Catching my Balance

I've written a couple posts lately about preparing for my nest to empty: sadness about losing my children to their own lives and my nostalgia as I think back on my children's young lives.

And here it is, Christmas. I always have a tough time getting into the Christmas spirit. I rarely even feel like putting up a tree, and I almost never buy gifts until just a few days before Christmas. And the real meaning of Christmas always seems to elude me, too.

This year, the prospect of Christmas was rather bittersweet. My husband has been working second shift, six days a week, for the past month; we rarely see him. My kids have been busy with their own work schedules as well. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day would be the first time in months when we could all be together. I longed for this, yet I knew it would be the last one with all my kids living at home. From next year on, at least one of my kids would be visiting, not living here and being part of my everyday life.

Several years ago, I spent Christmas Eve waiting for biopsy results, wondering if it was the last Christmas Eve my family would have me with them. Last night, I cried all through the beautiful candlelight "Silent Night" as I wondered if it was the last Christmas Eve my family would be intact. I thought how grateful I would be for even a few hours of having my entire family together on Christmas.

Yeah, well, so much for that.

Son #2 has a girlfriend. They've been together over a year, and I really like her--but (you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you?) they aren't married, he is still 17, and I needed him for one more Christmas. So guess where he decided to spend his Christmas Day? You got it--not with us.

Although all of us wanted him here with us today, in an effort to be kind and respectful of the relationship he has with his girlfriend, I agreed that he could go with her family to visit relatives in Illinois today. Every time I said, "We'd like you here with us, too," he would respond with, "I'll be home by 5. You'll still have me half of the day." (No, coming home at 5 does not leave us with half the day.). I held off Christmas dinner so he could be with us--and when I texted him to ask him to let me know what time he would be home so I could start getting dinner things together, he replied that he would be late tonight and that we should just eat without him.

After a rather lengthy exchange that included me telling me how sad I was and him announcing that he was just as much part of A's family as ours (what? seriously, dude? I birthed you! grrr), I simply broke down. I am not ready for my babies to be gone. I so needed to have all my family together for a few hours, with my husband and the children we made and raised together. Instead of having even so much as a dinner to gather my family to my bosom and soak in their presence, I was already letting them go before I'd even started to say goodbye.

Is that what parenting is? When they were little, the kids would start to walk, and there I would be, chasing behind them, trying to protect them and catch them and watch them. The child takes a step. Mommy is right behind, ready to reach out to steady him as he tries to catch his balance. I think I'm still doing that. My arms are reaching out to steady my child, only it seems that I'm really trying to steady myself as I try to catch my balance. Knowing that kids are supposed to grow up and leave their parents' home doesn't make it any easier when I'm the parent who's having a hard time letting go. I find myself wanting to say, "Wait, I'm not ready for you to go just yet!" Again and again and again.

What Is Wrong with Us?

When there is a mass shooting, I normally (yes, I realize how horrifying it is that this happens so much that I can actually use the word "normally" here) immerse myself in the news. If I'm home, I park myself in front of CNN, and I constantly check news sites, Facebook, Twitter, etc. for new information. This was especially the case in the two Milwaukee-area shootings this year. I want to understand how and why, I want to know who the victims are, I want to know about the acts of heroism.

Not this time.

This is just too much. I was out the way to the pet store with a friend at lunch time when we heard the news about the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. We were caught up in the silliness of our fish-shopping adventure and the grand pet store we found, and I just figured I would get caught up on this when I got back to work.

I got back to my office, loaded CNN on my computer, and froze. There was a video of a child--A CHILD!!!--being interviewed. I logged off and couldn't bear to look at the news again until this morning.

I hate that children have to be interviewed by the police to help their investigation, but I certainly understand the need to do so. They are dealing with enough trauma that will undoubtedly shape their tender brains, and a police interview that asks them to relive something so horrific surely can't help. But it is necessary.

A media interview, though? What kind of media do we have that this is seen as appropriate? I don't care if the parents do give permission. The parents aren't thinking too clearly right now. They probably had some moments of wondering if their children were even alive. I would not assume they are of sound mind at the moment. I find it insensitive enough when Olympic athletes who miss the gold medal by just a hair are interviewed while they still haven't gotten off the field about how they feel. (Really? We can't guess how they feel? We can't wait 15 minutes for them to figure out how they feel and how they want to talk about it?) But this is just too much. The act of asking and interviewing is adding more to the set of experiences these children now have to process.

I just can't bring myself to visit a website or look at an article that might give a news organization the impression that this kind of information is what I want to see.

Thinking about this, though, has hammered even further home to me just who the victims were. And I am still trying to figure out how to process this. My kids are quite a bit older and I am past the stage of needing to protect my babies every moment of the day. I can't imagine the fear and heartache felt by the parent of every young child today.

I've seen images that will haunt me--Jesus holding a child on his lap, the child's arms thrown around him and tears on his cheeks. Santa sitting in his sleigh, now-unneeded gifts spilling out of his sleigh while Santa sobs into his hands. Countless candles and broken hearts. Facebook posts from my friends who have lost children themselves. We are all trying to understand how it happened and how we will go on. We all want to ensure that this will never happen again.

We see renewed attention to gun control. For the record, I want gun control. However, I don't think it will make a bit of difference. There is something wrong with a society that produces individuals who contain the urge to do something so horrific to so many people--especially to children. If not a gun, it could have been a bomb. Or gas in a ventilation system. Or poison in the food. If it isn't a gun, it will be something else. Fighting for gun control is something that helps us feel more in control, like there's something we can actually do to prevent this from happening in the future. But I don't think it is the answer, because there will always be other weapons.

What is wrong with our society that produces people who want to use weapons against other people? And what is wrong with a society that thinks it is okay to traumatize children by interviewing them on the national news? Seriously, what is wrong with us?

Final stress

For years, I've experienced the stress of final exams. From my life as a student (writing, studying, reviewing, testing) to my life as a faculty member (grading, grading, grading, grading, dealing with emails from panicked and desperate students, grading, grading,...), I simply felt like I was immersed in different sections of the same morass. Now I experience it in a whole new way. Although I don't have the stress of those doing the academic work of finals, I do have the stress of supporting those who do. My mantra is this: No one is at their best right now.

One part of my job is primary this week: managing the testing services for students with accessibility accommodations. Many of those students work with us due to physical disabilities, learning challenges, or mental health struggles. In some students, final exam stress becomes particularly acute. I confess to moments of frustration with some of the situations I face: students who forget to schedule a testing appointment, students who keep rescheduling testing appointments, students who forget testing appointments, faculty who forget to drop off exams and have to be chased down, staff in non-academic offices on campus who somehow manage to forget that we a) are in final exam week, and b) are not available for brief tours or casually chatting in the way we might be at another time of the semester.

In my role, I often hear how complicated our students' lives are. My campus serves a quite diverse population, and my heart aches for someone just about every day. Even when things are going well, the juggling required by a single mom who is working and going to school boggles my mind. And it's important not to dismiss the challenges faced by a fairly typical young adult who is living away from home for the first time and trying to navigate early adulthood.

I am surrounded by the stress of others and feel drained every single day this week. I know it's normal, and I know it will pass. Perspective helps, but sometimes it is hard to see past the immediacy of caring for those who walk into my office each day.

Recently, I've been spending some time reading a marriage website with discussion forums. People anonymously share intimate details of their lives. I've been reading about couples in marriage counseling with issues that go beyond what many would tolerate. Two women are in the process of leaving abusive husbands. And then on the news I saw there was yet another mass shooting in the country.

With all that is going on in so many people's lives, I am awestruck at the courage it takes just to show up at school or work some days. So many of us carry invisible baggage with us everywhere we go. When I have a student raising her voice because she can't figure out how to get caught up on work she's behind on, or a student crying because a relative is experiencing a serious illness, or a faculty member who is worn down by all the time and energy that goes into support just one or two high-maintenance students, I need to stay mindful of the accomplishment of their simply being present, to struggle another day and try to keep moving forward in some way.

Some days, for some folks, just showing up really does deserve a gold star.

St. Who?

When I was young, I heard about St. Nick and the practice of getting little gifts on the night of December 5. I just always thought this was something done in German and Scandinavian countries.

Imagine my surprise, then, when my family moved to Wisconsin. My children were 9, 6, and 6. The younger two still believed in Santa at the time. I went to work the morning of December 6, oblivious to the fact that my children were going to school and facing friends who'd had a visit from Santa the night before.

I heard several of my students talking about St. Nick, and one of them came to show me the necklace she'd gotten. "St. Nick?" I said. "Do your families celebrate that? How interesting." And then more students gathered around. "Well, yeah, everyone does. Why, don't you?" I began to wonder what my kids were experiencing at school.

After they got home, the twins went running around the house, looking for stockings. "Everyone else got something from Santa last night! Where did he leave our stuff?" And there I sat, their stunned mother, wondering how I was going to explain this one. I don't like to the kids, but when they were little, I would bend the truth as much as I could without lying.

I asked them to tell me what the other children had said. Then I said, "Well, you didn't get anything from St. Nick yet, and I think I can guess why. I wonder if Santa knew that this would be a new tradition for us and didn't want us to feel confused when we woke up this morning. So perhaps he let you learn about St. Nick's from the other kids and school, and maybe he figured he could bring something for you tonight, when you would understand." They seemed a bit anxious, but it settled them down.

As soon as my husband got home from work, I headed to Walgreens--where I saw huge "Get your St. Nick's gifts" signs. Seriously, how had I missed those? I got little candy and some Christmas items for the kids, and that night, St. Nick came to our house.

He left a note: "Dear M---, B----, and B--, I usually stop by Wisconsin homes on December 5, but I didn't want to confuse you since I knew you were new to this tradition. So I came by tonight. Merry Christmas!"

The next morning, the kids woke up, relieved that Santa hadn't forgotten them. I don't think they were quite as relieved as I was, though.

And even after eleven years, I still have no idea what makes an appropriate St. Nick's gift. Sigh.