Every day, when I come home from school, something magical happens.
I rush over to Will and Grant, give Will a huge hug, scoop Grant into my arms, and wait.
And then there it comes: An ear-to-ear grin from our second born.
He curls into a little ball, burrows his head into my neck, and then coos the softest, sweetest coo these ears have ever heard. We lock eyes again and boom, the smile returns.
And then when I put him down and walk away, this is what happens:
Pick him up and suddenly we're back to this:
And I know he might do this for everyone, but it doesn't matter because HE SMILES FOR ME.
He knows me. And while he might be smiling because he knows I bring milk, I prefer to think that he smiles because he actually LIKES me. Because he has faith in me as his mama. Because he belongs to me and I belong to him. Because at the root and heart of it all is LOVE.
I now beautifully believe that sometimes love chooses you, that you can run, hide, focus on other things, doubt yourself, and feel overwhelmed by it all, but then it sneaks in, taps you on the shoulder, and surprises you all over again. At times in my life, I have been afraid and hesitant to love. But that love keeps showing up--because that is what love does. It keeps showing up.
Earlier this week, I was feeling discouraged about things at work and the fact that I was going to need a root canal (ah, this year has kicked my butt), and I left for school feeling a little defeated. I really did think for a moment, "what is the point of all this?"
And then I looked back at our little house. There was Will, looking out the window at me, both hands pressing against the glass. And then he blew me a kiss.
Yup, that's the meaning of life for me these days. Will's kiss and Grant's smile.
Embedded in both of them is love that I don't deserve, instinctual loyalty, and a faith that the big picture is stunningly beautiful even when all we can see is a single blurry pixel.
This year, Will cannot wait for the Easter bunny to arrive.
I cannot wait to be reminded once again that this world is magical when you choose to see it that way.
Needless to say, it's been awhile. So sorry. Been a little busy insane around here, but now we are on spring break and man is it glorious. This little family needed some dirt-digging, House of Cards- watching, gumbo-making, nap-taking, trail-running, relaxed grading, house-cleaning, boy-snuggling time.
I have been feeling and thinking a lot lately, too. This roller-coaster of a parenting ride just keeps on going. And while I had a tough moment in church the other day watching several families each with multiple healthy kids have their youngest baptized, I also feel so incredibly devoted to and blessed by my boys. As I watched these other little ones be baptized, I held Will and Grant close, knowing that they are my two greatest gifts. And while Grant's birth and diagnosis sent us into a tailspin, I have no doubt in my mind that he was meant to be ours. He's beautiful and happy and strong and perfect. I love him with a fierce and unwavering and proud devotion.
World Down Syndrome Day was March 21 (it's always 3/21 because Down Syndrome is a result of three copies of the 21st chromosome), and while I tried to face it head-on by posting a picture and note on FB, I have to admit that I didn't love this day--until I got home to Grant. When I walked in the door and saw his sweet smile respond to mine, I was reminded that this journey is going to be amazing because it will be ours. All day long I had been reading posts and articles about DS Day, reading people's stories and watching videos only to feel once again thrust into the scary unknown. What will Grant be able to do and when? What will his future look like? Will he be accepted for who he is, which is exactly who he was meant to be? Will people look at Grant and mainly see the DS--or will he be loved and celebrated for all of his other beautiful qualities? Ah, the questions can get you.
But.
I am now beyond excited to live our way into the answers. We're going to learn and love and laugh our way through this life together. Whereas five months ago I wanted to run away due to all of the uncertainty and fear, now I don't want to miss a thing. I'm a lot more aware of my lack of control but also a lot more aware of my purpose in life. It's a good trade-off.
There are also a lot of questions I no longer ask myself: Why us? (Why not?). How do we do this? (Love the heck out of each other and trust it will all turn out beautifully.) Will we be happy? (We might be happier than ever right now.) What will Grant's future look like? (Who knows? But we will work hard to try to give him every opportunity to be happy and fulfilled.) How will this affect Will? (Will loves Grant so much it's adorable. I hear from other parents that this love between siblings only intensifies. As long as our family loves each other, I have a feeling Will will be a-ok.)
I also used to be upset about the fact that our family would be "different." And then--of course--we had a series of speakers and discussions at school about difference: how thinking differently leads to breakthroughs and progress, how working differently leads to better learning and preparation, how celebrating each other's differences is a whole lot more interesting and fun than focusing only on our similarities. One right after the other...it was amazing. We are ALL different. I am different, Clay is different, Will is different, Grant is different, each of my students is different from the others. This difference doesn't have to be bad, but for some reason we often see it as such.
I was self-conscious over the holidays about our holiday card. I looked through the Minted and Shutterfly ads we got in the mail and threw them down, complaining, "None of them have children with disabilities in them." This year, I have a feeling I will send our card out with hope that we might show people, "Hey, we might not look like the 'typical' family, but different is BEAUTIFUL. And we are so, so happy."
Several people have asked me lately, "So, do you feel like you are on the other side of all this?"
Yes. I do. There are flashes of sadness, but they are quickly kicked out the door by Grant's smiles and coos, Will's laugh, an unexpected card from a friend, an inspiring quote, a story on the news that either reminds me we are ultimately so lucky or that people are ultimately so good.
Mostly, there is finally peace. While I do wish I could have changed some things about the way we found out about Grant's diagnosis (for example, I wish I hadn't been told by a stranger when I was completely alone in the hospital), I am ultimately thankful I didn't know before he was born. Perhaps it all worked out the way it should have. So many people make the decision not to continue the pregnancy after a T21 diagnosis. While I respect other people's decisions, I know that, for us, that decision would have haunted us forever. We would never have known Grant's smile, never have known all of the lessons he would teach us, never have known the impact he would have on other people. We would have chosen not to believe--and I think we would always wonder what could have been. Most importantly, Grant would never have known life, and while this life might be difficult for him at times, we know without a doubt that his life is worth it. He is meant to be here. And knowing throughout the pregnancy might have helped make the first few months of Grant's life less of a shocking, grieving time, but I think I would also have worried my way through the pregnancy--and not had a really cute baby to hold to help soothe my fears.
There are really only two questions that matter to me now:
1.) Grant needs you to believe in him. Can you believe? Oh yes. I believe. I really believe.
2.) Grant needs you to love him. Can you love him? More than life itself. I love him with all of my growing heart.
Love has a way of sneaking in the backyard and planting a garden. Before you know it, beauty and life are growing everywhere. We're excited for Spring :)
I've watched this maybe a dozen times in the past 24 hours, and I cry every time. This is going to be such a journey of love for us, I just know it. And sometimes it will be difficult--there is at least one moment a day still when it feels like someone stole a little bit of hope away from us, when I feel a little punched in the gut by worry and responsibility and sadness--but this video affirms the feeling that never, ever goes away for me: I am so, so, so blessed to have Grant. I will love him fiercely forever.
Grant had his 4 month check-up today. Our doctor had a nurse practitioner intern rotating with him today, and she could have been saying this just because we looked like concerned parents, but she just kept saying, "He looks amazing! This is all such good news!" So sweet.
And it was good news. Great news. He weighs 12 lbs, 8.5 oz, which puts him in the 51th percentile on the DS growth chart (up from the 28th percentile two months ago). His length also jumped to 22.5 inches, which is in the 24th percentile. His little hernia is much smaller than it was 2 months ago, and he has "remarkable" head control :). Go Grant. Go Go Go Grant.
He didn't love the vaccines part of the visit, though.
I LOVED this story on abcnews.com today. Thank you, dear Libby, for sending it to me. It comforts and inspires me so much to know of other families who are also walking this path--and realizing the incredible, unexpected joys that come along with it. The community is deep and supportive and smart and happy. I am proud to be a part of it and am grateful for their fellowship.
Glennon Doyle Melton over at Momastery.com posted an awesome video today on brokenness and grief. Couldn't agree more with her words, especially when she says, "when a friend is grieving, all we have to do is be present with her."
I want to take a moment tonight to thank you people. You have allowed me to work my way through this whole process, a lot of which was admittedly grief, and you have offered me your presence. And I think so often people don't know what to say to someone who is hurting (totally understandable), but my own experience these past few months has taught me that words can certainly help but it is presence and time that heal. When I was in the NICU, my friends Molly and Lori each came to visit. I consider them to be two of the wisest, strongest women I know. They each walked into the room and, without saying a word, hugged me and cried with me. No "God doesn't give you anything you can't handle" or "You are strong enough." They knew that I wasn't ready or willing to hear that then. I just needed someone to acknowledge the hurt and be with me in it for a time. It's like that quote, "Life is slippery. Here, take my hand." Don't walk in front of me, don't walk behind me; please, please walk beside me.
I think so often we see people broken and hurting and we want to fix them. We want things to be all better. But transformation, wisdom, perspective--these all take time. There's something to the idea of growing pains. They're painful. Take away the pain and I would argue you take away the growth. As much as grief sucks, if you dismiss it or rush it, you don't fully realize the depth of emotion and understanding that comes along with it. People grieve because they care SO much. You can't just take that away. But holding that person's hand as they feel their way through the raw realness of it? Yeah, that's a gift.
It reminds me again of what Frederick Buechner said about being a steward of your pain. You've got to feel pain fully in order to forever understand and be with others who experience pain.
So thank you. Those of you who read this blog--Clay, Nina, Cara, Blaire, Emily, Lashelle, Katie, Kristen, Susan, Ashley, Kat, Maresa, Julia, Shirit, Ali, Claire, Caroline, Emily, Morel, Kay, Beth, Bob, Liz, Libby, Chris, Laura, Ellen, Molly, Lori, Kristin, Nicole, Katie, Anna, Michelle, Brittany, Gege, and Mom and Dad--have held my hand and let me find my own way through this experience. You didn't judge me, you didn't try to fix me, you didn't dismiss it by telling me it was all going to be okay. You acknowledged how I felt and let me feel it--the whole painful, unknown mess of it. You loved me enough to let my heart break. You let things fall apart. And in that gift, you enabled me to find a new beginning. One that includes a fierce, genuine, heart-overflowing love for my newborn son.
Glennon includes the following quote from Victor Frankl: "What is to give light must endure burning." I think if we try to protect each other from heartbreak and pain, we limit our ability to live a life FULL of every emotion, every experience, every understanding. Instead, we need to let each other experience it. And we need to stay close throughout it.
You know, I don't know if I'll ever say that I am glad Grant has Down Syndrome. But I can say without a doubt that I am glad I have Grant. I see him smile and feel his warmth and see God in his eyes and I know he is meant to be here and he is meant to be mine. I don't think I am a "special parent" or that "God gave me something He knew I could handle"; I don't personally believe those things to be true. And I am being totally honest here: I am not sure where I stand on abortion and I am glad I wasn't forced to make the decision either way. I can understand why this diagnosis would scare people because, well, I was scared out of my mind. But I do believe that Grant's presence, like yours, is a gift. His love is going to make my world and this world better.
The UVA Glee Club came to school today for a little concert, so I was able to relish in my good 'ol college days for a minute as I shouted "wahoowa" to them on my way in the auditorium. I sat down by myself towards the front of the room and thought for a moment about both how important and how long ago those college days feel to me. It was an overwhelming feeling for me, one that was punctuated by their powerful voices singing their way into the room. They started with an African song that I loved but didn't understand. When the song was over, the director explained that the chorus of the song could be translated as the following: "All those who sing have the right to be called the children of God." And once again, I was struck by the grace of things coming full circle. I felt like UVA itself was affirming Grant's presence, that my past was encouraging my future.
And like the song, I don't have to understand every part of this experience in order to love my way through it. In fact, I think it's loving without understanding that enables us to experience grace and joy.
So thanks for loving me, and loving Grant, with or without understanding. Your presence in my life has been an amazing, saving grace.
The night Grant was born, all I could see was a future full of unknowns, challenges, and difference.
Four months later, I see beauty, strength, wisdom, depth, inspiration, and community all around me. It took my heart being broken for this revision to manifest, but I can see clearly now. (The rain is gone. I can all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. It's gonna be a bright (bright) bright (bright) sun-shiny day. Dude. Couldn't resist. That song is speakin' my language these days.)
I see my new heroes. I watched "My Brother, Teddy." on The NYTimes.com this morning while I was getting ready for school, and I was transfixed not by the dancing Emma but by the quiet strength of her brother Teddy. In one shot she's dancing all around him while he stands there. Unable to dance. But he's standing and trying and living and amazing me with his presence. Damn cerebral palsy. Why did you have to take his dance away? There isn't a good answer to this. But in the face of this undeserved, overwhelming challenge, he STANDS.
Yes, I admire parents of children with disabilities something fierce. I imagine it can sometimes feel like a long, lonely road. I now understand why parents advocate so determinedly for their children, why special education needs to not be an afterthought or inconvenience to schools, why handicapped parking spaces and ramps really matter, why events should provide sign language interpreters even if only one person there needs them. All parents try to provide as many opportunities to their children as possible; I think parents of children with special needs try to do this in a world not always designed to make it easy for their children to realize such opportunities. It's amazing what love can do, though. You love your child more than you care about what other people think, how hard it might be to provide your child with that opportunity, or what "success" your child may or may not achieve down the road. You step up because your child needs and deserves a team, and by golly, you're going to be the captains.
But I would argue that there's another reason why parents step up: we know that our children are the true heroes. We see how hard they work to find their way in this overwhelming world; we know their strength. Grant is already and forever will be my hero. As I put him through his therapy exercises, I both curse his extra chromosome and marvel at his determination and happy disposition. When he rolls over onto his back and finds my eyes again, he breaks out this killer smile such that I can't help but scoop him up into my arms and hug the heck out of him.
It's like this kid singing the Coolest version of Ho Hey. He is working so so so hard every day to do the things I take for granted, so when I watch this video, I can't help but get all teary and inspired. This is beauty to me now.
There are people and stories all around me, around all of us, that deserve to be seen. I didn't see them clearly until Grant was born. He has helped me not only see them but feel them.
My dear friend Katie posted the following story and picture from Humans of New York on my FB page today. I read it and thought, YES. Here is a man "leaning heavily on his cane" and yet he "went through life looking for the smallest excuses to be happy."
I found this man on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. He was leaning heavily on his cane, looking down, wearing a grimaced face. I felt bad for him, so I smiled and waved when I walked past. His face changed completely. He lit up, smiled wide, and gave me a cheery greeting. There was nothing forced about it. He seemed like a man who went through life looking for the smallest excuses to be happy.
I walked 50 feet down the sidewalk, turned around, and walked back to him. "I want to take your photo," I told him, "because of how big you smiled when I walked by."
He said: "Well I saw someone smiling at me who I didn't even know. So I thought: 'By God! I Better do something!'" I too better do something. There are people all around me facing incredible challenges and rocking life despite--because?--of them. I see them now. I applaud them now. And I will admire them forever.
Keep standing, Teddy. Keep singing, Van. Keep smiling, Grant. You're showing everyone how to live.
Yesterday was a full day. It was the National "Spread the Word to End the Word" Day. I'll never say "retarded" again. I like Noah's Dad's post on the subject. Can we please all agree that this word hurts? And that people with disabilities are born that way (cue Lady Gaga)? And that life is way too hard already for us to hate on each other? Okay, there's my soapbox; I'm stepping down.
It was also the first day of Lent, and I have a list a mile long of things I want to give up this year: grading papers, not sleeping, worrying, snacking, eating chocolate chips for breakfast, pumping, paying bills...yeah, I'm pretty selfless and disciplined when it comes to sacrifice. But I have been doing something all week in preparation for Lent that has been pretty fun: I have been writing down everything that has been life-giving and everything that has been life-sucking (sorry. no better term for it).
Life-giving: reading to Grant, reading to Will, cooking, being in the presence of my husband, writing, therapy, hot yoga, deep breaths, dancing with Will, photography, being in the presence of good friends, quotable cards, time in local bookstores, cleaning (I know. Strange. Totally strange.), a good glass of wine, church, smoothies
Life-sucking: email, worrying about the future, Facebook and Instagram, watching the Oscars, watching most TV, eating lunch in the school cafeteria (I am just not quite ready to be that back to normal at work yet. I still feel like a different person), reading about DS
Terrible picture, I know, but if you look closely, you'll see Will and me doing yoga together. Love this kid to PIECES.
Fifty shades of brown right here...
Thank you, Lent. You gave me just the excuse to SHIFT. If Grant's birth handed me a blank canvas, I'm going to run with it and change some things up. And mainly that means LESS. I can't really take much more.
* No plans on Friday nights for awhile. I'm too exhausted. and I miss my boys. Bring on family cuddle time.
* No more checking social media while I nurse. It just makes me sad.
* Namaste and I have a weekly date. Ommmmm.
* I am going to use my lunch break to grade/work so that I can use an hour of my grading/work time at home to read to Grant.
* No more sweets. No more eating after dinner. No more snacking. LESS. More real, natural meals. Only exception is on date nights with my love. Bring on the ice cream.
* More time holding Grant and helping him with his exercises, less time reading about everything potentially in his future.
I'm back at work and life has gone on and Clay and I are trying to figure out a new normal and yet I have moments when I just feel so not normal. Different in a way that makes me not want to go back to the routine and perspective I had before. Different in a way that makes me think a second longer before I speak, spend an extra second with that student who looks like she is secretly struggling, smile an extra second at the woman who was kind to me at the grocery store, hug Will an extra second at bedtime. This world is moving forward a million miles a minute and I find myself content to let the frenetic pace continue on without me. I'm not sure in what ways I will be different forever, but for these next 40 days, I am going to embrace being intentionally different. And as Grant has been showing me, perhaps being a little different is a mighty good thing.
My main goal is to do LESS and hopefully have MORE time to do good.
It's also Interim Week at school, which means that my sophomores are all over the city volunteering for different organizations that help people. HOLLA. My last visit yesterday was to a school for the hearing impaired. I walked into a three year-old class and felt the six kids in there take my breath away. They were so darn beautiful and innocent and happy and TRYING. They were focused on their teacher and excitedly communicating with each other. One little boy started walking over to me, and I couldn't help but notice his limp and brace; his wheelchair was off to the side. He gave me a high five and kept smiling at me and made me feel really welcome. A few minutes later, his teacher was helping him into his wheelchair to go out to his school bus and what she said stopped me in my tracks: "He's really behind but he's come so far this year. His parents basically gave up on him from the moment he was born. There's no support at home."
Dude.
I almost brought him home with me.
And then I stood there thinking about how scared I was of Grant four months ago. In my mind, there was so option: you're his mama. He needs you. SHOW UP. And the fact that there wasn't that option was exactly the way I needed it to be. Sometimes life knows when to NOT give us options because if it did, we might choose the one that isn't good for anyone just because it seems easier at the time.
I continue to not know much about what our lives are going to look like, but I do know, especially after falling in love with this kid, there ain't no way I am giving up on him. I mean, look at these two. How can you do anything other than love and encourage and belief the heck out of them?
These kids I saw today were so determined to learn and love. I am starting to think it's us adults who run around complaining about how hard life is--and it IS hard--while kids face tremendous challenges, look them in the eye, and battle them. They know no other way. They have no other option. They don't get to choose the fact that they are born with disabilities, they don't get to choose their parents, they don't get to choose who interacts with them and helps them and who dismisses them and overlooks them. They just BATTLE.
We've been working on getting him to hold his own bottle. Progress!
I have been finding such deep inspiration in watching other people battle lately. They don't complain, they don't give up, they just keep showing up and keep smiling and keep trying.
That's my new life philosophy:
Keep showing up.
Keep trying.
and LOVE.
It's amazing. Every time I do that, something good happens. Last week I observed a colleague (showed up), wrote her an email (tried), and praised her for the sincerely impressive work she is doing (loved). Yesterday I got an email saying I had won this month-long faculty raffle that included everyone who had observed a colleague recently. I never win anything. I am starting to think Grant is my good luck charm.
I also accepted a new position at work: Assistant College Counselor. There are many things about this job that leave me feeling all giddy and excited (my new boss being one of them. He's awesome), but my heart has felt a little hesitant to buy in. There is something about the idea of me working at a school where Grant will never go and working in a position focused on college placement, which Grant may also never experience. I feel almost like I am betraying him. But I have come to a peace about it, knowing that I hopefully will be helping kids and their parents as they too navigate how to accomplish their dreams. Every child is different; it will be my job to really get to know what the student and his/her parents feel is the best for the student. I'm all about that. And as someone who ended up at a university I never expected or even really wanted to attend, I know the power of good placement. I ended up exactly where I needed to be. It didn't take me long before I wanted to be there. I met my best friends there (318 4-eva), was inspired there, discovered whole new parts of life there. Same thing with New York City. Same thing with Grant. Sometimes life hands you what you need rather than what you think you want. And it ends up being BOTH.
These snow days are wreaking havoc on our furniture. Our couch is Will's favorite new swimming pool.
Will loves to help me cook and bake. #luckymama
Trying to watch less television, yes, but had give a shout-out to Jimmy Fallon. The guy is KILLING it!
Right after Grant was born and when we were still in the NICU, several people mentioned that I needed to meet Libby, a mama a few steps ahead of us on this new path. Libby, Libby, Libby. I kept hearing her name. I wasn't ready to talk to most people at that time, but there came a day when Clay was back at work and the hospital felt claustrophobic and I got really scared about what the future held and Grant's doctors didn't have much good news, and I reached for my phone and called...Libby. Totally out of the blue. The conversation went something like this:
Sara: Hi. Libby? This is Sara. I know you don't know me, but our son, Grant, was just born and I didn't know if maybe we could talk.
Libby: Where are you?
Sara: In the NICU.
Libby: I'm on my way.
That's how mamas roll. You need me. I'm there. Amazing.
I walked out of the doors of the NICU and into her arms. Never met this woman before, but I felt like we had rushed the same damn sorority and that I could be all raw and open with her. She floated into Grant's room and gushed about how beautiful he was. I immediately felt less alone.
Then a nurse walked in. "Sara, if you want a chance of getting Grant home today, you need to drive downtown right now and pick up one of these therapeutic car beds."
My heart fell. We had been trying to get Grant home for days, so I was willing to do anything, but the timing just felt cruel. My first conversation with another mama in these shoes and I had to leave. I nodded and felt the tears coming. Again.
Libby grabbed my hand. "I'm going with you. Let's go."
And like that, her name was added to my list of role models. She knew where I was. She had been there. And SHE SHOWED UP. This mama of four hasn't stopped showing up for me since.
Fast forward (hmm...not really. Slow forward. Yes, slow forward, like longest months of my life forward) three months.
Last night she and I and our awesome husbands went on a double date. We laughed and shared stories and talked about how much we love our children and what we have already learned from them. And when we got up to leave, I thought back to our first meeting, a time when I felt more broken than ever before in my life, and I smiled knowing that neither one of us were still in that damn dark diagnosis place (ugh, I shudder to remember it). It's not that life is easy now--is life ever easy?--or that we love that our children are "special" or that we've got our heads in the sand or that there aren't many moments that are hard and will be hard. Instead, I think we have both found perspective (and friendship) in this deep end we've been pushed into.
Three months ago, when Libby and I were in my car on the way to yet another hospital, she asked me, "you want to keep on driving, don't you? Away from all this?"
Yes. I did.
"You feel like your heart is broken, don't you?"
Yes. I did.
She nodded. Pause.
"Grant will heal it. He's broken it wide open. He'll heal it."
I didn't believe her.
Now I do.
I now believe that my heart was broken wide open so that it could become bigger, knowing all the while that I would need more room to hold this insane amount of love I now feel for Grant, for both my sons. Three months ago, I wept with sadness. This week, I wept because I love Grant so much, because I now genuinely feel that I would do anything in the world for him, that I would claim him (and Will) before all others, that I would be proud of him every day of my life and proclaim him my best buddy, that I believe in him tremendously and always will.
I went back to work last week. A sweet colleague stopped me in the hallway one day and seemed worried. "Are you okay? I know your life is so full right now. Appointments and papers to grade and meetings and nursing..." but I had stopped listening to her. Did you hear what she said? I know your life is so full right now.
Friends, my life is FULL.
Do you see me smiling as I write this?Before I had Grant, I saw my days and life as a to-do list. Work hard in this job so you can hopefully get that job, run to the grocery to get food that you will quickly eat in between walking the dog and bathtime, run these miles so you can say you did, go to bed tired so you can wake up and do it all again.
And then Grant was born and life stopped for a bit and I started really seeing things. I stopped talking and started listening, I stopped running and started admiring, I stopped doing and started BEING.
And my days that were once full of obligations transformed into days full of opportunities.
I seriously looked around and thought, "Dang, there is so much beauty all around me. Have I really been looking right past all this??"
And at the end of the day, I now know that is enough. Life isn't about getting a bigger house or the impressive job or the perfect-looking family. It's about loving each other as much as we can. That is enough. That will always be enough.
I told my students the other day that they are ENOUGH. In this world of college applications and grades and awards, I watch kids feel all the time that they are not smart enough or skinny enough or cool enough or good enough. These beautiful people I teach every day beat themselves up because they already feel behind. They are sixteen and already feel behind. I didn't see that before because I was right there with them. But now I look around and see all these people, teenagers and adults and super "successful" people, wondering if they've done enough, if they have enough. We're all working for more.
Oh my.
Friends, you are SO ENOUGH.
You don't have to DO anything. At the end of the day, YOU ARE ENOUGH.
On Valentine's Day, Clay and I collapsed after putting Will to bed and he said, "I'm sorry. I don't have anything to give you." I almost laughed out loud. Nothing to give me, huh? How about your unconditional support these past three months when I felt lost? How about the friendship you give me everyday? How about those two beautiful boys asleep in the next room? How about that kiss when we woke up? How about the fact that you come home to me, to us, every day after a day of working hard for others? How about the faith you had in me when you proposed to me eight years ago and asked me to spend my life with you?
HE is my way more than enough.
And in this world where people are often assessed by their alma maters and degrees and job titles and savings account balances, I want to whisper in Grant's ear, "You are enough, my love. You will always be enough. I used to care that you might not go to college or be totally independent (and who knows? A lot can change in 18 years), but every day, I care less about that and more about you. Less about what this world says is okay and more about who you were created to be. And whoever you are created to be is ENOUGH."
I asked Will to sing me a song yesterday. Guess what he sang? "I love you just the way you are." I never taught him that song. That, my friends, is grace. I'm not sure I would have heard him sing that song before Grant was born. I think I would have been too preoccupied trying to be enough.
And in one more example of grace, I stepped back into the classroom when my students were halfway through Life of Pi. If you haven't read it before, pick it up. It tells the story of this boy whose life suddenly takes a dramatic and permanent turn: he is the only human survivor of a ship that sinks in the Pacific. As the days drag on, he loses his food supply, his clothing, his solar flares, his eyesight...it's just him and the water and this tiger who also happened to survive. But he doesn't lose his faith. And he doesn't lose hope. And at the end of the story, he tells these two incredulous interviewers about his journey. And he basically says, "You can choose to believe or choose not to believe. I choose to believe. Some of the most meaningful things in life--God, love, dreams--depend upon you BELIEVING they are possible."
And so I choose to believe in my son. I hear the doctors when they warn me about what he may not be able to do. Three months ago, I focused on their words. Now, I focus on my son and his smile and his sweet baby smell and my friend Libby and "I love you just the way you are" and LOVE. Who knows what will be. But believing in my son and my little family and the love of the beautiful people around us is more than enough. One day at a time. There's more than enough in this day--THIS DAY--to love.
And while I hope I stay in education for a long time because I am better for knowing and learning from my students, I do have to admit my dreams are changing. One of my new dreams involves doing something similar to what this awesome mama--and community--has done. I would love to work alongside my son one day. Hopefully this world will give him lots of opportunities to shine. But if not, I want to create some for him.
Love from us to you.
A few pictures from Gramma's visit. We miss her something fierce. Her presence heals us.
One more cool video. Tough moms raise tough kids.
YES.
I also think tough kids raise tough moms.
Grant is tough. He and Will are already my greatest teachers.
