Love: Choice or Ability?

"Love is not a choice, it's an ability."  Name that movie. 

It's one of my favorite lines but it's also a bunch of malarky.  I believe that we are all born with the capacity to love beyond belief but that things can go haywire and we're left broken and confused about how to love or what love really is.

It's a big club we belong to.  I'm not sure I know anyone that truly knows what love is all about other than Mother Teresa. I think some people are a little bit better at it than others, perhaps because they had good examples but even people from the same family seem to have different abilities (okay, there it is again.)

People, namely children, can't even see beyond themselves because they are the center of the universe until they are about 3 or 4. They have to be taught to think of others and to consider their actions in the world. 

My first real act of love that I can remember is when my mom was in the hospital and my dad found himself alone at home with 5 kids.  My brothers went to school and my sisters were taking a nap so I had much coveted alone time with my charming father.  He suggested we eat lunch and included me in the process.

I stood almost at eye level with the cupboard he opened full of canned goods (lower cupboard mind you) and he asked me which soup I wanted.  I wonder if he thought I could read or he just thought I'd recognize the can??  When I pointed to one, he said are you sure?  I wasn't sure at all I was just drawn to the label for some reason. 

He let me stand on a chair watching the pot boil next to him while he prepared our lunch.  Then he lovingly poured it out into a bowl and as an afterthought included some saltines to the mix.  The look of anticipation on his face was so endearing as I took my first sip. 

My first bowl of cream of mushroom soup as a pre 4 year old was an act of love.  Like any little kid I hated it.  It was the first time I had my dad all to myself that I can recall and I was not going to reveal that this meal was a failure....so I plodded away, soaking it up with the tastier saltines and pretended I liked it beause what I really liked was him and having this special time together.

I was priveleged enough to see this same phenomenon when my son, Alex who was an avid brussel sprouts lover, so much so that he helped me plant and grow them in our very first garden, eat our first harvest.  After several weeks of watching them grow the long awaited moment came.  To this point we'd only ever had frozen brussel sprouts slathered in butter, grown by farmers that evidently knew what they were doing.

He was barely 4 years old.  I cooked them up and slathered them in butter and salt and we excitedly sat down and took our first bite.  His look of anticipation had to have matched mine as we prepared to be wowed!

Slowly savoring that first mouthful with joyful noises we both were horrified to discover that they were incredibly bitter and tough and not at all like the ones we were used to.  His face crumbled in disappointment while his mouth puckered up and he shuddered. I said, "They're not very good are they?"

He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, "They're okay mom, dont' worry, I'm just not very hungry."  A little tear escaped his eye.  And there it was.  That same moment.  That same act of love. 

Wanting so badly to share a special moment with our parent and having that moment flop. He knew I would be sad that he didn't like the brussel sprouts we'd painstakingly grown together, so he tried to mask his extreme dislike.

Was he born with an ability to love greater than anyone elses, was I?  Or did we learn somehwere along the way that we can make choices that show we love others.  We can put ourselves in someone elses shoes and have compassion for them.  We can show our love through sacrifice because maybe that's how love was demonstrated to us. 

Have you ever read the book, The 5 Love Languages?  If not, you might take a look.  What I've learned about it is that I want Acts of Love.  I want people to show me they love me, not tell me.  I trust actions more than words.  As a result I've been speaking that language all of my life, from my first memory of love forward. 

Is love a choice or an ability?  Perhaps it's both.  Growing up truly feeling loved has got to be key to being able to not only learn to receive it but to give it.  I was lucky.  I knew I was loved.  My parents were demonstrative and told me often and if they didn't they told me through their actions enough that I was secure in that knowledge.

I now know that my dad knew I didn't like the soup.  Not because he's around to tell me that anymore but because I am a parent and I know he knew every expression of my barely 4 year old face that hadn't learned to mask feelings yet and must have been able to read my thoughts in a way only a daddy can.

I wonder if he was as delighted by my denial that it was okay as I was by Alex's.  My guess is yes.  I'm guessing he knew I loved him.

The quote from the movie:???..... Dan in Real Life  I'll let you decide if love is a choice or an ability and in the meantime I hope your Valentines Day is filled with people you love speaking your "love language" and that you choose to be able to love them in return.

Parenting and Math are hard!!

I went to college to become a teacher.  I dabbled in other things like design because I was good at it but eventually my desire to work with kids and impact lives in a classroom prevailed so the college of education got me.  Admittedly part of that decision could've stemmed from the fact that I struggled with math and I only had to take a methods course in Elementary Education to learn how to teach math, a subject I knew very little about.

Regardless, my image of myself as a teacher who would have fun summer days with my then imaginary children seemed ideal.  It resonated well with my potential husband too, so a teacher I became. 

Shortly after getting married in college and graduating we moved to Boise and a teaching job was no where to be found. I was told the market was saturated and I should have gone into nursing.  Ugh!  Who wants to be a nurse?  Blood, poop, urine, illness, vomiting, crying (not to mention all that math!)

So after several months doing temporary types of clerical work we decided to start a family before a career.  My husbands career was progressing nicely and so our first baby showed up, a bouncing baby boy about a year later.

When I held that little man I suddenly shared something with, I'm guessing, the majority of the population with a newborn.  It's that feeling that there is absolutely NO ONE in this world who can take better care of him than ME!   

In many ways I was right.  But then so are all the other moms and dads that think that.  What it meant was that there is no one in this world that can possibly love them more or sacrifice more for that little person than their parents.  It provided me with an entirely new perspective on this business of childcare and preschool and a deep respect for those that had to use it despite this feeling that I now knew they all must be experiencing.

Fast forward through some times that we'll come back to eventually, but when I found myself needing a job, really needing a job to support myself, I worked at a childcare for the sole reason that I didn't want to or couldn't leave my 2 year old son.  I thought that I'd only do it for awhile.  I would grace this industry with my presence and education beyond what was needed and do myself a favor in the process.

heh heh heh...it's funny how life has a way of humbling us without notice.

Amidst the laughter, tears, blood, illness, fun, parents, volunteers, vomiting, staff, owners, urine, poop, tricycles and yes math as an administrator I found myself and my path alongside my son and consecutive 2 daughters, and those dreamy summers I'd envisioned never materialized.

That was over 27 years ago and hundreds and hundreds of children and families ago.  A few of those children now bring their children to one of our facilities.  It's been a privilege and a joy and here is where I've decided it's time to share some of the incredible stories of this journey. 

Parenting is hard.  It's made harder when we have to do it alone or in a vacuum with our significant other.  It is equal parts joy, fear and anguish. Some people make it look easy and it simply isn't.  

The incredible things I've learned from my parents, other parents, all of the amazing teachers I've worked with, my incredible volunteers and board members and raising my own family all contribute to the possibility that I might actually know something that might be of use to other parents.  

That all adds up to an equation, that computes to a sum, that in all probability leads to a formula for success, at minimum, a fraction of the time.  

And you thought my math hadn't improved in all these years. 

A Career is born

It was 1959 and my heavily drugged mother yelled out in the delivery room, “Thank God it’s a girl, I’m so sick of looking at penises!”  No self-respecting, pillbox hat wearing, Catholic mother in a Catholic hospital would yell out such a thing, but I was baby number 4, number 3 that survived childbirth and the first born girl.  I was a treasure she’d long awaited and the star of the family for a few short years.

 

About two years later my sister Susie arrived and on her heels Jeanine. The intruders are pictured above, I'm snuggled up next to my mom.  My princess crown slipped slightly as the sheer numbers increased but also because Susie had some special needs that my parents were alternately denying and embracing as parents do when faced with a cognitive disability.

My favorite activity with my parents remained sitting on their laps having them read me a book.  I’d evidently spent a fair amount of time doing this early on when I was the reigning princess that I never forgot how incredibly satisfying those moments were.  They became more and more rare as time went on and I can recall how sad I was about that at the ripe old age of about 3.

It seems like I spent eons watching my brothers leave for school, with me begging to be able to go, while my mom reassured me that I would be next…and best of all when I got there I would learn to read.  I was ecstatic. 

No more would I have to wait for someone to read me a book. 

I would have the special power to decode those exotic symbols that took me to places I’d never been, about people I’d never met, about experiences I never had.  I couldn’t imagine a greater power of any kind.

Fast forward an eternity later and I am finally standing in my first classroom at my Catholic school a little nervous about the nun whose veil hung to the floor as she quietly swooshed through the classroom of 25 eager 1^st graders.  She had us line up in the front of the classroom where we could clearly see the large alphabet hung above the blackboard.  She went down the line and pointed with her wooden pointer to each letter and then to one of us standing in that row to say the letter aloud.  The smell of fear suddenly overpowered the lovely first day smell of new crayons and freshly starched uniforms.

As my turn approached not only was I shaking in my newly purchased black and white saddle shoes, but as was my way, I wanted to throw up or pee my pants.  I did not know any of the letters and slowly watched as it got closer and closer to me being called upon.  Mortified I muttered a letter that someone had said a few try’s back and she kindly corrected me (thank GOD for her) and moved beyond me.

We performed a similar exercise with addition and as I heard people’s answers to her equations I searched through my limited data bank for patterns to help me when my name was called.  Again, I failed miserably (in my mind) as she gently told me the answer.  I know there were others that didn’t know the answers too, but on that day, in my mind, it was just me. 

I was furious when I arrived home even after walking the mile trek, all uphill of course.  I stormed in and announced, “I didn’t learn how to read today!!  I’m not going back!”  I tried to cover my shame with anger and vowed not to return. 

My mother took me into her arms and told me it takes a very long time to learn to read and that today was just a start.  I cried.  I told her why I was crying…because no one ever read me books anymore and all I wanted out of this school thing was to learn to read books. 

Through my hiccupped explanation she quietly listened and when I was done, she took a moment that I’m sure she could barely spare, sat me down on her lap, and read me a book.  She patiently pointed out letters and helped me begin to decode my first book.

My soul soared.

My job today is all around making sure no little person goes into school on the first day ecstatic to learn, and exits defeated at how little they know.  The early years are crucial to a child’s future success in school and the more information they have in their arsenal that first day, the more confident learner they are.  Studies show they actually are more likely to finish school, go beyond high school, and contribute to society in meaningful ways.

I hope it’s obvious that I did learn to decode just a little and that I can now scrap with the rest of them as I wrangle with words to explain why this is important.  My life’s work has been to create places for children and their parents from which to launch into kindergarten and beyond.

It may not seem so lofty,

but for a quivering little girl in saddle shoes,

it would have meant the world to have known just that one letter.

9 Months Pregnant

I've always said that at nine months pregnant no woman begs to be pregnant a little bit longer.  I was reluctant to have my first baby knowing that as soon as he entered the world exposed to it's many mysteries that his pain would become my pain, however, the pain he was causing my body, mind and soul at that point was so worth the swap. It was natures way of helping me separate and be ready for our individual selves to emerge.

When a child turns 18 it's not much different.  More about that later.

When I was a little girl, I had the mumps and my nieghbor brought me a Barbie house made out of cardboard with a cleverly built in elevator.  I was in heaven.  It was at that time that I wished for a little family that I could put in that house and make safe and sound with no pain or illness.  My quest for children of my own came early and stemmed from my happy childhood, my engaging siblings and my great parents. Family memories abound.

I grew up in Washington in a big family with 4 other siblings and two fun-loving parents who loved each other.  I was fortunate to have two sets of grandparents, a weekly trip to church each Sunday, private school, a great neighborhood and small town fun with fields to play in.  This was all before color TV, PC's and cell phones.  Simpler times, but no less complicated in it's own way.

We moved to the East Coast, I learned about other people, other times through historical places and about myself, then I came to Idaho to go to school.  I met my husband of 30+ on and off years and got pregnant for the first time at 24, a mere 3 years after getting married.

At this time,  some 29 or so odd years later, I am again 9 months pregnant with my 18 year old "baby".  I am comfortable with this space as I've been here twice before and experience brings it's comforts.  I don't really WISH for it to be OVER however I know we are both at a point that we are preparing to let go of the relationship we've known thus far and ready to move forward with an independance that is both necessary and inevitable, despite our probably collective misgivings.

I am once again at that point that I was when my first was born and the nurse brought him to my room.  I remember hearing him cry and realizing for the first time that everything that happend to him would now happen to me.  I felt overwhelmingly vulnerable and scared of what those things might be and I wanted to shield us both from the inevitable hurt that was bound to occur over our lifetimes that were undeniably interwoven.

I knew somewhere deep that I would also have many opportunities to rejoice in his happiness as well, but I was more afraid of the pain. At that moment I wanted those 9 months back and to have him safe in the womb with only the anticipation of what could be and all of it's many fantasies of lovely things to look forward to instead of the stark reality of life on earth.

It is no different now, with my third, a girl who will soon launch into the world as a young adult.  The discomfort of these last few months lead to an eventual letting go that is necessary for us to be able to cut that cord and get on with the business of growing up and moving on...but it's hard.  It's painful and it makes me want to grab her back and start from the beginning again to make sure we haven't missed anything important along the way.

It makes me alternately happy for us both but so very sad to see this chapter of our lives closing.  I wouldn't have it any other way and because I have the insight of letting two others go it feels like it might be okay, but....

She is the baby.  I came home tonight to an empty house, as my husband travels, with only a bunny rabbit to greet me and I sense an empty space that will, in a few short months, need to be filled with something other than her.  It is different.  This chapter feels like it's the closing of a very vital and important part of my being that began with a little cardboard structure with an elevator. 

I am going to hop on that elevator and see where it takes me....I am both scared and excited but this is natures way and if there is anything I try hard to respect, it is natures way.

I only hope nature goes easy on us as we approach our final months before the great launch into the world....