Happy 10th

      Tonight I find myself considering what 10 years looks like.  For me it has been an interesting decade; where it started is such an incredible contrast to where I am today.  It was a lot to hold throughout the day; this is not the traditional kind of milestone that I celebrate with others, and I would certainly not celebrate it in a way that is visible to my children.
      It was 10 years ago today that I dropped out of college and drove away from an abusive marriage with a minivan full of whatever fit that I thought would be important and $50 in my purse.  My parents had come a week earlier and taken the kids and some household stuff in their Jeep.  I had spent the week afraid that I would become another shirt on the clothesline project, but I had given notice at work and felt obligated to stay until that date.  Looking back, I cannot recall what could have possibly been that important there, but who thinks clearly under such stress?   Obviously not me.  When I hit I-94 I started to breathe again; the farther I went the easier it got; Highway 10; Highway 64, and so on.  When I arrived at my parent's house 5 hours later I realized that I had done it, finally.
      OK, now what?  It was time to put on my big girl panties and deal with my reality.  I knew what my goals were: be a good mom, get a job, and to finish my education someday.  Luxuries like school seemed so unattainable at that time, but I never took it off the list.  In the meantime I worked and adjusted to parenting alone. I swallowed my pride and accessed public assistance, lived with my parents, and saved enough to put a down payment on a house.  I was that exhausted mom in the grocery store at 6PM toting three kids (who were sometimes whining or screaming).  Eventually my youngest started kindergarten, so I finally went back to school.  Over the course of 4 years I completed 2 Bachelors degrees and a Masters degree - still working on the PhD.  Luckily I am not anticipating any major road blocks at this point; the hardest years are a decade behind me and I have gotten pretty good at managing the hiccups that appear. 
      Don't mistake my track record as the most important source of my confidence; I would not have accomplished any of this in isolation.  On average, women leave and return to an abusive relationship 7 times before staying away.  I never understood why this statistic was so surprising to folks given how stigmatized victims of intimate partner violence are in our society.  This was my third try, but I had the right supports and opportunities in my life this time.  What stands out most clearly to me is the people who have been present in my life, and the ways in which they have helped me to accomplish what once felt impossible.  Much of the inspiration, courage, and strength I found was renewed within the context of my relationships with family, friends, and mentors.  There are so many people who have been witness to and part of my journey, most never realizing what that journey actually was. 
      It was with the people in my life that I learned to begin living again, to love the ordinary, every day in my life.  OK, so I worked all day and came home and worked all night until I fell into bed.  So do a lot of other people, and it was worth it to do it well whether I was tired or not.  Making dinner became less of a chore and more of an opportunity for getting creative, having fun, and bringing people together (which subsequently made grocery shopping more enjoyable).  I sang while I washed the floors and danced while I dusted. Spelling practice became kinesthetic silliness with my son and math was a great excuse for popcorn.  My homework was forward mobility in APA format.  I hosted sleep overs and movie nights, scout meetings and BBQs.  I had late night phone calls with friends and still got up at 6 because both things mattered.   
      I try to find small ways to celebrate the everyday, and I intentionally make time for people and activities.  My friends marvel that I can manage to find time and energy for side projects and hosting get togethers; I can't image not doing so.  We only have one life.  It is not going to finally be happening in 10 years, it is happening in our everyday moments. So this 10th looked like late nite nachos and tequlia shots with Katie after the kids were asleep; 10 years could look like any woman, but tonight it looks like me.

The Story of a Song

      I love children's music (I guess I am that kind of woman).  I love other music as well, but there is just something special about children's music.  I used to sing to the kids I babysat, then to the kids I nannied, the kids at the childcare, and eventually to my own children.  I love the variety of ways in which music can enter into the everyday moments of a child.  We had hello songs, cleanup songs, learning songs, playing songs, celebration songs, and goodbye songs.  My all time favorites, however, are the lullabies.  They are the places in which children learn what academics refer to as the co-regulation of emotion.  But music is a feelings thing for me, and there are not always words to express clearly what is present in some of the shared experiences around lullabies.
      There is one lullaby that has a special place in our family.  It's funny, but I don't even know the name of it, only how to sing it.  I used to drive from Minneapolis to Prior Lake to nurse my youngest daughter when I had a long enough break between classes.  Sometimes it would play in the crib room where we sat, and I would rock her and sing softly.  After she weaned, I rarely sang that particular song.  After we moved I didn't sing at all for a while.
     When she was about 4 her favorite blanket finally disintegrated in the wash machine.  Any parent who has witnessed this understands what I mean when I tell you she was devastated.  There was no anger or frustration, just a deep and profound sense of sadness and loss in her eyes and her voice (she really loved her bunny blanket).    As I was tucking her in that night, I agreed that extra lullabies were in order; one was not sufficient for a day like this.  So we went through every lullaby I could think of.  As I was getting ready to leave the room she begged for one more; she insisted that there was a special one I did not sing for her.  I couldn't remember anything else, and was dismayed as she became tearful.  I asked her if she knew what it was called. "No."  So I asked if she could hum a bit. "I can't remember."  Did she remember any of the words? "Hearts and cheeks," she sobbed.
      There was a hint of a memory, so I started humming.  After a few notes, it was a tidal wave; lyrics from one verse, the refrain, music, images, and the profound sense of peace that I felt in those moments we shared.  I don't know what the lullaby evoked for her, but whatever it was, she needed it that night.  My memory was imperfect, as all memories are, but it was good enough to help her get through the demise of bunny blanket.