That Time You Tried to Fly

For well over an hour we ran up and down the hill in the park behind our condo. We threw the frisbee to each other, collected pine needles and invented our own games. Your face glistened in the sun. It always does. You were born to live in the sun.

You walked your tightrope. A retaining wall 6 feet high. I warned you. I always warn you. Be careful. Walk slow. Don't fall.

I make you more scared than you need to be. I don't mean to. I weigh the options in my fear-bound mind and fear-less heart. Do I want you to see your first therapist because you are too scared or not scared enough? Do I want your prayers to be small and scared or bold and broken? How does one pick? I am constantly trying to dance this shaky, stretched-thin line of protecting you and pushing you out of the nest, begging you to be brave, hoping you will fly fearless.

You lost your footing. You gripped on for dear life to the top brick of cement. Eyes wide and terrified. And then, in an instant, you lost your grip. Screaming in sheer terror, you fell six feet down to the muddy ground below. You hit- back, head, body, soul- in a thud that left you breathless and writhing in pain.

I scooped you up as you screamed. My heart racing. My stomach churning. You told me how bad it hurt. How it hurt all over. Through your blood-curling screams and whimpers you whispered the hardest words I've ever heard and I've heard a lot.

"I never thought it would happen to me momma." And the worst "Did you try to catch me momma?"

One day you will love another person as deeply as I love you. And the first time they try to fly- and fail- your soul will be rattled and your bones will ache. You will know, in the back of your mind, that the moment was coming. But when it arrives, the innocent shock that inches its way over their broken face will paralyze your heart.

Did you try to catch me Momma?

It won't come out as an accusation, but a genuine question, a deep need they have to know whether you tried- tried with everything you had in you- to catch them. And you will tell them- of course, of course I tried to catch you...

but I couldn't.

And right there, in those words, you will face one of the hardest decisions you will ever have to make as they move forward:

Will you help them hide or help them fly?

Everything in me wants to wrap you up in bubble wrap so you can never break. And yet I want to see you soar. And if you are all wrapped up and protected from the world- you will never learn to leap and not look back. And I'm trying the best I can to dance this shaky, stretched-thin line of protecting you and pushing you out of the nest, begging you to be brave, hoping you will fly fearless...

So I will pick you up from preschool today. And when we get home, we will go back there, to the wall you fell off of yesterday. And I won't force you. But I will hold your hand and I will ask you to walk the long length of it with me, hand in hand. And no doubt you will be terrified and maybe you won't even take a single step today. But that's ok. We will go everyday until you can. And one day, you will walk the wall again without my hand.

Because if I have to choose a path to guide you down in this life it will not be the path of fear, wrapped up and protected, praying small, scared prayers.

I will try to catch you- but even when I can't (and that will be often)- I will beg you to be brave. I will beg you to fly fearless.

I will remind you of that one time you tried to fly and you crashed and burned. And I will remind you of what Dr. Stacy told you that day, "This will be the first of many falls in your life- but you are brave- so you can always get back up."

And then?

With trembling hands, against everything logical in my mind, against my own fears and desire for you to be perfectly protected and safe-

I will push you back out of the nest and watch you try all over again, because baby you weren't born to hide you were born to fly.

When Little Girls Hold Hands

Do you remember? Reaching out to grab her hand. Not being afraid of what anyone else thought. Not even being aware that anyone else existed. Just you and her. On an adventure. Planning an escape. Sneaking upstairs to eat chocolate and swap secrets. We held hands out of instinct. We looked both ways and crossed the street together. We held hands for comfort. We held hands out of love. We held sticky, played with, cried on hands with no shame or fear or insecurity. We were little girls. And we still knew how to love each other without hesitation. We reached out and grabbed the others hand because there was so much we wanted to share. The excitement. The not-knowing. The joy. The smiles. We knew these things were good, but they were better shared.

We weren't self-conscious yet. Wondering if we might look silly. Weak. Weird. Dependent. Wondering if the other hand was better than ours? Worse than ours? Prettier. Skinnier. Smarter. Or from a bigger house. We didn't know how to compare, measure, sum up or judge. We didn't even know to think of the other hands around us. Were we being exclusive? Should we try and make the rounds? Holding every little girl's hands? We did not yet operate out of guilt or obligation or even political correctness. We didn't see skin color or political parties or labels. We only knew the nudging of our hearts.

It felt best to reach out and grab her hand. Because life was way too good to walk alone.

And sometimes we broke free of each others hands for a moment. Because side by side, we felt brave.

Perhaps it was all those sticky finger embraces that gave us so much courage to break free and lead the way for a minute. Knowing she was by our side. Not yet condemning, bossy, mean or passive aggressive. Just our friend. Our cheerleader. Our confidant. Our person. The one we were unafraid to hold hands with on the play ground. We gave each other courage. Not psychotherapy or prayers. We didn't know how to do those yet. All we knew was our hands. We knew how to be present.  How to reach out to the other person in the most basic way.

Here's my hand. Take it. Wrap your fingers around mine. We will do this together.

We would scoot our chairs close. No sense of personal space. We, who shared beds and bathrooms and bathing suits and boys. We gave each other the best gifts we had. Ourselves. Long before we knew how to be guarded, we knew how to be girlfriends. We giggled, cried, dreamed impossible dreams, and then grabbed each others sticky fingers and ran off to explore.

And I watch her now. My little girl who holds the hands of others as if they were precious treasures. And I wonder-

When did I forget how to hold another girl's hand? And how do I get back there?

Back to the place where I just reach out and grab and hold- and give myself to another girl without fear or shame or expectations or guilt. Back to the place where joy ran free and I was compelled to share wonder and delight and mystery with the closest girl in sight. Back to that moment, when little girls hold hands, and the whole world is made simple and beautiful by the innocent touch of the unafraid. That's where I am trying to get back to. Life is good. But it's better shared.

Make A Splash!

  Thanks to my sweet little sister for moving up in the photography world and letting me inherit your camera. Watch out people- I have a big girl camera now!!! I have no idea what to do with all these fancy knobs and buttons. But I see mom's whip out these big ole' things all the time... so I am sure I can learn. There's probably like a mom class somewhere- free childcare, lattes, how to have a totally awesome DIY 3-year-old-birthday party and how to use your fancy-shmancy camera. All in one fun-filled afternoon. But I haven't the time (or desire). So I am piddling around and figuring it out at home- in a rain storm- which I am sure is great for the camera. I digress. Day 3 of constant rain in Nashville. Hope you are enjoying sunshine- people of the world. Rainy Day? Make a Splash!

There will be Twix Bars for Breakfast!

I fed her a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m. Everything hereafter reasons to be punishment for the fact that I fed my 4-year-old a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m.

At 4:40 a.m., two nights ago, I woke up in a sweat. We were staying in an old, two-story home tucked away deep in the woods of a college campus in Rome, Georgia.  Earlier that day I saw a young, nerdy guy in his early 20's walk into the local Starbucks with an archaically long pistol holstered boastfully to the outside of his blue jeans. Followed by an old woman who was sure enough in a moo-moo with no undergarments. But that is neither here nor there. Just scenes that flashed through my head at 4:50 a.m.

But back to 4:40 a.m.

I woke up in a sweat. Nestled into a 4 poster bed with Annie, on the second floor of the house deep in the woods- I was tossing and turning- covered in sweat. I woke up. We were both on top of the covers. I felt Annie and she was hot too. In a sleep stupor, I cracked the door and went down the hallway of the old house. I remembered seeing a thermostat in the hallway. 78 degrees. 78 DEGREES?!?!? It's summer in the middle of Georgia. Old ladies wear m0o-moos to Starbucks without undies. Who set this thing on 78 degrees?!? Still in my sleep stupor, I cranked the dial down to an ungodly number.

And instantly it kicked on and the doors to the four rooms along the old hallway sucked shut.

I stumbled back to my room, numbered R3, to find a locked door.

You know the feeling when you nod off while driving and the sound of the rumble strips, or an 18-wheelers horn, snaps you out of it? It's an instant wake-up call.

Awake. Alert. Aware.

That was me at 4:40 a.m.

I tried coaxing the handle into not being locked. Jiggling it softly and then quickly turning to the left and right. Tricking it into thinking it was not locked. A girl has to try. It was clear this would not work. So I went to my band mate's room who was sleeping across the hall from us. I knocked. I knocked again. And again. And then I started calling her name. "ANNNIIIIEEEEE WAKE UP." Nothing. "ANNNNIIIIIEEEEE I'M LOCKED OUT." Nothing.

I learned something valuable about big-girl Annie (as little girl Annie likes to call her)... if there is a tornado in the middle of the night, I should rescue her. Otherwise SHE WILL DIE.

"OK Jenny. There has to be a way you can pick the lock. You can do this. Think like a criminal."

Next to my door was a writing desk of sorts. On it were cards advertising the camps summer marriage series. Next to the cards were 3 creepy glass cats who were staring at me. No pens. No paper. No hidden room keys. Just the cats who stared. And then- I saw what was in the middle of the table- an urn surrounded by flowers. My heart stopped. Seriously? An urn surrounded by flowers? What kind of sick person wants to die and be left at summer camp?!?

Focus Jenny. There was nothing to pick the lock with. It was time to explore the old house in the woods but can I just say- I am not a thrill-seeker. I don't find any joy or sick pleasure in being in an old house, in the woods, in the dead of night, with glass cats and urns staring at me. I scoured the house. There weren't any phones. No TVs for that matter. No hidden keys. No kitchen where I can find utensils to pick the lock. Nothing. My car keys are in the bedroom. My cell phone is in the bedroom.

5:00 a.m. rolls around. It is raining. Soon there will be thunder. Soon Annie will wake up to the sound of the house shaking in the dark woods and I will not be there. She will be in a new room- on an old Victorian bed several feet off the ground- she might as well wake up in a death trap- and she will call my name and I won't be there.

I ran upstairs and took the camp's marriage cards with 3 annoyingly happy looking couples and began to whittle them away. I would pick the lock. I had to. There may not be a single piece of metal in the entire house but by God I will try and re-create it. With slivers of card-stock I wriggle and wrestle with the lock.

The 3 creepy glass cats cheer me on! The urn person becomes my cheer-ghost! The annoyingly happy couples slide in and out, in and out. You can do it! With hard work and therapy and Jesus and a getaway to this magical house- you can do it! I try the happy white couple. Then I try the happy Hispanic couple. Then I try the happy bi-racial couple. None of them work. None. I try my fingernails. I try waking the other Annie again. No use. That girl might be dead. I turn my thoughts back to Annie. Poor little thing. She couldn't get into the bed by herself and she was afraid to get out of it because it was so high. My only option now was to wait by the door until she woke up and then tell her to jump. OK, slide. But I might as well be telling her to jump off Niagara.

I lay down with my nose touching the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. A furry black spider. Awesome and of course. I stand up in fear. I don't have a shoe- all I have are my glossy couples on card stock- and they have failed miserably to save the day.

All I can do is wait.

Finally- thunder claps so hard she wakes up crying "Mommy. Mommy. I'm scared."  And I am trapped on the other side of the door. I feel sick to my stomach. It's just a door. It's just an old house in the woods. But- oh my gosh- this is what it feels like to not be able to take care of your baby when they are scared. To try everything in your power and still not be able to reach them. Literally- every mom or dad or grandma or grandpa or lover who has ever wanted to protect their person, but couldn't, ran through my head. And now it's 5:30 and I am crying for Annie and for the whole world. And the cats are staring at me and judging me and the dead person in the urn is crying too. Want to break my heart? Make it impossible for me to be with my little girl when she is scared.

"ANNIE. Baby. Listen to me. Mommy's locked out of the room!!! Isn't that silly? And I need you to come rescue me!!! Can you be my hero and come rescue me?"

"MOOOMMMMY."

"Annie. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I need you to be brave and slide off the bed and come unlock the door for mommy. Can you do that?"

Nothing. Silence.

SHE FELL BACK ASLEEP.

Seriously?!?

I knock on the bedroom door. "ANNIE. BABY you have to come rescue me. Wake up! You can do it! Come save mommy!"

"I'm sleeping mom. Just open the bathroom door."

"I'm not in the bathroom baby. I'm in the hallway and there is a SPIDER AND I NEED YOU TO RESCUE ME."

Spider is a trigger word in our family. It leads to screams-tears-convulsions.  I saved it until I absolutely had to. And it worked. It was her rumble strip. Instantly Awake. Alert. Aware.

"I'm a little bit scared mom but I'm gonna be brave!"

"OK baby- I'm so proud of you! You can do this! You're my HEEEERRRROOOOOO."

I hear a thud followed by "whoa!".

Little feet running to the door. I coached her through unlocking the tiny lock. She didn't think she could do it. She had never done it before.There were a few moments I was a little unsure myself. And then- she flung the door open with as much pride as she could muster.

She was wide awake and squealed with joy. "I SAVED YOU!!!!!!!"

I picked her up and put her back in the bad and thanked her for being my hero.

"Mom. I thought you were in the bathroom so I just went back to sleep."

"I know baby- it's OK. It was confusing."

"Yeah, but then I realized you were locked outside like a pet."

That line still makes me giggle. Her eyes were getting heavy. And I couldn't stop smiling. I was so proud of her.

"Mom- can I have the other part of that Twix bar for breakfast since I rescued you?"

This is the smartest child alive.

Even at 5:30 a.m. She snuggled close.

"Yes baby- you're my hero and heroes get whatever they want for breakfast."  She smiled. And we fell back asleep knowing

 there will be Twix bars for breakfast.

My hero.