Tag: extraordinary in the ordinary

She’s Nineteen, And She Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Posted on December 1, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

Something happened last year. Amidst the swirl of SAT testing, college acceptance letters, pole vaulting and ski racing, something huge changed in our house.

You turned 19, and you don’t live here anymore.

At first it was like peeling layers of an onion. I was so distracted by your brother’s broken leg, our flooded kitchen and the start of the school year that at first, it just seemed like you were off at camp, or spending way too much time at track practice. The house buzzed with construction workers, and your brother kept me occupied with his full leg cast and wheelchair antics.

A few weeks into the school year it started to get quiet- too quiet. And I began to realize the quietness wasn’t going away – you were. I realized that after eighteen years of watching over you, teaching you, and knowing the details of your everyday life, that you don’t live here anymore.

That hit me hard. Freshman year was easier to dismiss – it was a novelty. You were trying it out, and somehow I believed that things would get back to normal. Someday.

Now it’s year two. I tried to adjust to being your mom from a distance; I’m afraid I haven’t mastered it quite yet.This long distance relationship isn’t exactly what I imagined all those years I was mothering you, years I spent teaching you how to make french toast, or load the washing machine and old your clothes so they don’t wrinkle.

This year, we are into our second round; the new normal of you not living here is punctuated with holidays coming and going like the time change. As the calendar turned November, I began sprucing up your room, knowing that you’ll come back, crawl into your big black iron bed and pull the soft white duvet up for a few nights. I left pink lilies on your bedside table.

All month I told you to get ready to be spoiled – to send me special requests and remind me if you still take your coffee with cream and like to go for long walks right after breakfast.

And when your face rounded the corner at the airport, you had that familiar smile that told me it’s ok to hug you close, but to remember we were in public. To not make too big of a scene, but that you were happy to see me, too. Your blue eyes met mine, and I had to touch your face, just to make sure you were real.

Thank you for indulging me this Thanksgiving. I keep thinking that one day, you’ll understand the exquisite pain and pleasure of being a mom, and all my emotional antics will make sense. I hope that one day, when that thrill hits your heart when you see your baby living their life full of happiness and joy, you’ll understand why I have such trouble letting you go. When you see your child blossom into an adult, when you watch all the lessons you tried to teach unfold in front of you, I hope you understand why I tear up just thinking about you leaving again. It’s these ordinary moments, watching you hang the lights on the Christmas tree, or sip a latte at an outdoor cafe, when I realize how extraordinary you really have become. It’s these ordinary moments that I crave, that I miss, that I want to press into my memory like tiny handprints in cement.

So I have twelve more hours with you today, twelve more chances to soak you in. I’ll help you pack and make sure you’re well fed, chattering away about December plans and encourage you to work hard during finals. So much to do to try to make life as normal as I can before you’re back on the plane – because you’re nineteen, this is our ‘new’ normal, and you don’t live here anymore.

primark

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Where Do You Find Your Inspiration?

Posted on October 5, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

Inspiration.

I’m always looking for it.

When my kids were little, sometimes it was simply inspiration to get me through the day with a smile on my face.

Or inspiration to trust that I knew what to do, and that everything would turn out all right.

I still look for inspiration on that one.

I remember thinking that there must be some secret handbook that I missed out on – you know, the one that had all the parenting answers?

I never have found it, so I decided to write my own. That’s when my blog, mamawolfe, was born. It’s kind of when I was born, too.

I realized that just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, everything I really needed was inside of me-I just needed to get quiet and trust that the answers would come when I needed them.

Some people call that prayer. I call it writing. Walking. Meditating. Slowing down. Getting outside. Centering.

My inspiration.

It’s been twenty years since I started to become mamawolfe – twenty years of loving fiercely and thinking deeply. It’s funny how having kids can turn us into the people we were always meant to be, isn’t it?

This month Bonbon Break launched their “Inspire” series, and my essay about small and mighty moments is one of the to be first published. I wrote it at the end of the summer, when I was struggling with change (one of my triggers, I’m learning). I’d just finished an end of the summer family trip to Yosemite, full of love and laughs and fresh air and mind-blowing views. And lots of time to think as I walked along the trails, feeling small yet mighty in the midst of all that majestic beauty.

I realized that when I need inspiration, looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary, being present right here, right now, and looking for the big messages in smallest of moments will usually give me the answers I’m looking for.

I’d love to have you check out my post, “Small and Mighty Moments”, and let me know where you find inspiration. I can use all the advice I can get!

And be sure to check in all month with Bonbon Break as they continue to share inspirational wisdom from their group of talented writers.

Jennifer Wolfe

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The Reasons Why I Didn’t Write A Book Last Summer

Posted on September 9, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

“What I want most this summer is simply to spend time with the ones I love. To have more days just like this one. Enough presence of mind to pay attention. And enough presence of heart to make gratitude my song, acceptance my refrain.”

– Katrina Kenison

I didn’t write a book last summer. In fact, I didn’t even write a single word of a book. The boxes of letters remain untouched, unopened and unread in the same position that they began the summer, eager for my attention and begging to release their stories. But like so many things during the eight weeks or so when I detached from teaching and attached to myself, the book never materialized. The stories remained in their envelopes.

This was going to be the summer I finally did it, the summer when the story that’s been forming in my head for decades would finally find its way from my ruminations to my laptop. I’d even taken those first steps – I’d declared my intention, out loud, to a few friends and even some strangers. I’d moved the storage box from under my desk to my writing space, thinking that if I looked at it every day I would obviously make it happen.

But somehow, as usual, life got in the way. At first it was because Lily was home for only a week in June, and we needed to adventure to the coast and take long walks along the creek and go for Dutch Bros coffee even when we really didn’t need it. I told myself it was OK, I was just ‘detoxing’ from teaching and that the summer days would hover in front of me, intimidating me with their silence just as soon as she left for Oregon. I convinced myself, as I counted down the days until she left, that I would straighten out her room, lay down the letters and get to work. I bought a new journal and found my favorite writing pen, and instead of writing my words, I finished reading stories written by Barbara Hambly and Tara Conklin and dreamed of what the Civil War must have been like.

And it was July, and the heat smacked us over the head like a battle weapon. So hot I couldn’t think or breathe and instead of settling down in front of the air conditioner to write, I bolted for the beach – I took my boy and my dog and sat in the fog and watched him board and swim and somehow even managed a little sunburn. I devoured Robin Oliveira’s book about Mary Sutter, a Civil War nurse, and cried through Lee Woodruff’s retelling of her husband’s tragic accident in Iraq.

And then John started to feel ill and life turned inwards as it often does when he can’t manage or work or talk very much. We went inside for a few weeks and spent our energy figuring out how to navigate chronic illness when it consumes your life. It felt a bit like hell. I read some more – Kim Edward’s The Lake of Dreams helped me disengage when I needed to step away.

Still, the journal remained unopened, calling to me in a voice I couldn’t answer. I went to New York City for the first time, hopeful that surrounding myself with writers would ignite the story, would retune my ear to her whisperings and somehow, something would appear on the page. Instead, I walked Central Park in the heat, devoured gelato in Chelsea Market, went to bed early, and filled my head with thoughts about equality and kindness and my introversion kicked in big time. I escaped the city with my oldest girlfriend, watched the fireflies at dusk, hiked a mountain and ate Thai food with her sons. Oh – and I met an actor on the airplane home.

In August, I covered my new journal with lavenders and blues and sea glass and butterflies. I read about the somewhat scandalous hidden life of Edith Wharton. I stayed in bed late, listened to NPR and when Lily came home, I relished every single ordinary moment together. August 3 came and went, and I celebrated one year of healing since Cameron broke his leg and ten days of both babies sleeping under the same roof. My girl and I escaped to Carmel and Big Sur, riding with the windows down and hiking in the sun. I spent a peaceful night alone at Tahoe and dashed off to a long weekend of hiking, family and gratitude in Yosemite.

And before I knew it we were loading the rental car, driving across the desert and depositing Lily back at school – this time in a house. We spent a few days shopping and unpacking and hiking and laughing and suddenly it was time to go. Those ten hours driving home across the Salt Flats were long and tedious and when I walked into the house I simply cried, not only because she was gone, but also because the summer was, too.

Then, I cleaned. Every room in the house. I cleaned her room and moved in new bookshelves and lugged the boxes of letters onto her desk. I placed the journal alongside and vacuumed the floor, straightened her duvet cover and cleaned the glass on her dresser. I walked out her sliding door into the garden and noticed the Russian sage alive with honey bees and a red-breasted hummingbird just leaving the tall crimson tube of a Canna flower.

I breathed and reminded myself of all that I did do this summer, and realized that those things, as small and ordinary as they may seem, were exactly what I needed to do. They were exactly what I wanted to do; those moments of paying attention, of walking alongside those I love, and of feeling gratitude for the gifts the Universe has presented me with. This was supposed to be the summer I wrote a book, but instead, I created the stories of my life, every single extraordinarily ordinary moment. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Leaving Her At College The Second Year

Posted on September 2, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

I’d been driving in the dark for only about five minutes when I realized I never took her picture in front of her new house. Or in her new bedroom. Or her kitchen. Or her yard.

And I started to cry as I watched the lights of Salt Lake City fade in my rear view mirror.

Leaving her at college the second time wasn’t easier – it was just different.

I wanted to believe my friends who said not to worry, that the freshman year is the hardest. I wanted to believe that I could leave her this year and I would be OK with it.

I wanted to believe that I could do this part of ordinary, everyday life, without breaking down.

Turns out, I couldn’t.

***

It all went pretty well for the days leading up to the ‘last’ day. I’d occasionally have to bite my lip when the thoughts of leaving her all those miles away crept into my brain – like when we were in the housewares section of Target and all I really needed to do was find a curtain rod, and instead, I found the overwhelm of this phase of life smashing my heart to pieces.

It made me feel dumb. Weak. Not at all like the confident woman I am most of the time.

When it comes to leaving my children, I find my kryptonite.

The second year is different; gone is the security of dropping her into a dorm where there are RAs and reasonable expectations. The second year means she’s on her own – her own house, her own food, her own hours.

Suddenly she’s thinking about Costco and stocking up on food. She’s wondering where she’ll find a laundromat, and how many baking sheets she’ll need to furnish her kitchen. She’s suddenly confronted with deciding on a major, finding a job and roommates.

The second year no one is watching her.

The second year the adrenaline is gone.

The second year she’s on her own – unless she calls for help.

Sunrise Over Salt Flats

***

It’s been a couple of weeks since I backed out of her driveway and made my way across the desert, through the mountains and back home. I’ve been able to walk through her bedroom door, pick up her discarded socks and make her bed. I’m thinking of moving a few things around in there, actually. I don’t think she’ll be back around long enough to care.

She’s sent some photos of her new bedroom – photos are hung on the walls, and the duffel bags are all unpacked. She seems comfortable. I’m relieved to see the carbon monoxide detector we bought her is still plugged in – I know she thought we were crazy, but our girl in a basement apartment? Imagine the dangers…

Life seems to be settling down a little bit; last night she sent photos of her homemade pizza dinner, and today, a quick Snapchat from the Farmer’s Market – I could see she had a bag of fresh corn in her hand, both eerily familiar to the patterns she left back at home.

I still keep my phone on at night. I still smile when I get a text or an Instagram glimpse into her world, but now, after collapsing back into my old routines, I’m second guessing myself. Maybe this second year she will be OK – even if no one is watching her. Maybe the adrenaline will be replaced with pride. Maybe, on her own, she’ll remember what we taught her after all. And maybe she won’t even need to call for help – she’ll just let us know how extraordinary her ordinary life is, back in college for her second year.

I wondered if I could do this ordinary, everyday life, without breaking down. Without her.

Turns out, maybe I can.

Jennifer Wolfe

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3 Awesome Reasons To Have A Selfie Free Summer

Posted on June 20, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

It was a perfect blue sky day. We hit the road early (by teenage terms), and just about 90 minutes later found us in Pt. Reyes, California, ready for adventure.

It had taken some cajoling to get both of them to agree to go hiking with me; these days, getting both kids alone, together, is certainly cause for celebration in itself. It’s one of the things I miss most about them growing up, actually. The time I took for granted when they were little, time to just be together and hold their hands and explore somewhere new – all that isn’t as easily had as before.

Sunscreen applied, water bottles and snacks in our packs, we headed down the trail towards the coast. Everywhere we looked vibrant wildflowers dotted our view, and lush ferns and berry bushes obscured each side of our narrow trail. The hawks flew overhead, and the sounds of songbirds filled the air. It truly couldn’t have been more beautiful.

Stopping to smell the wild sweet peas and snap a few photos, I found myself alone on the trail, lagging far behind my lanky-legged teenagers. Quickening my pace, I caught up just enough to catch a glimpse of them from behind. I’ve always loved the photos of them like this, when they’re not expecting me and in that instant, I imagine all the life they have before them.I’m sure even the hawks could see the joy etched in my face on this glorious day; glimpsing over their shoulders I could just catch the shimmer of the Pacific Ocean in the distance. “Turn around, let me take your picture,” I quickly called, worried they would be gone before I caught up. Surprisingly, they obliged, and as I got closer I added,”Let’s take a selfie.”

I’m sure the hawks could hear their groans of disgust, too.

“No Mom – no selfies,” their voices replied in unison as they took off along the trail without me.

What? No selfie? How would we ever remember we were there together? How would they look back on this day and remember I was even there at all?

I’ve often thought the invention of the selfie is genius – the one way moms are guaranteed to be in the picture! How many moments have I been behind the camera instead of in front of it? What do they mean, no selfie?

Kicking into gear to catch up, I spent the next five minutes being schooled on the three awesome reasons to have a selfie-free summer – according to my teenagers:

1. “Selfies are stupid,” they began. “They’re not as good as pictures someone else takes and everyone knows it was a selfie. Everyone knows you know you took a dozen shots until you got the right one, and that you stood there forever while the phone was angled in just the right position. Haven’t you seen those selfie-sticks, Mom? Those people look so lame waving them over everyone’s head, and then they have to carry them around.”

Hmmm. Good point. How many times have I been looking out at a gorgeous view when someone suddenly jumps in front of me, spends minutes posing, snapping, checking, posing, snapping, checking…

2. “Selfies are for Snapchat, and that’s about it. They’re not meant to be saved…they’re meant to be silly. How many times have you seen selfies where people look like they’ve spent hours perfecting their pose? Like they’ve spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror perfecting their pout or messing around with the right filters?”

Ok-agreed. As much as I dislike Snapchat (I can’t stand only seeing an image for seven seconds; heck, it takes me that long to find my glasses!), I really dislike the Instagram selfies of people staring into their bathroom mirrors, perfectly made up and serious supermodel looks on their faces.

3. “Selfies make you miss the moment. Just look, Mom. You’re concentrating so hard on getting the right shot, you’ll miss all this.”

I get it. Isn’t that what I preach to them every day? Pay attention to the little things in life. Be present. Be grateful. Look out for the extraordinary in the ordinary. Use your voice – ask someone to help you take a photo instead of staying trapped inside yourself. Look up, breathe, throw your arms open wide and take it all in. This is your moment.

Suitably schooled, I resumed my position at the back of the pack, far enough behind to think. They’re so grown, I thought, and I’ve still got so much to learn. I’m just going to let them lead the way for awhile.

Jennifer Wolfe

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