Simple Moment

It was easy for me to see today how simple we really are.  Every time we have an occasion or an event, we try to make some grandiose and unnecessary happening out of it because we think that's what we're supposed to do. Today I really realized how little it actually takes to make us happy.  I don't think it was a moment of, "it took me this long to realize it" or a moment of, "NOW, I decide we don't need much" but instead a moment of affirmation of what I already really knew. I get so irritated by stuff...things...junk. I hate the spending pain of commercialism and the culmination of things that never have a home in my home. Shopping has never been an enjoyable activity and I truly never analyzed just why that is. It's easy to identify things that you like to look at, or that would make your life more convenient, but it's hard to identify why they don't actually make you happy. There are immaterial simplicities that we cannot live without.  When you have a day full of those simple things, it's apparent that it's what you need.

We need music. For so long, we have always just taken music for granted. It's just a natural and assumed part of our every day. We talk about it regularly, look for new artists and celebrate old, but every once in a while we have a moment where we realize how fundamentally important it is to our life. I was always so proud that my parents listened to modern music and also shared the music from their childhoods, including what their parents listened to. We had the most diverse and interesting music library.  Today at lunch, Evelyn started singing a Foo Fighters song. I beamed. She is also incredibly excited that her school will be performing a reenactment (elementary school style) of "Thriller" on Halloween. She has been thirsting for Michael Jackson songs for days.  Ronan, throughout the day, alternately sang Muse and the White Stripes. They also very much favor the Beatles.  They know all of the words to Cat Steven's "Moonshadow." Music is the only thing that can take my wound up children and bring them to some semblance of normalcy.  Every time I catch one of them humming a tune, I am certain that we're doing something right.  Music, for us (and probably a lot of people), can take a normal moment and make it extraordinary, and often does.

We need good food.  NOT complicated food, just good food. Quality barbecue, pasta sauce that has simple flavors, but takes tending and time, foods that shows that someone cares.  We always prefer dishes with simple ingredients, and hate fussy. We also love craft beer and simple wine. We don't need much, but to indulge once in a while to remind us that we prefer simpler things.  Our children eat candy when we let them, but they prefer fruit.  We choose farmers' markets over shopping centers.  It's enlightening to try things that people have made and it makes us feel more alive to support their work as we enjoy it. It's essential to our happiness and reminds us that we are given the gift of discretion.

We need outside.  The simple act of walking outside can completely reset my whole state of mind.  When we are looking for something to do to bring us closer together, my little unit will find a new trail and go for a walk.  Our daughter gets so excited in nature that it's contagious. Our son identifies outside as adventure. Both have a budding love for geology and botany. The air and the sun and just being in the presence of trees elevates us.  Today we found a trail in the town that we're moving to, that despite it not being the most scenic we've ever been to, left us hand-in-hand proclaiming that we are the coolest and happiest family ever. That happened. We actually announced it.  David rolled his eyes a little, but we know he thinks it's true.

We need us. For the last 3 years I have worked every Friday and Saturday. I did it for the greater good, and at the time I defended it as the best option, but it wasn't until I regained my weekends that I realized how much I had missed. Our Saturdays are so important. We wake up together, have coffee (not the kids), talk about the week and choose our own adventure for the day.  When we have our activity planned, we all motivate together and find the joy in each moment. Even the days that we stay in are an adventure. We play, cook, sing, and remember why we work so well.  When you don't have the time to be together, you realize how much you really need it.  For the first time in a very long time, we have a schedule that is conducive to being together.

There was a very literal moment today when I stopped in my tracks and realized that we were happy.  It was a moment when I realized how little it took to make that happen.  There is hope for us yet. It was so simple. Today.

Moment of Design Captured...

Eleven year moment

I have been trying to write for days. Under no circumstance do I believe that I am "blocked" because I refuse to see my self as a "writer" but I feel like there was some stifled creativity, certainly. I had a whole concept laid out, beginning with "I hate Chick flicks" but it went no where, short of a rant that I wasn't proud of. I do hate chick flicks, but it didn't feel organic or authentic.  In fact, I felt like I was forcing an irrelevant issue.  There is so much to feel. Lately my empathy has been on overdrive and my brain is impossible to quiet.

I was quieted this morning, and finally inspired.

I have made so many life altering choices, as have most people in their early 30s, but none have changed my life so much as the one I made eleven years ago today. It was the only one I've made that has impacted every facet of my life, every moment of every day. What's even more impacting is the fact that I have never second guessed the decision or looked for opportunities, but instead I feel better and more certain about it as time goes by.

Eleven years ago me was very young, very independent and very impulsive. I'm still two out of three.
I was stubborn, strong, and clueless... debatable today.
I was free to do anything, but felt encumbered by the freedom.
I was a dreamer with plans of grandeur.
I was selfish and drfiting.
I wanted to build a foundation, but wasn't sure how. So I did what I knew.
I explored every weekend, spending most evenings in martini clubs, irish pubs or jazz bars, and most mornings with bloody marys.
I didn't want children or a house.
I wanted what I still want today for our future.
I was not alone. I had chosen a partner who walked the wreckless and youthful path with me step by step. We created something untouchable.

Eleven years ago him was dark and charming. He is still two out of two.
He was stubborn, strong and clueless...
He was creative and recreating himself. No, he was finding himself.
He found a side of himself that had yet to be tapped into. So he did what he knew.
He made friends, adventured beside me and located the next situation for our latest endeavor.
He brought me bloody marys.
He didn't want children or a house.
He wanted a future for us, but did not know what.
He was a partner who appreciated our life and complemented my every move. We were in unison.

Today me is a lot like me of eleven years ago, but nothing like her as well.
Parenting is a craft and a priority.
Foundation is foremost.
Now I am finding myself.
I find joy in the smallest things and don't drink martinis quite as often.
I still want what I wanted then.
I don't subscribe to feminism because bras are expensive to burn and I think women should put the toilet seat down.
I feel less independent, but yearn for it everyday.
I would never throw a big wedding.
I need adventure but also security.
I am fighting to become the person I want to be.
I am, because of my partner more stubborn, strong, young, free and defined. I don't ever feel alone.

Today him is nothing like he was and also very similar.
He is more compassionate, but can be less tolerant.
He works to use the empathy within him.
He wants a foundation.
He is loving and strong and free.
He thinks chicks who like hot wings and beer make the best wives.
He is a phenomenal father who strives to perfect his methods and craft.
He likes adventure, but prefers stability.
He is comfortable being the person he wants to be.
He bakes the most incredible signature banana bread.
He is open to my schemes, and a willing participant, but keeps me grounded.
He is love. He is driven by it, and it makes him eloquent.

For thirteen years, married for eleven, we have been falling in love with each other every day. He reminds me of that often. We realize that it takes effort to be married, but we have never felt the effort. He is my biggest moment of design, beginning with the day he proved to me how important accountability is.  It was just a moment ago that we were in our new twenties, sitting on the edge of the dock at my grandmother's cabin and he said for God and the world what I knew from the first moment. Those were the words of eleven years ago.

This morning I was awoken with these words, "I know we are fated to be together, loving you is a choice, but falling in love with you again is out of my control."

Moment of Design Captured...

Scheming Moment

Often as a child, we used to drive to Joliet, IL, the town next to us, regularly to visit my Grandfather's warehouse and construction business.  On the road we drove along the I&M Canal where we had always seen a myriad of water vehicles and other vessels docked along the way.  Each one was part of the ordinary, and none of that scene had ever resonated as noteworthy. However, when I was 10, there was a houseboat. It was large, white..ish, and abandoned. We had seen it many times, and I had noticed it, but it wasn't until I saw the "For Sale" sign that it had firmly implanted itself in my heart.  It was right then and there that I started scheming.  I did what I usually do when I'm scheming, I got a notebook.  I had a large collection of notebooks... and I still do.  This particular notebook contained my 10 year old perception of what it would cost to buy and renovate a houseboat.  I would give anything to have that notebook right now.  I still remember that I believed it would cost $10,000 to purchase the boat.  It WAS very run down, after all, and surely they wouldn't want much more than that.  My actual rationale for this pricing structure was that $10,000 would be a reasonable offer for anything and then it wouldn't just sit there abandoned as an eye sore.  I was going to save it, so how could they resist my offer?

Not the actual boat of my affection... but you get the idea.

I had outlined how I was going to save it, beginning with my plan for doing chores and odd jobs until I had saved $10,000.  Proving how clueless I was, I pitched the idea to my parents, who tried desperately not to laugh, then gently told me it would be years and years before I saved that much doing chores.  I told them it wouldn't matter, because a 10 year old can't drive a houseboat anyway. The only catch was that I was so worried that someone was going to snatch up my great find and sputter it down the I&M before I had saved enough. My brainstorming about this predicament led me to one conclusion: I was going to have to borrow the money from someone, and soon.  But in order to do that, I'd have to be persuasive and have a detailed plan of attack.  I started with aesthetics. I had color schemes, materials, layouts(even though I had never seen the inside of the area) and furniture choices. Of course, I never really took into account the fact that the thing might not run at all. I just knew I wanted to make it beautiful again. Long story short, I did not save $10,000, did not find an investor, and I am not sailing the I&M Canal (which is so gross, by the way) in a fancy remodeled houseboat. But for a whole year, that boat was the object of my affection, and it didn't even know I intended to save it from it's destiny as a ruined relic of the canal.

I come from a long line of emotionally driven "savers". My maternal Grandfather, who owned the afore mentioned warehouse, was legendary in Joliet for his kindness and his saving.  He used to employ the homeless folks that resided around the warehouse property, giving them odd jobs, some that he would create on the spot, just to get them out of the cold. He would handout Government issued cheese to the local people in the neighborhood around the warehouse. The warehouse itself was a save. He took a decrepit, old, and very large building and turned it into a flourishing family business. We walked around the place like royalty. I can still remember every corner.  When they tore it down, we each got a brick. It was a palace...

My mother used to take in every friend of ours, friend of theirs, or friend of a friend of a friend who needed help. It didn't matter the background or circumstance, she just wanted to help in any small way, to help themselves make a better life.  We spent years with an aunt, uncle or other relation in or around the house who needed refuge.  Saving didn't just extend to people, either. Every house we ever looked or lived in at had a better house inside of it just waiting for my parents to chisel away at the issues to set it free.

I caught the gene... OK, inherited the gene. Sometimes it is not a blessing, but only because it pains me to let things not be saved. When we look at a gorgeous old Italianate style house with a crumbling exterior, some see dollar signs a exorbitant amounts of work, I see the house it its glory days, then try to find a way to relive them. When David and I decided to house hunt for the first time, the first house we looked at was 150 years old, gutted and incredible. I thought it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen, and to this day I see the enormous arched pocket doors, marble floors that were preserved and the bathroom that was the size of my whole house marching randomly through my daydreams.  It had been purchased by a man who couldn't finish the challenge and it truly only needed aesthetic finishes. It was still too much for David. No love lost, we kept it simple. However, I was stunned at how the notebooks came out, the scheming started and nothing had changed in 20 years. I was 10 years old, trying to find a way to save $10,000 for a houseboat.

We really don't change deep down from what we are inherently as children. I still get nervous when I face the thought of sitting in the cafeteria by myself, I get anxious about asking people to be my "friends" on Facebook or otherwise for fear of rejection, and I scheme constantly. I can vividly remember all of these associations as a child. All that has changed are my motives.

Recently, I had an idea that I feel so strongly about, I started a notebook. It is a raw and vague idea about arts and underprivileged teens, but it lit something, nonetheless. I realize that there are a million reasons why it is not a good idea to scheme about anything new right now... we have enough new... but I feel so compelled to this idea that I had to take a step back and examine my motives. Which I would NOT have done as a child, of course. My motives aren't selfishly motivated, such as the glory of driving a beautiful houseboat down the canal. I felt a very organic pull toward bettering a community, or at the very least, offering something of myself to help. My best friend, Mindy, always says that she believes her calling in life is "See a need, fill a need" (yes, that is a Robots reference- if you caught that). I guess it wasn't until I had the moment of realization that I was scheming to fill a need that I truly understood what she felt. My passion for the arts and a growing need to leave my mark in a community that needs growth and development spurred a scheme, rather than just a need to save beautiful landmark.  I had never really thought of my schemes as filling a need, but I suppose they always have been in one way or another. The brainstorming has begun, but the biggest difference is that I'm not in a hurry like I was as a child. The schemes are bigger, more involved and incredibly complicated, requiring more patience, and even if they never come to fruition, the scheme itself was good for the soul.

As soon as the notebook came out, I realized what I was doing, and vowed that I would never stop.

Moment of Design Captured...

Detour Moment

I have a 45 minute commute home after I leave my fantastic job. I'm a wind-up/wind-down kind of girl, so the drive has never bothered me.  The quiet time in the car to prep my mind for the day, and then at the end of it, to calm my mind before changing gears to be mom and wife has been welcome and pleasant. I don't feel anxious when I drive and even when I take the same roads I find something new every day to take notice of. 

I was tired and slightly worn today. I wasn't in a hurry to get home, but I felt fatigued by the second half of my drive.  The road seemed eerily clear in a place where congestion is standard.  I take rural, two lane highways, and I'm not an aggressive passer, so usually I just accept that the speed limit is unattainable.  Today I was cruising along and felt that my time to travel home was coming to a close.  Out of nowhere, the traffic in front of me came to a screeching halt.  Though it was several miles before it was revealed, there was a horrendous accident ahead, with no casualties, as I was told by the civilian gentleman helping to direct traffic.  When I felt the relief of knowing that no one was seriously injured, I went about my way.  Unfortunately, I am new to the area and had no idea how to go about my way...

Yes, I was hungry and felt the weight of the day, but I don't usually feel inconvenienced by a detour.  At first my little inner voice said, "Damn, my family is waiting for me" but then I realized that it was not me in the accident ahead of me, and what was the big deal about a few extra miles anyway?  Well... it ended up being a bit more than a few miles.  I have a great sense of direction, not to mention that I live in the Front Range of Northern Colorado, so I know all I need to know is that the mountains are west, but I had no control over where the roads just... stopped.  I took a few more turns than I probably needed to, but just as I was beginning to feel a little agitation I turned down the most beautiful country road. I wound through green fields (in a drought that is a rare sighting) and pastures with horses literally galloping through it together. I felt like I was in a movie, or at least a car commercial. The sun was setting over the mountains, which I was facing, because I knew I needed to go west, and the silhouette of the range was breathtaking.  Every few hundred feet, another beautifully manicured, but rustic homestead would surface in my peripheral vision.  It was surreal.

I would never have seen that road if I hadn't had to turn around and veer off my course.  I know that this reference is cliche, but I really did need this moment to realize something very true about and very signature to my personality.  I turn detours into adventures.  I am happier when I can see a fork in the path as a quest, not a set back. Once I was captivated by the newness of the picturesque scenery, I didn't feel the pressure to get directly to my destination.  That calm allows for better judgment calls and a lesson in what it feels like to employ patience.

Evie's a pro, Grandma's discouraged

I was never the child who asked if we were "there yet" and as an adult, I feel that it's counter-intuitive to the course of life to try to get to the end without appreciating the drive.  Again, cliche, but it's truly amazing how often we do that.  My affection for detours and journeys translates into a multitude of other moments.  A couple of weeks ago, we had been asked to join a couple that we hadn't been out with before to go gold panning in the mountains.  We are always up for a new experience, so we went willingly, hauling gear and armed with food and cameras.  The site was gorgeous. We had a shallow embankment on the side of a river in Golden, Colorado.  It was not a remote area, but we had the shore to ourselves and set up a little home base for our gold panning excursion.  We rolled up our pant legs, collected our tools and waded into the icy water.  The temperature was warm that day, with a light breeze and the sun shining off of the water. I was captivated by the scene.  The couple we were with did a tutorial on the technique of gold panning and gave us tips for methodology.  It was awkward at first, but we got the hang of the the movement and eventually the anticipation of finding a flake of gold was all encompassing.  Even Evie was getting into it, and was a natural at finding the elusive black sand where the gold hung out.

We spent several hours in the water, sitting on the boulders and sifting through river sand. Our companions began to get discouraged and impatient with the lack of gold findings, but all I could think was,"This moment is so unique and memorable."  I loved the process. I had absolutely no expectations. I loved the excitement my children felt at doing something brand new and unusual. I just smiled every time a disparaging comment was made, reminded my family that it was about the experience and didn't allow myself to be influenced to get to the end.

It's hard not to feel happy here.

I find that when I go against my instinct to enjoy the ride I am not as happy, and I don't appreciate the destination as much. Our experiences help shape who we are and I believe that every detour is a moment of design.  I've read that people who spend their money on experiences rather than things are happier overall.  I believe that. I try to document as many new big moments, but the small moments of detour through the country are just as important.  I want to always be able to look out the window and see the journey, and not just ask if we're there yet.

Moment of design captured...

The Giving Tree Moment

The first thing I noticed when I pulled in the driveway of the offset country home on Stony Point Road was the archway of ash trees that lined the entrance way. It was not a long driveway, and the canopy was warm and inviting. There were a multitude of other things to notice about this particular home from the long row of rhubarb plants, to the (what used to be a) strawberry patch and most notably the tree that had been "repaired" and lovingly named "Frankentree".  More than anything I just remember the feeling I that took over when I pulled in under the ash trees. It was safe.

The home belongs to the family of my closest friend, and is worth note because it has long been a place of haven and solace for her, and anyone who she graces with the opportunity to share it with her.  As is true with any childhood homestead, she holds on to the moments and memories that she had there, and she also stands to inherit the place someday.  We have been on many adventures on Stony Point Road; walking the grounds as she told tales of the landmarks, harvesting the fruit and vegetables, and taking family pictures by the most scenic areas. The ash trees that line the driveway were hand dug by her father and lovingly planted to represent each member of the family.  Her brother's tree has required a constant hand and diligent care, but it is thriving and symbolic. Trees provide a certain majesty which, when in our lives over time, we take for granted.

She recently discovered that the Emerald Ash Borer has made it's way to their town and has been found at the property directly next to the family home. It is devastating. The insect's presence is an inevitable doom to these statuesque arboreal beauties. She told me in our chat last night and we cried.  She sobbed.  I knew that it was so much more than the trees. She loves trees, has a degree in forestry and sits on her town's tree commission, but it's so much more than the trees.  "Frankentree" exists because this family can't bring themselves to remove anything of value from the property.  It's the helplessness that she feels at having to watch a symbol of her youth and memory of her childhood disappear. Trees represent a strong and unwavering hope, but are also just as vulnerable as hope.

My only words to her were to take as many pictures as she could, with and without members of the family and create a plan for planting new.  It'll be a difficult thing for her family and the transition will be painful, but facing the inevitability of it head on and making positive moments will allow her some closure.

There aren't many things that hold that level of value in my heart. My loved ones, of course, occupy that space, but there are no trees. There are landmarks of my childhood, stories that endure and pictures of places that hold meaning. I don't feel like I've missed out on something, but there is a part of me that wants the trees.  And not just for me.  It's so rare that families are still in the same home they grew up in.  It's even more rare that it has been passed down for generations.  My children may never have the quintessential "childhood home" because it is no longer the norm and our choices have led us down a different path.  Sometimes I feel like I want to give them that, but I'm not sure that's who we are.  I think planting roots is admirable and steadfast. It takes a commitment level that our parents' parents had. I love the possibility and ideology of settling down but I am also self aware enough to know that if opportunity presents itself and will enable my family more of anything, I usually weigh the options. I feel that it's important to stay fluid, at least for now. I'm willing to change as our needs, wants and ideals do. I love tradition, and will continue to create and establish them for our little unit. Our challenge is accepting that we do not fit the mold of stationary life while surrounded by stationary life.

Trees are stationary and look like pillars of security, but they are just as susceptible to extraneous circumstances as we are.  I feel that there is a lesson in my friend's loss. The association of this experience to my own introspection feels slightly narcissistic, but I was deeply moved by her plight. I have a strong sense of empathy and it hurt to hear her so sad. I thought about how hard it would be to lose something like that after so long.  I'm not trying to avoid hurt or loss, but it made me realize that investing in something so fragile can be precarious.  More importantly, I realized that I invest in precarious every day.  Love is precarious, change is precarious, life is precarious. I put myself out there every day, and I experience so much new that if I was going to be majorly derailed, it may have already happened.  I am not afraid of precarious, vulnerable or stationary.  I'm afraid of making choices that aren't right for my family, and ultimately for me. A deep part of me longs to plant the roots of a giving tree, but I needed the clarity to see that the roots that I plant are intangible. The friend that is losing the forest of ash trees is my ash tree.  My husband is my ash tree. My children are my ash tree. My family, though far away, are a canopy of ash trees.  Hopefully, I am theirs. I have deep roots already, and they are stationary.

Moment of design captured...

Come What May Moment

Sitting in the stone pergola, sipping on an ice water and admiring the grapevines and wood fire pizza oven, I sat with my children and took a moment to talk about our days.  It was a beautiful 75 degree day, sunny and breezy.  I have come to really enjoy the calm few moment when I first get home from work, right before the storm of evening. Evelyn told me a story about how a little girl that she goes to school with, and has been playing with was making bad choices. This little girl is so much trouble that I went against my philosophy of "not telling your children who they can be friends with" and told her to disassociate with this child.  It's one thing to not like your kid's friends, it is quite another to teach them about the power of association.  I do not want my daughter to spend anymore time with a 7-year-old who calls her "friend" a bitch.  SO...I told her she wasn't allowed to play with her anymore and let her know how to handle it at school. The hard part is, Evelyn's heart is like mine, and she wants so badly to avoid hurting anyone's feelings, that she would rather passively bow out than tell her the truth.  I told her that it was alright to feel that way, but that she needed to let this girl know that she did not like the way she was acting and that she didn't want to be part of it.  She was nervous at the idea of hurting this little girl's feelings.  I felt as she did, it was a true empathetic moment. 

Ronan listened with interest and patience as he awaited his turn to tell me about his day.  He stated so simply, "Evie, you aren't mean. Why is your friend mean?" And she got it.  "I don't want to be friends with a mean girl, and I don't want people to think I'm mean." I decided that Ronan gets to teach the life lessons from now on. Especially since not two minutes later, the heavens opened up out of nowhere and it began to rain.  My immediate reaction was to go inside, but the children looked at me and Ronan just said, "Why, Mom, it's just water from the sky?"  Two in a row, Son... you win.  We sat, with warm end-of-summer rain coming down on us, and tried to catch the drops.  I reveled in a still peace as we felt the breeze pick up and a raindrop fell onto Evie's eyelash.  I love the rain. I have always loved the rain. As a teenager, my sister and I used to dance in the rain with our friends and in one wonderful instance had even gone so far as to stand in a down pour to shampoo our hair... no joke.  I don't know when the moment came that rain became something to avoid.  After all, it's just water from the sky.  I let it happen.  I didn't lament my hair style, I didn't squirm because I felt damp.  My daughter stood up and let the hard moment of a friendship lesson wash away as she stood with her arms outstretched and her eyes closed.  It was the way it should be.  Sitting in the gentle rain and teaching my children that it's ok to just let go once in a while.  They were thrilled.  We did a rain dance and continued to talk about our days.


Later on, as I put Ronan to bed, he begged for a story, but not one from a book.  He asked that I tell him one, "Just from your voice". My automatic response is to say no because it's time for bed.  It was, after all, 10 minutes past his bedtime already.  I thought of the moment in the rain, and how happy we were, so I let go.  Out of nowhere came a story of a purple hippo named Cletus who asked all of the other animals on the savannah to teach him how to fly.  It was a ridiculously cute story and we laughed hysterically at the end of the "just my voice" tale when Cletus put on his "wings" and flew.  It felt so amazing. It was as if I had allowed myself some rare freedom.

The clarity of those moments came to me in a flash.  The reason that I felt so happy in those instances is because they were examples of how it feels to be the person I WANT to be.  I don't have any intention upon changing who I am fundamentally, but there are always things to improve upon.  Everyone wants to be more of something, everyone sees that they have potential to be more, feel more, do more. I have the potential to just let go.  I've always wanted to feel a bit more spontaneous.  Don't get me wrong, I will always have a multitude of lists and itineraries, but I need to be resolved to the idea of letting things go.  It is absolutely liberating, even in the tiny difference between saying No and Yes.  How much, ultimately, would it have changed the outcome of my life to have gone in the house when the rain started? I'll never know, but I gave myself the freedom to say yes after years of avoiding activities if there was going to be water falling from the sky. I make the choice between making that moment an adventure or an inconvenience.

I brought a purple hippo named Cletus to life for my son.  I can do that. I want to be the person that does that.  I want to be able to take things in a little easier stride, and I proved to myself today that not only am I capable of doing that, but it makes me happy to do that. 

When David and I started dating, we realized early on that we are not an ordinary couple.  We make choices that other people don't make, and we handle things that other people don't handle in a way that they don't handle it.  We like who we are and we are constantly focusing on the life that we are creating for ourselves.  We work together as a team very well because no matter what life throws at us, we put our heads together and find a positive way to make things better.  Our motto is "Come what may", and has been for 13 years. Until now, I didn't realize how much that can be applied to everything I do.  It's not just about our home life, it's about our way of life.  Instead of being fixated on how things should be, we need to be more fluid about how things are.  Change is necessary and life throws punches.  I like the way I feel when I don't try to force things my way and instead allow life it's flow and just go with it. Even if it just begins with a dance in the rain.

Moment of Design captured...

Nesting Moment

So... over the last couple of days, there have been numerous little references to my childhood. On Friday, I had a conversation with my student employee, who is not a too much younger than I, about our respective childhoods. I tried to relate to her recount of the misgivings of her childhood, but it was an awkward, round about, not-really-relating-at-all kind of relating. As she spoke of her tumultuous relationship with her mother, all I could think about was how difficult it is to be a mother.  My attempt to relate to her was to say that parents work very hard to do the right thing by their children and don't even realize that they're working so hard to do it, or that it's not working at all.  The only tools a parent is given is what they've experienced from their own parents, parents they've associated with and natural instinct. That's a pretty primitive set of tools. From that perspective, I suddenly had so much clarity about my own parents.

When my sisters and I were growing up, we didn't realize our parents were "parenting" at all, and we NEVER felt them struggle.  We recognized only things like; Mom worked a lot in the house and liked things very clean, Dad worked a lot and was very tired, we eat a lot of spaghetti and canned green beans and our aunts and uncle are around a lot.  What we didn't see was; Mom is constantly picking up after us, sewing us clothes and running an in-home daycare, Dad works construction and is tired because he works overtime to make the house payment, we eat spaghetti because noodles are inexpensive and our family is always around because Mom and Dad are the ones that everyone goes to for everything.  The only things we new for sure were that we were loved and happy. The truth is, I don't even think my parents recognized the truth until much later in life. They didn't know that they were "working" to make everything seamless and comfortable for us, they just did it. They always did right by us, and we didn't know they were trying. Ultimately a great deal of sacrifice was made to create that environment, but at the time, I don't believe any of us knew that.

Recently, a song came on the radio that threw me back to one of the true and original moments of design from an early age. There is no way to properly narrate the feeling, so I will generalize the scene. Every Friday and/or Saturday night as I was growing up, my mom and dad and their brothers and sisters would get together and play music.  I remember it in the depths of my heart as if it were yesterday.  After begrudgingly being tucked into bed, we would crack our bedroom door and listen to my mother's beautiful strong singing voice, my father's soft baritone and a chorus of background singers and acoustic guitars playing rhythm to a huge range of genres.  My uncles kept time with my dad as he lead and my Aunt Dani would laugh and sing her few silly songs. Some nights, as we got older, we would get to stay up and sat silently to listen, or sing along to ourselves with the favorites.  Eventually, we sang with the aunts & uncles, who we adored and even made our own requests.  There was always music. 

Then tonight something amazing happened to finally seal that this was indeed a moment of design to hang on to.  For dinner we were having cube steaks, mashed potatoes and corn. I know this seems irrelevant, but hang on... My children were not complaining about it by any means, but they were just not into it.  David and I are exhausted of the perpetual dinner time battle of keeping them on task long enough to get through a meal in a timely and positive fashion.  Out of nowhere I made little "nests" out of the mashed potatoes, put corn in the middle and cut up the cube steak very small so they could eat it all together.  I have never done this for them and I don't know why because EVERY time we had that exact dinner as a child, my mother would make us "nests" out of the mashed potatoes, put corn in the middle and had named it a "West Virginia birdsnest". Which is spurred no doubt by some creative genius she came up with to get us to eat.  Dad's from West Virginia... that's the only explanation I have for the name of the creative genius. Honestly, I never asked her why she called it that, because I had kind of forgotten it.  But I'll ask now. My kids laughed and made their own "nests" and ate that dinner like they were starving.  It was a beautiful thing.

So how do all of these moments connect? They caused me to have the most startling and enlightening revelation that my childhood was an incredible, irrevocable success.  Granted, I never, ever felt that I had a bad or less-than childhood, but it wasn't until noticing these little moments, and comparing them to experiences of other people, as well as looking at my own parenting style that I realized how good it truly was. We never knew the pain that our parents felt. We never knew that they struggled constantly to provide a good life for us.  We never thought that they were anything less than wonderful.

But not being aware isn't what made our childhood successful, it was that the moments of good seemed to come so easily, and so frequently. It wasn't that our parents were perfect that made our childhood so good, it was that they weren't. They were just so real. I think it's very important to be imperfect as a parent.  You never want to be put on a pedestal of perfection because the first time you aren't perfect it's devastating to the child and to yourself.  I want them to know that I'm human, flawed and always trying to be the best version of myself, which is always a work in progress. It's nice to know, looking back, that my parents were OK with being wrong. They did their best to be right, but were also willing to be flawed. The important thing was that they always fixed what was broken to the best of their ability. They always worked to make things happy for us.  I remember feeling happy. However, I think the most important thing was that we always felt so much love. I never doubted that we were loved, and that we were always sure of the difference between right and wrong.  They taught us to be just and open minded and independent.  We were set up with a very efficient set of tools.

I took this revelation and analysis and applied it to my own parenting style.  It's very different, of course.  The world is different, my husband is more like my mother and I am my father.  We have a very different and interesting set of circumstances with which we live. So there's that. I am constantly evaluating myself as a parent and looking for ways to stay me and improve our lives at the same time.  I thought about how happy my children were with their "West Virginia bird's nests" and vowed to do more of the same in different scenarios and realms of involvement.  I tried to recall the way I felt as a child and then reverse engineered how to make my family life feel that way.  In short, we need to have more fun. I need to harness the inborn, as well as nurtured, gifts that I was given and use them to my advantage. This realization is a game-changer.  The simple things that it took to make us happy as children stemmed from the fact that our life was simple. It doesn't take change, or therapy or... effort.  Little things like more music, silly food names and making a walk down the street the most important time in the world will redirect our course toward greater happiness.  I proved it today, and once I realized what I was doing, I tried more.  We had the most peaceful and argument free evening that we've had in a very long time.  This new awareness made me realize that there's hope for me yet.

Moment of Design captured...