The notes on my bedside table

My bedside table is tiny. The one night Jeff slept on my side of the bed (I apparently had sprawled across his before he came up), he complained incessantly the next morning about the lack of space to put even a water bottle and a phone.

He’s not wrong; it fits a small lamp, my water bottle, a little ceramic horse Lily painted for me, a stack of everything I’m convinced I’ll read next, and a haphazard pile up of my phone, glasses, night guard, medication, and Garmin watch. Everything is tipping slightly off a side or corner, and I live in fear of the cat deciding it would make a nice spot to perch at 3 in the morning.

Last night before bed, as I began the artful task of arranging the various necessities to have close at hand in the middle of the night, I knocked over the metal water bottle which collided with the lamp, tipping it into the stack of reading material, and a domino effect ensued as things began sliding onto the bed and floor. As I began to restack the novels like an oversized edition of Jenga, smaller envelopes and cards kept slipping out, far more than I’d realized had made their way into the pages and between the front and back covers.

The books restocked and the water bottle placed strategically apart from the lamp, I picked up the various notes and began to sift through them. A bedazzled Christmas hand turkey from our godson and his sister in Wales, a gift card for a favorite nail salon that I’d completely forgotten to enjoy, a handwritten note from Lily instructing me to look for an item she’d hidden under my bed, a letter of gratitude from a former student, an assortment of wreathed ducks from my brother’s Christmas card one year, a handwritten note from a close friend who was checking up on me, and a blue and yellow pair of sneakers racing across a finish line, a reminder from dad that my passion for running originates from his own.

As I ran my hands over the assorted letters and envelopes, noting the distinct writing styles, I was struck again by something I first realized as a freshman in high school. When someone writes you a note--handwrites you a note--they have to pause and just focus on that task. For those moments, whether they are seconds or minutes or hours, you are the sole item on their mind. That is an incredible gift--taking the time to pause and create something to bring another joy or hope. It's why, when quarantine began in March 2020 and school went fully virtual, I made a commitment to writing one letter a day to an individual faculty member. In a moment of isolation, I wanted them to know that they were not alone, that I was setting aside time to think of them specifically. When I couldn't physically give them a hug or see their smiles, I could put something my hands had designed into my mailbox and send it directly into their hands.

Before turning off the light last night, I carefully stacked the assorted cards and placed them beneath my Kindle, at the top of that towering stack of books. They serve as a reminder that I am held tightly by those I love, whether they are near or far.

And then, the next morning, I pulled out a notecard and a stamp and put pen to paper, just one person on my mind for a few moments.

It still takes a village.

The past several weeks have been hard. It's my job as a mom to protect my kid, and some of that in this era is about not putting her whole life on the internet before she has a say in it, so I'm not going to go into the details. Suffice to say, it's been a whole lot of tension, accompanied by shouting matches, with healthy doses of tears, and even a massive kitchen explosion when a particularly time-consuming dinner prep didn't turn out at all well. (Word to the wise: throwing baked sweet potatoes mixed with quinoa and lentils at a popcorn ceiling isn't worth it, no matter how cathartic it feels in the moment.)

By the start of last week (when an additional layer of information added to everything else), Jeff and I had no idea where to turn. He's usually the skeptic, the one who believes that things are a phase--and he's usually right. But by the time we hit Wednesday, it was clear to both of us that we needed help. 

Which is also when it became clear we hadn't asked for any. I didn't share with any friends what had been going on, and, when Monday's news just complicated everything further, I didn't know how to. All of the sudden, I could only see my daughter--my compassionate, sweet, creative, funny daughter--through the lenses of the concerns I had about her. And the result was that, whether I intended it or not, she felt the shift.

On Monday night, Jeff headed to a dance lesson, and my anxieties came to a head. The resulting evening with Lily was fraught with angst, and I provided no opportunities to hear her point of view. Frustrated and in tears, Lily raced upstairs before bed and slammed the office door.

Once the kitchen was clean, I dragged myself up after her, prepared for another battle. What I found instead was a note she'd slipped under the door and into the hallway.

Apparently, while I didn't know how to ask for help, my 7-year-old did. She'd learned something from her counselor at school (an amazing woman who joins her class regularly to help with social-emotional learning) called "I messages," in which she expresses how she feels and why ("way") she feels that way. And so, when she didn't have words--and when, quite frankly, I was steamrolling her spoken words with my anger, she found a way to talk to me. And not only that--she asked me to talk to her, too.

Over the course of the week, we went through a multitude of notes passed under doors at night--notes that revealed not her frustration but her heartache, not my anger but my fears. Jeff would come home at night to find stacks of messages on the half-wall upstairs and page through them, trying to decipher the conversations.

Finally, on Friday, I followed my daughter's lead: I asked for help. I reached out to her teacher about one issue and shared with a close friend about another. Both repeated the same words to me: "This is normal. We've seen this before. It's not your fault." They affirmed our daughter's character and spirit, reminding me of what I simply couldn't see.

Lily and I most recently traded "I messages" at the end of the week. In Lily's first one, she revealed her heart's hurt.

There were several messages that followed, a handwritten dialogue that allowed me the time and space to hear her. At the end of those many pages, covered in a multitude of marker colors and more than one with a few wet spots from tears, this one came.

When Lily was little, people told me it would take a village, but I was hesitant to rely on those around me in the early months--I thought I was supposed to handle it all on my own. On an epic night when Lily was several weeks old and Jeff was at work, I learned that just wasn't possible. Lily had pooped in the infant tub insert, then in the main tub (as I tried to clean the insert), then on the bathmat (as I tried to empty the tub). As the tears welled up and I looked at this infant that I was supposed to know how to clean and feed and care for, I sent an SOS text to her godfather who lives next door: "I know it's dinnertime, but can you send your girls to me to help?" Moments later, Lily's godmother and her daughter were racing in the door, the elder with a bottle of wine and the younger prepared to entertain Lily while I started loads of laundry.

We've told that story a hundred times--it's one of Lily's favorites--and it never fails to make us all laugh. But last night, when I showed Lily's godparents the image above, they both paused. And then her godmother reminded me of something: I can still text when I need a glass of wine and a friend to sit in the hallway with me while I cry or laugh or just try to ride the emotions as they come.

It takes a village. I'm glad I've been reminded of the importance of reaching out to mine.

A Glass of Water

Early Sunday evening, Lily brought me a glass of water.

In and of itself, this is not an earth-shattering or life-altering event. Though it's remarkable to us that she's tall enough to get a plastic glass out of the cabinet and fill it with water from the dispenser on the top shelf of the fridge, it's a fairly normal act for a 7-year-old to complete.

What made this glass of water unusual was that it wasn't for Lily--and that no one specifically asked her to get it.

On Sunday morning at 7:30a, I went for a run with a friend who I haven't been out on the trail with in nearly a year. We logged four miles in 20-something degree weather at a good pace for us both. I got home in time to shower and change, then arrive in the kitchen to find Jeff had made me breakfast and had it waiting for me to eat with him in the ten minutes I had before racing out the door. For the next four hours, I gave tours to newly admitted students at my school before rushing to meet Jeff and Lily at a(n outdoor, socially distanced and masked) birthday party for one of the girls in her class. And while the drop-off nature of that party allowed Jeff and me time to sneak down to Georgetown for a late lunch date, our arrival back home in the early evening meant there was still a lot to do to get ready for school and work the next day.

I trudged upstairs almost immediately to begin working on the enormous basket of (at least) clean laundry waiting to be folded on our bed. As I kicked off my shoes and pulled out the first few articles, Jeff and Lily came into the room. As is her habit at the moment, Lily was instantly on our bed, bouncing around and testing her ability to hold gymnastic bridges--and effectively taking up any folding surface I might have. Jeff, meanwhile, was checking in to see the plan for the rest of the evening.

Continuing to attempt laying shirts flat amidst the chaos on the bed, I sighed deeply and told Jeff I had no motivation to even make dinner--I just wanted to be done with chores. I checked my watch to see how many hours I had to pack everything in and noted that my step count was above 20,000 for the day. With another sigh, I paused in my chore recitation to say, "I really haven't had enough water today."

And right then was the remarkably unexpected moment.

Lily popped down from her bridge and pushed herself off the bed, then began to move quickly to the door, calling back over her shoulder, "I can get you water, Mama. I'll be right back."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, she returned to the room, both hands carefully clutching the glass she'd gotten down, filled, and carried upstairs on her own. She handed it to me, and I drank half of it gratefully. With a smile and after quick squeeze around my waist, she darted past me and leapt back onto the bed, ready to resume her training.

The evening was still chaotic. There were still fresh masks to put in bags, themed clothes to lay out for Spirit Week, and email to check. Though the laundry got folded, I never did get around to cooking the chicken thighs in the fridge. 

But the evening also changed in that moment. It shifted from my lament at needing to do everything myself to my realization that my family is so tuned into my needs that they appear with what I ask for, even when I don't ask them for it. By the end of the night, I was able to snuggle with Lily on the sofa and watch an episode of her current favorite show, Full House, and laugh over the antics of Michelle and Stephanie.

Thanks, Lil' Bean. Your glass of water was a game changer.

A day like any other day... except, YOU were there.

When I was little, this was my dad's favorite response to the trite question, "How was your day?" I always took it at face value: my dad was acknowledging that each day was like the last (and the next) and little changed that fact.

These days, though, very few are like anything any of us have experienced before. Each day is exhausting in its own both completely predictable and completely unprecedented way. I've come to joke about the 15,000 steps I consistently have before noon, thanks to a pre-dawn run followed by hours of weaving serpentine patterns between my high school students, reminding them to keep their distance and keep us all safe. Lily's now used to wearing her mask at all times except lunch (when she's on a cushion outside six feet or more away from each classmate), and she's become an expert at washing her masks in the sink with me twice a week to make sure we have fresh ones for each day. Jeff rolls out of bed at his 6am alarm and manages to not only make Lily's breakfast but also have a fresh mug of coffee in my hand before I walk out the door.

So, no, these days are not like any other day.

I never went to the first day of in-person school with my daughter and I both masked.

But I also never had the freedom to paddle board with my family when I got home at 4pm.

Never had the joy of so many (two- and four-legged) family night dinners around the table during the week.

And never knew how much fun playing hopscotch with a first grader practicing her numbers and balance could be.

Dad, it's not a day like any other day--not like any other day any of us has ever experienced. But it is a better day because of those who are by my side (even if "by my side" is the phone call to my Mum and Dad as we drive home from school or the "picture phone" call between Lily and her best friend in Germany or the distance play date with her neighborhood buddies). The WHO makes the WHAT bearable.

I'm grateful to all the "YOU"s, who, by being there, make it actually feel like it might just be a day like any other day.

Grateful?

Today, I don't feel very grateful--I feel more... annoyed. Annoyed Jeff has to work the entirety of another weekend (this is the third one in a row). Annoyed by the uncertainty of preparing our faculty for the fall. Annoyed by the insane heat. Annoyed by being limited in where we can go and what we can do.

Deep breath. (Or, as Lily calls them, "balloon breaths"--the ones where my palms go facedown on top of hers faceup, and we let our arms expand up and down as we pause and breathe.)

It's not that I'm not allowed to feel annoyed--or robbed of the summer or angry at COVID or frustrated by figuring out another weekend night on my own with Lily. But it is important for me to put these things in perspective.

As a mom, I constantly worry--constantly--about whether I'm doing enough for my daughter. Any moment that isn't social media worthy (not that I'm on social media in the first place) feels like a failure, and it's magnified 1000 times by my own anxiety. But if I can step back for a moment and take a few balloon breaths, maybe I can see that she's doing just fine.

Maybe, by posting it here, you can help reassure me she's doing just fine?

As I type, she's in the "play office" (that room I partially took over once distance learning became a reality), happily orchestrating some complex situation where Noah's Ark rescues animals, then takes them to the PlayMobil aquarium to rehabilitate.

Her hair is wet from the pool Jeff MacGyvered out of a Trader Joe's watermelon cardboard box and a $20 tarp from Home Depot--the spot where she's spending several hours each afternoon in these days laden with heat indexes and advisories.

When we've come up short with ideas of things to do these days, we turn to the Summer Bingo card I made for Lily; with each 5 squares complete (which don't have to be in a row), she earns a prize. At 5 squares, she had a nail painting party with mom, and the grand prize of 25 squares is a "Lily's choice" day: she determines everything, from what Jeff and I wear, to what we eat for each meal, to all activities.

So far, she's knocked out items like making her own lunch, baking from-scratch blueberry muffins, and creating a nature scavenger hunt for me and Jeff. In fact, she just finished her tenth square this morning, so Jeff and I will spend tomorrow morning being soaked in a "Water Balloon Fight with Mom and Dad," which is the prize for that milestone.

Miraculously, in spite of all that is happening, she still has been able to make summer memories with her closest friend in the neighborhood, whether they're dipping into a backyard pool (an actual inflatable one this time) or out catching fireflies past their bedtimes.

(For those of you keeping track, that's just these two little girls, growing up too fast. :)

And yet--in spite of all of this--even in the most mundane moments, when Lily listens to an audiobook for hours on end and colors while I spend time on a long Zoom call, it's easy for me to feel like I'm not doing enough, planning enough, or being enough for her. The voices that tell me she hasn't yet done her sight word flashcards today or hasn't read me a book or hasn't practiced her lowercase letters can scream so much more loudly than the ones that say, "you're doing the best you can."

But I AM. I'm doing the best I can every minute of every day. I'm helping raise a child who is silly and creative and thoughtful. I'm taking care of myself by reading a book or watching an old season of Project Runway. I'm knocking out the laundry and the grocery shopping while Jeff is at work to maximize our at-home time together.

Thanks for helping me see that, friends. I have no idea at this point who--if anyone at all--may still be reading these posts. But writing them is like chatting with those who I know used to check in on them, and that's a comfort.

I'm grateful for what I have and for you.

Windows

Since I've set up my "distance learning" office in half of Lily's (tiny!) playroom, I spend a lot of time in front of a window that looks out onto the trees and path behind our townhouse. This afternoon, one of our cats ("Little") is stretched out in the windowsill, enjoying the breeze and the fluttering leaves falling. People are strolling by with dogs and children, interspersed with the occasional runner or bicyclist. By all accounts, it could be any lovely spring afternoon--not one in this crazy new reality in which we live.

Sometimes, I miss my old window very much, even though it didn't look into the outside world. That window looked from my office at school into the students' main gathering space. From there, I'd lift my head from a troublesome parent email to smile at students laughing at someone's joke, or I'd find myself weighed down by academic matters only to glance a football sailing by (which always warranted a knock on the window to remind the students to take projectiles outside). I miss my students deeply.

These days, it's easy to halt my gaze before I even get to my actual window to the outside. Instead, the three windows directly in front of me become a metaphor for the juggling schedules we're managing daily: my email on one, the spreadsheet I'm balancing with course sectioning on the second, and Lily's reading video on the third. It's not unusual to find myself observing a math class while helping Lily fill in her hundreds chart or responding to a senior's essay while helping Lily understand how she can use "why" and "because" to make her opinion writing stronger.

But our virtual windows also give us a wider point of view. We have family Zoom calls with friends in Wales and Germany--at times when none of us ever would have all been home before. We have happy hours with friends after little ones are in bed and virtual playdates that result in raucous laughter rolling out of Lily's room as she pretend plays through a phone screen. More than anything, these windows give us connections, reminding us of the importance of a world outside our walls.

As they have for so much of my life, books become our windows, too. As Lily's ability to read grows, we often find her tucked under her bed, quietly sounding out words and using pictures to help her figure out the trickiest ones. And she finally loves chapter books, too--which is such a joy for me as my memories of my mom and dad reading chapter books to me are some of my favorites. After finishing the first book of Harry Potter, we've moved on to Dragon in the Library, a book which allows the protagonist, Kit, to travel into different magical lands through the vehicles of books. (Serious meta!)

On the best days, we leap out of our windows, beyond their confines, into the world that still exists beyond them. We take class lessons outside (thanks to Lily's brilliant and creative kindergarten teachers) and learn skip counting by literally skipping as we count or practice addition by stomping through puddles in the rain.

We race to find the unknown--whether that's a winding path to a river or a splashy kayak trip through a bay. With the understanding that windows will keep us in if we don't force them open, we push with all our might against them and breathe deeply when the fresh air enters our lungs.

Our windows lead us into worlds as small a puzzle and as big as an alley full of murals, as simple as learning lowercase letters and as complicated as maintaining social distance while erratically flying a kite. Most importantly, our windows do not confine us; they become our vehicles to new worlds and experiences.

Who knows what tomorrow's window will bring?

Being an Introvert in a Self-Isolated World

Finding great joy in the very smallest things.

Over the course of the past week, our lives have drastically changed. Last Friday, I curiously asked a good friend "so... you've implemented extreme social distancing?" She replied that their family had; they were limiting to nuclear family walks but otherwise avoiding others as much as possible. I couldn't believe it when she suggested our daughters--best friends since they were two--have a Google Meet "play date" from our houses that are less than 200 feet apart.

And then this week happened. The week when waking up every day and turning to the news revealed some new state shut down or quarantine enforced; the week when working from home became not a privilege but a practicality; the week when Lily began to cry at least once daily with her frustration with how the coronavirus was separating her from her friends and keeping her from our annual visit to see my parents in Florida. 

In some ways, the days became the easiest part for me; I went for a run in the morning, then set up some activity stations for Lily while Jeff made breakfast. Once Lily was settled into activities and Jeff had begun to telework, I could take a shower and head to the basement for my own work. We tossed in some family activities whenever possible: a hike in Bluemont or a long walk to the post office and grocery store to stretch our legs.

The evenings were tougher, though. Once I'd done all the work I could do and headed up from the basement, it became so easy to slip into my comfort with being an introvert. Self-isolation is, in some ways, an introvert's dream: it eliminates guilt as no one is allowed socialize and it feeds into a desire to just remain quiet and alone.

Yesterday afternoon, as I finished my work, I arrived upstairs to an empty house; Jeff had taken Lily kayaking on the Potomac, so I was left to my own devices. I straightened up, ran a few small errands to get needed supplies for meals, and then arrived back home, happy to have the opportunity to settle into folding laundry with a favorite movie in the background.

And then I got a text inviting me to have a cocktail.

See, in our neighborhood, it's possible to socially distance and be with our best friends. We live next door to some of the people we love most in the world, which means that we can kick our feet up, still be six feet apart, and share laughter and human connection. 

Our green gin and tonics, in honor of St. Patrick's Day.

So, as much as I would have been drawn to staying inside on my own yesterday afternoon, enjoying a quiet house before Jeff and Lily's return, I found myself making my way onto our deck, pulling up a chair to the railing, and realizing that I can be an introvert and still recharge through time spent with others.

I don't know what the weeks and months ahead will hold, but I do know this: introverts like me cannot succumb to complacency. Pick up your phone and call a friend; set up your kid with a Google Meet where all they may do is make funny faces for a half hour; know when you need to initiate the contact with the rest of the world instead of waiting for them to reach out to you.

I can't wait for cocktail hour tonight--after all, there's still a weekend to kick off!