drank hot chocolate on my front porch while spaced out, soaking up the sun and huddled under blankets. Their company was a balm, almost as good as a hug.

I remember running into Katie at the same Kroger a year ago. She was already wearing a mask, and I was in that in between phase of being cautious but not wearing one yet. It was the first time I remember hesitating and then not hugging someone. 

Yesterday though, felt different. Maybe it's because I'm half-way vaccinated. Maybe it's because we were both masked. Maybe it's because Katie's parents are vaccinated, and everything just feels a little more hopeful. So when Katie said, "Can I hug you?" I didn't hesitate.   

I've started hugging people again. Not everyone, but a few people, the Katies and Colleens in my life (as long as they're comfortable too, of course. Consent is consent, even between two middle-ish aged women). It feels good to connect with people in small ways. 

I'm not sure we'll feel normal for a long time, but it's nice to have moments that remind us of what normal was like, of what we're all striving back towards. I hope you're all (safely) finding small moments of normal too. 

I Could Not Care Less About My Side Part

You know what's weird? 

That anyone our age gives a shit about what younger people think of us. 

The thought that my grandmother would have ever cared what my mom thought about her sensible shoes and her weekly trips to the beauty shop is laughable. She was busy raising her kids, making ham loaf, and being a boss. 

And my mom? When I was 20, she was 40, and she couldn't have given two figs what I thought about her. The idea that I could have somehow teased her about her clothes, or her hair cut, or the way she reacted to things, and that she'd actually care is, honestly, not something I'm capable of imagining. 

We teased her plenty. She. Just. Didn't. Care. 

She didn't even contemplate caring. She was too busy working hard, ignoring us so she could read her book, and cultivating her own interests through church and volunteering. 

So, ladies, a bunch of 20 (or 30?) year-olds are making fun of us for our side parts? Who cares. I rock my side part proudly. My 13-year-old daughter told me I should part my hair in the middle. To prove her wrong, I did it. She quickly agreed that my side part is where it's at. 

And the use of 😂? I own it. It's my number one most used emoji. It captures so many feelings. I can't be bothered with emoji nuance. I've got gifs to overuse and memes to screenshot. 

Also? I just got used to skinny jeans. I will be wearing them for a while. Mainly because I gave away all my boot cut jeans (and, if I'm being honest with myself, I long ago "outgrew" them). I like to imagine that some high school kids are searching through the stacks at the Goodwill and discovering my boot cut jeans, rocking them the same way my sister used to rock the bell bottoms she discovered at Salvation Army. 

Part of being a young person is approaching the world with scorn. Then being ignored. That means that we, now the older generation, have a DUTY to ignore the scorn. It is not for us. We are too old to feel sensitive or judged or defensive. Let them make fun. They have the arrogance of those with perky boobs. They'll get theirs.  

If you're like me, you might feel a little weird realizing that we're slipping into this next category of society. I turned 44 this year and, just as with every stage of life so far, I don't feel as old as I thought I would. I notice, though, that the world is starting to see me differently. When someone addresses me as m'am, I look around first. I routinely mortify my kids because I'm too friendly, or I laugh too loud, or I'm just so...me. 

I remind myself that I felt the same way when I was their age. Part of what helped me get through that phase was that I felt like nobody older actually cared what I thought. It was humbling. I thought I knew everything. Living in that gray space was a pivotal part of my maturation.

And so here we are, my friends. We actually do know a lot of things. Instead of worry about what younger folks think, let's focus on cracking each other up, comparing notes about fashion with each other. Let's ignore the "advice" from the young ones. It's not for us to listen to them. 

Let's instead focus our energy on leaning into our wisdom, in growing our circles of support, and paving the way for the strong women coming up behind us by modeling for them what it looks like to be self-assured so that when the tables inevitably turn on them, they'll know how to act. 

Deep Thinker

My youngest child Justin is a goofball. At 11, he lives to make others laugh and loves to laugh himself. He has tons of buddies, plays lots of sports, and he loves school. 

Bedtime can bring out a different side of Justin. Every few months, Justin will trot down the stairs and come to me in the living room. Tonight was one of those nights. 

He usually wears a sheepish but tearful grin, along with his sleep shirt and shorts, a reminder that he's still a little boy. 

"Mom, I'm having those scary thoughts again," he says. Before you start to imagine monsters under the bed, or ghosts in the closet, let me capture a bit of the conversation.

"I was thinking about being immortal and how that wouldn't be great, but then I was thinking that if we go to heaven when we die, then we're there for forever, and doesn't that get boring?" 

Cue the tears. This joyful, silly jokester has BIG thoughts. Thoughts that take my own breath away, and frankly, are thoughts that keep adults up at night too. 

We talk about faith, and how heaven is probably great because you're so happy. 

"Yeah, but you don't know that, do you? Because nobody really knows. Like, we've never talked to someone who died." 

True. 

"Also Mom, if the universe is a loop, what's outside the loop?" He looks at me with big eyes, hoping for assurance. 

As I consider how to answer, he jumps in with, "Okay, but also, Mom, you know how people say the universe goes on forever? How does anyone know that if it hasn't all been explored?" 

"Umm, bud, these are big thoughts. These are things philosophers talk about. Why don't you think about baseball instead?" A philosopher, I am not. 

Listen, don't even get Justin going about black holes. I'm not sure there's anything more terrifying to him than the concept of a black hole. He knows just enough to be scared (which is more than I know). 

So I let him talk a bit, then reassure him that he's safe and loved. I distract him with thinking about baseball or vacation or the dog. I rub his back a bit and kiss his forehead (the only part of his face I'm allowed to kiss anymore). 

And then as I go to bed, I try not to think about black holes and heaven and the universe. Because Justin is right. That shit is scary!