bursting the bubble

This post is very out of character for me and out of character for this blog and I may delete it in time.  But for now I had some things I needed to say.

We often say that our kids live in the bubble. 

By this we mean that we shelter them from 99.5% of the atrocities of the world.  We don't tell them when bad things happen.  We protected them from the Newtown school shooting.  We didn't tell them about the bombing at the Boston Marathon. (And then when Ella's school had a moment of silence to "remember those killed in Boston" I nearly had a conniption fit that lead to several emails and ended with a meeting with the superintendent.)  We lightly introduce ideas of injustice and global fighting (war) and the need to seek paths of peace and to be equal and fair and good contributors in the world.

I also live in the bubble, happily, right beside my kids.  I don't watch the news, don't read the newspaper and intentionally don't follow sensational news stories of violence or terror as they unfold.  I only listen to NPR occasionally in the car if the kids have their headphones in and then only to human interest stories.  When the headlines verge into worldly topics that make me want to throw up and leave me feeling powerless and impotent, I shut it off. 

Yes, I get a lot of loving flack from my friends and my mother about the fact that I never know what is going on.

Here is my rationale (not that I owe anyone an explanation):  I truly cannot stomach the world as it is today.  Call it denial, but for my own survival and happiness, I have to focus on the good in the world.  My system, my soul, feels like it will wither and die if I let too much of the awful in. 

And the truth is that the bubble works for me.  In my small corner of the world, people are safe and goodness prevails. I interface with lovely, friendly people. I can leave my door unlocked if I dart out for school pick-up. I can go out for a run and have my biggest fear be of surprising a skunk in the pre-dawn and having it spray me.  I am safe.  My family is safe.  I am blessed to live in a state like Maine, in a town that has happy, thriving people.

I am, mostly, a successful ostrich with my head in the sand and I make no apologies for it. 

Yet every now and then my bubble bursts.  It happened with 9/11. It happened with the Newtown shooting.  It happens when a story of random violence in an otherwise "safe" place in our society (movie theaters, schools, etc.) reaches my ears.  I worry that if these things happen randomly, then what if they happen to me, to my family?  I worry that I will never feel safe again, that I would have no choice but to keep my kids under house arrest and only let them watch PBS until they are 18 when we will build a commune with cinder block walls and locked gates. Then as the dust settles and I refrain from media consumption, I can once again carefully construct my bubble by acknowledging that the world sometimes breaks my heart and by fiercely loving those around me.

There has been a pile-up of bad things that have made their way into my knowing lately and have left me breathless with fear looking desperately at the tatters of my bubble.  Fear is followed closely by anger that I would live even a second of my precious life afraid because of the violent or random acts of others.

I was sitting with my dear friend Kim at Camp Winni, laughing and telling stories, when she got the kind of phone call you never want to get. I watched her face contort in pain and I knew the bottom had come out of her world. Her brother and his girlfriend, with four young children between them, had just been killed on his motorcycle.

On the Fourth of July we were going to go downtown to our local parade, but Ella declared her level of exhaustion and asked if we could skip it.  We happily complied.  Later, I found out that there was some sort of standoff with a man who was firing a gun and the local police. People were evacuated from buildings and apartments, parents carrying pajama clad children.  As a result, the parade was detoured around the scene (which was presumably safe but still being investigated).  On the detoured part of the route, if I have this correct, there was an slow-moving collision of two parade vehicles which resulted in the death of one of the drivers. 

In other words, if the man had never been shooting his gun in the morning, the parade wouldn't have been rerouted and the collision and death might never have occurred.

I don't know about other people but I struggle to even deal with this sort of thing.  That it happened because of the irresponsible choice of one individual.  That we were lucky enough to not have been there, where we had planned to be, but weren't  just because our child was tired feels like such a near miss of potential tragedy.

A couple of weekends ago I went out on my bike for an early ride at dawn.  There were no cars out on the otherwise busy main road, but several hundred feet ahead I saw two teenage-looking boys playing in the road.  It was before 5 am.  I could not imagine what kind of good they could possibly be up to. I felt a flutter of panic in me and considered turning around.  But then I got mad. These early rising or yet-to-go-to-bed adolescents weren't going to keep me from my bike ride. I refuse to live my life afraid. 

They scurried as I approached and ran behind a building. As I passed the building I worried they might jump out at me and I was incredibly relieved to pass them by. 

Which brings me to the next awful thing that has happened.

Last weekend, in a town 90 minutes from us, a cyclist was pulled off her bike at 2:30 in the afternoon, held at knife point and sexually assaulted. This hits close to home on so many levels. First of all I am a female cyclist who primary rides alone.  She was on a back country road- the same road a friend of mine rides her bike on- and I ride back roads to avoid traffic. I think I am safe on my bike from people (cars are what concern me) because I feel I can easily escape, much more effectively than when I run. I am a female and, as much as I don't like it, females are at risk in our world.

To worry about my safety on my bike is hitting me where it hurts. My time on my bike is sacred and the space it provides for me is almost holy. It would be like someone coming into your church with a gun with the intention to do harm.

Yesterday, as I was all stirred up about the cyclist,  I was pumping gas and felt like someone was looking at me. I turned and saw a man sitting in his car staring at me. I turned back and ignored him. I could still feel his stare. I finished and went in to pay and noticed he was still staring. I wanted to throw something at him, to yell, "What gives you the right to stare at me like that?!" I know it is easy to think this is a slightly hysterical response, but is it really? Plenty of men still objectify women- much of our society is built on it- and feel they can take what they want, through an intrusive stare or a physical invasion.

How does a person, especially a female, take the necessary precautions to be safe but not let her life be dominated with fear?  How does a mother lay her head on her pillow and hope to sleep when at any moment danger could penetrate her carefully placed walls and threaten her family?  How does a human being not get buried under the weight of the random bad things that happen to perfectly good people?

It is a miracle we get up and leave the house in the morning.

I understand this about myself: sometimes my heart breaks, sometimes it shatters, but the center of me and the center of my life is vibrating with love.  Violent acts and threats to my safety effect me deeply, make me feel insecure and make me worry about my or my family's well-being (more so than the daily dose of worry). But I must remember that, while violence or seeming randomness, feels all consuming it really is merely a drop in the lake of goodness that exists everywhere, every day.   Terror and harm is the drop, diluted one thousand fold (one million fold?) in the lake of goodness.

The other thing that allows me to not be immobilized with fear is my own inner practice of not holding on to my life so tightly.  I am finding much peace in learning to breathe into my own discomforts and those in the world, to sit with them with an open heart and without fear of their destruction.

Pema Chodron, author of  "Comfortable with Uncertainty", describes a Buddhist practice called tonglen in this way: "Tonglen is sending and receiving.  In the practice of tonglen, we breathe in whatever feels bad and send out whatever feels good."

It is a completely unguarded, compassionate approach to people and a world in pain.  Instead of protecting oneself against pain and fear, you open up to it.  This is beyond a novel concept for me.

Chodron writes:

"When anything is painful or undesirable, breathe it in. In other words, you don't resist it.  You surrender to yourself, you acknowledge who you are, you honor yourself.  As unwanted feelings and emotions arise, you actually breathe them in and connect with what all humans feel.  We all know what it is to feel pain in its many guises.  When we do tonglen, we invite the pain in.  It's because we have this genuine heart of sadness to begin with that we even start shielding.  In tonglen practice, we begin to expose the most tender parts of ourselves."

Since hearing about the female cyclist, I have been holding her in my heart. The same with my friend Kim. I am breathing them in.  Not to carry their pain, but to share it, to extend compassion and to be unafraid of the pain I fear could cut me at the knees if I were in their shoes. It is like walking into the fire and understanding I will survive.  It is a simple act that frees me from my own prison of fear while connecting me to all others. It also makes me feel like there is a tiny contribution I can make to those who are hurting.

Life is hard.  People die.  People hurt each other.  People take things they shouldn't.  I cannot built fences to keep the world out.  My only real choice, for me, is to make friends with the uncertainty of life and to live with an open heart, extending love to myself and to a world deeply in need.   Otherwise, I won't be able to tolerate this world even with my head in the sand.
 

holding on to the young years

Sandi and I have had some money tucked away in a vacation club account at the bank that we were saving to do something special as a family while she was in school.   Watching both girls growing so fast right now, especially observing Ella outgrowing so many things beyond her pants and her shoes, we decided to go to Storyland with them before it was no longer a fun place for her. 

 

Last year the girls and I went with my sister and her family  and it seemed like my then nine-year-old niece had maybe outgrown this magical place a bit.  With a feeling like the clock was ticking, an unexpected few days off around the Fourth gave us the opportunity to take the trip.  We asked Ella if she really wanted to go (she had brought it up at the start of summer) and she was very enthusiastic.  We found some last minute lodging in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire and held our breath a bit, hoping it would all be worth it and it would still be the delightful experience it has always been for our family.

 

As a result of our last minute trip, we sort of skipped the Fourth of July. It was insanely hot on the Fourth and we were all exhausted coming from Camp Winni and a new clincial rotation.  We had mountains of camp laundry to do plus packing for our turn around trip to Storyland.  So we hung low and near the air conditioner on the Fourth, all of us in bed before nary a firework was shot into the sky.  

 

The short story about our trip is that our family really needed this time, just the four of us, to play and frolic together.  It was worth every penny, every minute spent packing, planning meals, grocery shopping, strategizing, and driving.  I got 3 1/2 hours of undisturbed time to just talk to Sandi in the car which would have been worth it.

 

The long story will be told in pictures. (Prepare to be inundated.)

 

Ella was a little grumpy about the obligatory Humpty Dumpty photo.

But Maya was a good sport.

It was something like 200 degrees when we got there Friday afternoon. (Storyland has a bonus admission where if you come 3 hours before closing you can come back any other day of the season, including the next day, for no extra charge.)    Before a passing rain shower cooled everything off, we made an essential stop at the make-your-own slushy stand.

 

 

When did Ella grow these great big long legs?

 And this knowing, joyful smile?

What about a license to drive?

And is this our shy, discerning girl who now rides roller coasters with her arms in the air??

For that matter, how did our baby outgrow the panda statue?

And how is she big enough to be solo on a ride, let alone drive me around in a tractor?

When we hit Storyland early for a full second day, Sandi and I both commented on how grateful we felt to be out of the stroller stage of parenthood.  While it is true that the stroller-pushing parents had a handy place to put all their crap, it was nice to be able to carry a lightweight backpack with everything we needed.

 

I told Ella that I was so glad she wasn't too old for Storyland.  She replied, "I'm having even more fun than I thought I would."  This was just the balm I needed over the cuts of motherhood as I watch her grow and outgrow nearly every day. 

 

Maya was happy to take Sandi for a ride in the flying shoes...  

whether she liked it or not.

The girls had some really beautiful moments as sisters.  This is why sometimes it is crucial that they are forced to spend time only with each other (and us, of course).  We were so proud of how they did.  It was hands down one of the most successful family trips we have taken. 

 

To add drama to an otherwise laid back trip, Maya woke up with a barking, croupy cough the day we left for Storyland. With lots of careful dosing of medication, we had her coughing under control.  But the second day, running all over Storyland, she coughed way too much.  (Excessive coughing inflames her airway and often starts the cascade into airway crisis for her.) Added to this was the fact that the air conditioner didn't properly cool the room we were sleeping in and she had struggled overnight the first night.  We dosed her with everything we had before bed the second evening, including giving her steroidal nebs over a family game of Go Fish.  We put her to bed with crossed fingers and said the prayer that all parents of compromised kids say.   Sandi looked up the closest ER and programmed the hospital's address into her GPS.  We strategized what an emergent trip would look like and tried to relax.

 

Then something really cool happened. 

 

As we sat all but wringing our hands at the potentially terrifying night ahead of us, fireworks began to go off in the valley below.  We were in a condo high up on a hill surrounded by wooded mountains.  Out in the dark abyss, color and light exploded and bloomed in the sky.  We sat out on our condo balcony and had our Fourth of July after all.

We woke Ella up to watch the fireworks.  We let Maya sleep since she had finally stopped coughing and was sleeping.  I had to drag poor Ella out of bed.  But I was motivated by the guilt of depriving our eight-year-old of fireworks on such an iconic night by putting her sorely overtired body to bed 2 hours before they began.  I finally got her out on the deck and sat her on my lap snuggled in a blanket.

In the morning, she remembered not a thing.

In other news, Maya, finally FINALLY decided she was ready to discard her floaties and swim independently in the pool.  She has been ready since last August but would hear none of it from us.  As stubborn as a mule, she had to come to it on her own.  The trick for her?  A mask so that she can swim underwater.  Suddenly, she is a floaty-less fish who comes up to us and whispers her secret: "Guess what? I don't think I need my floaties anymore."

For some reason, Ella was witness to several unsafe things by random people around us- from riding a bike without a helmet on the wrong side of the road to risky traffic manuevers.  Ella pronounced, "The people in New Hampshire just aren't very safe!"

As we drove from the gates of our complex up to our condo we let the kids unbuckle and ride free in the car, a luxury they are never afforded.  As Ella stuck her arm out the window she shouted:  "Look at us!  We are just like the people of New Hampshire now!!!"

 Thanks girls for not being too big yet.  Thanks for only fighting a teeny bit and for taking our threats to go home seriously.  Thank you for being your unique and amazing selves and for playing with us. 

 

Thanks, most of all and always, for choosing us to be your moms.

camp winniauguamauk 2013

July hit full steam ahead with a van packed to the brim heading in every which direction like spokes of a wheel from the center point of our house.  I haven't blogged for over two weeks because I have barely been home.  But what fun we have had.

The last week of July had us taking a trip just south of Boston for my Uncle's surprise birthday party.  It was really wonderful to see many of my family members I haven't seen in years, including my aunt and cousin from the west coast. 



Kathryn and Brian with Braeden and Michaela, Sandi the girls and Iwith my Aunt JoEllen
and her son Landon

 Our trip to Boston meant a very long day in the car for the kids (7+ hours round trip).  We stayed at Kathryn's house overnight, arriving back at 10 pm.  The next day it was off to summer camp at Camp Winniauguamauk for Ella, Maya, Michaela and I while Sandi had to begin her new clinical rotation up in Millinocket where she would be staying for most of the week while we were away.  It was a sad departure for all of us.  While it is true that there are so many more freedoms she has this summer than last, it was really sad to not have her stay at camp where we have always gone as a family. 

(I am going to work hard not to repeatedly comment on how it often feels unfair that we get to have so much fun while she is confined to a hospital OR.  There, I've said it and you can just infer it from all future summer posts that she is not in.)

Camp Winniauguamauk is a piece of sloping green tranquility on a pond in Brooksville, ME.  It is typical of summer camps with cabins, common areas, a waterfront, a dinning room and kitchen.  But what is not typical about it is the type of camp and community that we are lucky enough to be a part of when Sandi's sister, Trish, directs a Christian-based youth camp for 3rd-5th graders. 

If you don't have a good sense of who Trish is let me tell you that she is simply one of the most radiant people I know.  She exudes love, gentleness and compassion while also being full to overflowing with a carefree playfulness that is contagious. 

She is also ridiculously strong.

Not normally one for organized church activities, I adore this camp and everything about it.  It is a place young kids can come to learn about being good citizens of humanity, fair and inclusive, loving and connected.  This was the first year Ella was old enough to be a camper (with a family member such as myself on the grounds) and we convinced her cousin Michaela to come too.

While I was really bummed that Sandi could not stay with us, I was very blessed to spend the Sunday-Wednesday camp with the rest of her family.  In addition to Trish, Kristi was there with her two kids as well as Sandi's mom, Patti, and very close family friend, Auntie Di.  Also at camp for the first time was Noah (who is actually a cousin but who we think of more like a nephew) who was there with his dad, Uncle Buck, as his sighted aid.  (Remember them from last summer's equality parades?) There were also many other wonderful staff members- in fact,  I think there were more staff than campers.  That is some serious love and guidance spread among the campers.

My official title at camp this year was Camp Aunt (available for hugs, hair braiding, fingernail painting) and Inspector.  It was my daily duty to inspect and award points to cabins as they worked for special privileges.  I loved it in every way you might imagine. 

Maya, naturally, was my trusty assistant.  This meant she wandered around the camp with me, nosing in areas that were otherwise off limits.  She showed a strong tendency toward a career as Goldilocks as she wanted to try out everyone's bed. 

(For the record, this was Ella's bunk.)


Ella and Michaela weren't sure they wanted to sleep with their cabin or with me, but when we got there, they choose the cabin.  While this meant that they got very little shut eye over the three nights of camp, it made all the difference for them as far as being a part of the cabin group itself.   I was incredibly proud of these two.  They had the amazing Brittany as their camp counselor and she was the perfect combination of loving and fun.


Beds made, bags unpacked and ready to go meet the other campers.

On the first day of camp, Maya found these lady bugs outside our cabin. 

 Then she made a habitat for them in a Tupperware with perforated plastic wrap and some grass. She and her cousin, Makenna, made it their camp mission to care for these lady bugs.   They also made it my camp mission to want to pull my hair out as they kept misplacing the Tupperware habitat and imploring me to find it.

 There was a lot of work that went into feeding those lady bugs. 

 Kristi, also a Camp Aunt and Arts and Crafts leader, did this really cool project as the arts and crafts teacher: Sharpie tie dye.

All you need is a 100% cotton shirt, colorful sharpies and over 90% ispopropyl alcohol.  You dot the Sharpies on the shirt in concentric circles and make whatever patterns you want.  Then you take a dropper filled with the alcohol and carefully dot the color with the alcohol until it bleeds.  So cool!

 

 

Kristi did a second project that required the trusty camp support staff to cut several scanes of yarn into thousands of 8-10 inch lengths.  We literally spent  hours cutting yarn with some of us demonstraing our poor ballpark measuring skills.

 

Kristi, showing the kids how to mix the strands of yarn with glue and shape it over an inflated balloon. It was such a cool idea and her sample bowl was really cute.  However, the small bowls stablizing the balloons led them to roll, dumping gluey yarn globs in the process.  But some kids really got the hang of the basic basket making technique. 

 Unfortunately the weather outside was like being in your own personal rain cloud and the wet prevented the glue from drying. I tried to transport three rudimentary baskets atop balloons in my van and they were a sloppy mess by the time I got home.  Oh, well.  This could be a fun winter project. 


Uncle Buck is like a big kid in an adult body.  He and Maya speak the same language of silliness and they get along famously.

 

Possibly the highlight of camp, in addition to nightly campfire complete with super fun camp songs, is the water slide.  Simply a few giant tarps, some dish soap, a hose and a hill and you have the best slip 'n slide around.

 



Makenna decided she wanted to give it a try and I was flattered that she let me take her down a couple of times. She smiled big and after 4 or 5 trips, she was done.

 

Brevan, whose official camp title (he's one year shy of being old enough to be a camper)
was Water Slide Tester.

 

Can you imagine going down a water slide blind?  As usual, Noah makes it look easy.

 

 As I said, Uncle Buck is just a big kid. I love him for it.

 The great thing about the soap on the water slide is how clean you get.

You hardly need a shower when you're done.

Michaela and Ella both smiled so much I thought they might break their lips.  And while she did experience some homesickness, Michaela was often bubbling over with laughter.

 

 

Michaela was laughing hysterically at the Talent Show skit where one person hides behind another and the person in the back uses her hands to feed the person in the front.  

Camp is such a special, protected pocket of the world.  All three of the girls got to be so independent and self-sufficient.  Maya got to move around the grounds with freedom (Kristi and I tag teaming loose supervision over the two blondies) and Michaela and Ella were responsible to their counselor instead of their parents.  I could watch them blooming with this new-found freedom.

 

 

 

All packed up and waiting on the porch to say goodbye to everyone.  Maya needed something to do or someone to climb on.

 Good work girls!