“And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count.
It’s the life in your years.”

– Abraham Lincoln

My Indonesian ‘dress cut’ experience

I took this seriously last year; breathing some life into areas that have been dormant, neglected, or otherwise overlooked.  Another year of happiness, laughter and lessons learned – here are some of my favorites:

This year was really about trying something new-all the time.  I forced myself in directions I never knew I was interested in or qualified for.  I wrote-a lot.  I threw it all out there and watched where it landed, pushed a few pieces into place, and found some that had gone missing.  I learned that going big is often scary, but always worth it.

My kids officially grew taller than me this year.  It actually was a humbling experience when my baby boy passed me up.  Watching my daughter drive away from me for the first time chipped a piece off my heart, reminding me  I had to let go and trust that everything has a way of working itself out.  I released some habits and situations that weren’t working for me, looking for more positive instead of negative.  I learned that letting go is growing forward.

I surely did that this year.  I pushed for my best and tried not to repeat what wasn’t working for me.  I showed up.  I tried.  I learned that working hard is exhausting, but creates energy in the right places.

I went places this year that I never imagined I would.  I felt outnumbered, out of place, and out of control.  I remember the calls to prayer, the fears, and the deep sense of respect at how small a world we live in, yet what a large part I can play.  I learned that being humble can bring safety and comfort, and that relinquishing control can reveal a whole new perspective.

Learning to stand up for ourselves can take a lifetime.  Watching bullying, in our community, our country, and our world gave me the power to practice saying no.  Daily, I listened to one of my college interns call out ‘Make good choices’ to my students as they exited my classroom door, and tried to do the same.  I learned that saying no allows me to say yes when I want to, and that going with my gut is usually takes me in the right direction.

Obama’s elementary school in Jakarta

I saw people and places this year that shattered my heart and made me fearful for our future.  I met people who lifted me up, taught me about hope, and reminded me to make peace with what I have, where I am, and who I’m with.  This year, I learned that blessings come in a multitude of ways, and that happiness and gratitude hold hands.

As I end 47 and open the chapter of 48, I think of all that I’ve experienced:  the children, parenting, family, teaching, education, memories and motherhood that blended themselves together and brought such lessons to me.  Typing this, I’m reminded of all that I hold close, and all that is yet to come.  I’m happy about 47, and watch out 48- I’ve got big ideas waiting to throw at you.  This is definitely not the time to feel old!

I used to be a freaky mom.  Sixteen years ago, when I had my first child, I thought I could do it all.  Control it all.  Be the perfect parent.  I certainly had seen enough examples of what I considered ‘bad parenting’ – those kinds of adults who would make excuses for their kids, send them to school without their homework, and blame their teachers and the school for everything wrong in the world – plus some.

I waited to have a child.  I had a husband, had finished college, had a career I loved, and we even bought a house.  American dream, huh?  And then she came along and rocked my world.

She was a summer baby.  Sweet and tender and absolutely perfect.  She kicked and rolled furiously for the last five months of pregnancy-I should have known it would be a battle for dominance.  According to her father she was an angel; never cried, never fussed.  I believe otherwise.

After six months of bliss (no sleep, aching limbs from carrying her ‘just so’, and a complete refusal to eat according to my schedule), we entered the holiday season.  Our favorite time of year, really – we loved the traditions, the music, the crisp change in the air….and couldn’t wait to share it with our baby.

Enter the Christmas tree tradition.  With visions of how it is supposed to be, we strapped baby into a backpack and headed out.  The first problem arose when we realized that in central California, Christmas trees don’t grow the way the look in the movies.  Here, our 100+ degree summers produce scraggly, misshapen and downright ugly pine trees.  At least the ones we saw.

Humbled, muddy and on our last nerve, we loaded back into the car and headed for Target.  The price was right, and the Christmas carols over the speaker system did add a certain festive charm.  If Charlie Brown could do it, so could we.  It would look better with decorations, we decided.  30 minutes later we shoved the tree in the car and headed home.  Mission accomplished.

Year after year, we tried it all.  Not ready to give up on our Norman Rockwell vision, we lugged both babies (eventually #2 joined the quest), confident we would ultimately find the perfect tree and the perfect tradition for our family.  Each year, we managed to bring evergreen home, struggle with burned out lightbulbs, and smile with satisfaction as we gently and carefully placed each ornament of  our growing collection onto our tree.  We started ornament collections for each child and ourselves, adding specially chosen symbols of the previous year.

Somehow, we finally realized that Home Depot was our spot.  No mud to trek through, no saws to negotiate, no tromping around with crying babies, hungry toddlers, or frustrated parents.  My dreams of a traditional Christmas tree expedition had shifted just a bit.  Instead of hiking in the hills, we were tossing the Nerf ball in the parking lot, unwrapping tree after tree, spinning them around and tripping over ourselves to find the perfect  one.  We were laughing, smiling, posing for photos and breathing in the fresh pine scent.  We were just doing it on asphalt, not a mountain top.  We began worrying less and less about how it happened, and more and more about the hours we would spend together once we got it home.

I realized then that so much of parenting is not about hanging on, but letting go.  Step by step, we navigate the path together, no guidebook to tell us where to go or how long it will be before we get there.  We plan, we prepare, and we persist in creating the dreams we’ve held since we first became parents, but we do so gently, cautiously, and oh so carefully – for it’s not the exact replication of the mind’s picture of the ‘perfect’ moment, but the creation of the moment that means the most.  We might not do it the way other families do, but we do it the way our family does.

And so our tradition continues.  Each year we load up in the car, blast the Christmas music on the radio and merrily sing our way to the Christmas tree lot –this year, with my newly licensed driver behind the wheel.  We bundle up, pile out, and this year we agreed on the very first tree we set our eyes on.  My kids smiled.  They giggled.  We high-fived our speedy decision-making process, headed inside to pay, and loaded back up in record time.

An added bonus?  We bought lights, a gingerbread house kit and a tree, finishing in an hour-all the more time to spend together at home, where Christmas traditions really matter the most.

It was just a moment in time, really.

I haven’t thought about it much for fourteen years, but suddenly, it came flooding back.  Then, you were my only child, bundled up for the day: jean overalls that snapped on the legs, sturdy white leather shoes to help you run faster than I ever imagined.

It was just a fleeting instant in time.

Chunky red plaid fleece jacket, softly lined, hood to cover your flaxen hair; you never liked hats.  I think it was November, early snow.  Ten tiny fingers gently captured snowflakes.

It was just a snapshot, really.

We walked out on the dock, just the three of us.  Our family almost complete.  Your gleeful squeals filled the silence with joy, envious couples glancing our way.

It was just an instant, then it was over.  Inhale.  Exhale.

We stopped, you posed, we snuggled you between our legs, holding you tightly.  Never wanting to let go.  You raised your face to the sky and grinned with rapture.

It was just one moment, really.  But I remember every detail.

One of my favorite kids in the whole world is named Gloria – we call her Glowie for short.  She’s the kind of kid that is quiet on the outside, but full of life on the inside. We’re related.

A couple of years ago my kids and I spent some time at her house – it was back when she was in preschool.  We don’t see each other too often; she lives 500 miles away (California is a big state).  Ever since I can remember, one of the ways I’ve bonded with kids is through baking.  Sure enough, Glowie’s mom felt the same way, and she had just pulled a loaf of this delicious orange-cranberry bread out of the oven.

One taste, and we were goners.  My kids and I helped to quickly devour the entire loaf!  Since then, Glowie’s Cranberry Bread recipe (straight from her preschool) has become a treat in our house.  It’s easy to double, and you can adjust the sugar amount up or down depending on your taste.  We like it on the less-sweet side ourselves.  I guarantee that if you have a kid in the kitchen with you, you’ll make some happy memories with Glowie’s Cranberry Bread recipe.

You’ll need:

2 c. flour

1 c. sugar (decrease if desired)

1 1/2 t. baking powder

1 t. salt

1/2 t. baking soda

1/4 c. softened butter

1 egg, beaten

1 t. grated orange peel

3/4 c. orange juice

1 1/2 c. fresh cranberries, chopped

 

Dear Family,

Last night, as we slumped around the table, bellies full and wine glasses empty, I took my turn and shared two words of gratitude.  Surprised, you asked if that was all.  The truth is, it wasn’t, but at the time, those were the only words I could say out loud.  Now, hours later in the light of day, I have the rest.

I am grateful for the dawn over the Sierras inching up, pale pink to my left, golden yellow to my right, unveiling my angels sleeping in the back seat.

I am grateful for the dark roast with cream warming next to me as I type, helping me greet every morning with a smile.

I am grateful for the new and the old, the memories that push me forward into the future and those that ground me in the past.

I am grateful for air conditioning, Bintang beer and chocolate-center Cotton Buns.  You saw me through some challenging times last summer.

I am grateful for friends I’ve made and lost, friends I’ve seen and those I have only thought of.  You may not know it, but I listen to you and learn more about myself from your presence.

I’m grateful for curiosity, challenge and conflict.  From them, I grow into a better human.

I’m grateful for brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers.  Your eyes help create my vision, even when they don’t see in the same direction.

I’m grateful for simplicity, complication, and everything in between.  It always seems to come at just the wrong, yet just the right time.

I’m grateful for the 6,000,000-plus like-minded people who turned left, not right, and helped me see a future.

I’m grateful for the wind whistling through the trees.  Some say it’s the spirit talking.  I’m thankful I believe them.

I’m grateful for language.  The words I write, the sounds I hear, and the letters I read teach me in a way I learn best.

I’m grateful for faith, wavering in and out, back and forth, between the sky, the spirits, and the universe.  Sometimes, you’re all I’ve got.

I’m grateful for June 29, 1985.  Our worlds collided then, and life has been a doozy ever since.

Now, I’m back to where I began.  Two words.  Two spirits.  Two reasons to face each day, to walk the talk, to take a step forward when what I really want to do is stay right where I am.  Because when the pink glow is gone, replaced by a blaze of red, or orange, or a blanket of black, those two words are all that matter.

And that, dear family, is what I’m grateful for.

Love,

J