Fretting

Posted on January 14, 2016 by jessiepbraun

Helicopter parenting refers to “a style of parents who are over focused on their children,” says Carolyn Daitch, Ph.D., director of the Center for the Treatment of Anxiety Disorders near Detroit and author of Anxiety Disorders: The Go-To Guide (via Parents Magazine).

Define “over focused.”

In recent months I have felt myself “focused” on the kids more that usual. I would not consider myself a full-blown helicopter parent, but moving -as we did again in August – brings out my hovering tendencies. I know we are asking a lot of the kids to adjust to a change in place, a different school, new friends. So I am constantly watching them, checking in: Are they feeling adjusted? Are they happy? What do they need to feel at home?

I have noticed that it takes my kids about 4-5 months to really settle in after a move. It is at this point that the veil of anxiety seems to lift and they find their groove, their comfort zone, their routine. They morph back into their carefree, confident, snarky selves. Read: They don’t need me to hold their hand anymore.

Unfortunately once I am in helicopter mode, it is hard to turn it off. My blades are going too fast. For me, worrying is a bit of an addiction – once I start I can’t stop. My grandmother used to call it “fretting.” I get drunk on fretting and sometimes do stupid things I will second guess in the morning.

For example:

Episode #1:

It is the afternoon of Emma’s holiday chorus concert and we are scrambling to get ready. Emma has a cold. She is tired and nervous and indecisive about what to wear. She wants my opinion on her outfit but only if my opinion matches the decision she has already made in her mind but refuses to share. Because I am supposed to guess. I guess wrong. Twice.

She is very congested and demands tissues. I hand her a roll of toilet paper because I forgot to buy tissues. She blows her nose and it is impressive. She is a fountain of snot. How is she going to sing through all that snot? My OCD train has left the station. I have appointed myself the Mucus Manager.

We load up in the car and bring the toilet paper. She can’t bring toilet paper on stage – how will she blow her nose? I dig through my bottomless bag in search of tissues and my hand finds a travel pack I stole from my mother’s bathroom. It’s a Christmas miracle. Suddenly I am Mom of the Year.

I turn in my seat, victorious, arm extended, passing the tissues to Emma like the Olympic torch. “Look what I found!”

“I don’t want them.”

“But you said you can’t stop blowing your nose.”

“I don’t want the tissues, Mom.

“But you could just stick them in your pocket….”

“MOM.”

“Ok, ok fine, no tissues.”

I turn back around in my seat. A minute passes.

“Fine, just give me the tissues.”

I pass them back to her. We get out of the car and walk toward the school. As we open the double doors and she spots a group of her friends, she spins around and tosses me the packet of tissues.

“I don’t want the tissues.”

And with that, she takes off down the hall toward the chorus room.

But how is she going to sing through all that snot?

I am not proud of what happens next.

I should have just gone to my seat. But I don’t. I follow her down the hall and slip into the chorus room. I slink against the back wall, creeping behind the risers where the kids are finding their spots. What the hell am I doing in here, I think but it is too late, I am in the middle of the room. One of Emma’s friends spots me. Shit. She taps Emma on the shoulder and points. Shit. Emma looks at me with eyes that say “WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING. HERE.”

I hold up the packet of tissues and point to them. I mouth to her “I WILL LEAVE THESE RIGHT HERE,” pointing to the chair that holds her jacket. Then I gave her a thumbs up. Emma’s eyes get wide. Her friend snickers. This ship is sinking and I can’t save myself. The music stands feel embarrassed for me.

I find Phil in the auditorium and slink into my seat. I text my friend Julie and give her a play by play of what just went down. She replies with helicopter emojis.

Episode #2

Phoebe lands the role of Sally in a local stage production of A Charlie Brown Christmas. For seven Sundays she rehearses from 3:00-6:00; a big commitment for a six year old. We practice her lines in the car, before bed, while she brushes her teeth. She has two big scenes: one with Charlie Brown and one with Linus.

charlie SallyBrown

thumb_IMG_8225_1024 The big night arrives. I drop Phoebe backstage and we settle into our seats.

I try to be patient but I am counting the scenes until Phoebe’s stage debut, when she dictates her Santa letter to Charlie Brown. After what feels like an eternity she and Charlie Brown take the stage:

Sally: Dear Santa Claus: How have you been? Did you have a nice summer? How is your wife? I have been extra good this year so I have a long list of presents that I want.

Charlie Brown: Oh, brother.

Sally: Please note the size and color of each item, and send as many as possible. If it seems to complicated, makes things easy on yourself. Just send money. How about tens and twenties?

Charlie Brown: Tens and twenties! Oh, even my baby sister!

Sally: All I want is what I have coming to me. All I want is my fair share.

She nails it. My smile threatens to break my face.

I can relax – the hard part is over. She only has one line in her next scene with Linus and it’s an easy one. I sit back and in my chair and let my butt cheeks de-clench.

But then the scene with Linus begins and Phoebe is not on stage. I check the program. I check the program again. There is her name, clearly listed.

Oh my God where is she.

I turn to Phil and hiss, “Where is she???” Like he knows. Like he somehow telepathically received some inside information while sitting right next to me rifling through my bag for gum.

He looks concerned which freaks me out. Then he shrugs his shoulders.

Did she puke? Is she in the bathroom and missed the entrance? Phoebe has a habit of pooping at inopportune moments.

But what if she’s sick? What if she’s crying? Do I go back there?

I turn to Phil. “Do I go back there?”

We look around us and realize we are smack in the middle of the row. “Do I text Amy?” Amy is the director of the show and conveniently a good friend. Phil shrugs again.

With my index finger poised over the keyboard, a text from Amy appears on my phone:

thumb_IMG_8244_1024 2

As I am typing “do you need me? I can come back” I am already climbing over people, lunging and stumbling and excusing myself to freedom. Once I push my way through the auditorium doors and escape into the hallway, I take off in a full sprint. I weave my way through bags of costumes and kids waiting for their curtain call until I reach backstage. Then, I see her, her big blue bow askew, her hand pressing a wad of bloody tissues to her nose.

She turns and sees me. Her costume is covered in blood. Those blue eyes, so big and scared, fill up with tears like giant fishbowls.

patrick crying Crying for me is highly contagious. My tagline could be Dolly Parton’s line from Steel Magnolias: “I have a strict policy that no one cries alone in my presence.”

But I know if I cry we are sunk. I pinch my leg hard and force a fake smile as I crouch down next to her.

“Mommy,” she whimpers, “I have a bloody nose.”

“Yes, you did,” I say. “But it has stopped. You are ok now.”

She whispers, “Can we go home now? RIGHT NOW?” She clutches my arm with her bloody little hand.

“The play is ending – don’t you want to take your bow?”

She stares at me blankly. She looks like a cartoon character with PTSD. I realize this is the part where I have to step in and decide about the bow. She is cooked, she is toast. 95% of me wants to swoop her up and get her out of there, but 5% says: You are not actively bleeding so do the bow. Finish what you started. I have no idea if this is the right decision but I go with it.

She does the bow, sort of. She kind of lurks stage right, still holding the bloody tissues to her nose. Close enough.

The curtains close and she runs to me. The other kids are so sweet and supportive, giving her hugs and high fives. She forces a smile but wants out.

She grabs my arm and whispers: “Can we go home right now?”

With heads down, we weave our way through the crowded lobby. I spot Phil and give him the “wrap it up” signal with my finger. When we reach the car, Phoebe says, “Will you sit in the way back with me?” We settle into the third seat and hold hands. As the car pulls out of the lot, she starts to weep.

“I missed my scene with Linus.”

“I know. It’s ok. You nailed the big scene with Charlie Brown.”

“I sort of missed my bow.”

“No you didn’t! You went out there. You bowed.”

“How did you know I had a bloody nose?”

“Amy texted me.”

She turns to me in the dark; headlights from passing cars illuminate her streaky cheeks. “When you got her text….did you get up and leave right away?”

“Right away.”

“Did you run?”

I squeeze her hand, our fingers intertwined. “I ran.”

She sighs and rests her head on my arm. Suddenly she separates our fingers and presses my hand flat with my palm facing up. Then she places her hand in my open palm and wraps her fingers in-between mine. I begin to wrap my fingers around her knuckles but she stops me.

“No. You keep your hand flat. This is how I want to hold hands. With only me holding on.”

I smile, but at the same time my heart hurts a little. Both emotions -the joy and the sadness- are equally true for me in that moment; connection and separation sharing the same bittersweet space.

“Got it,” I say, uncurling my fingers away from hers. “I can do that.”

I can do that.

French Fries, Hamsters, and Bob Marley: The Wisdom of a 4-Year Old Mystic

Posted on May 1, 2014 by jessiepbraun

One of the greatest mysteries of motherhood is how my two children can be such polar opposites in almost every way.

As I discussed last week, our recent return to Catholic school has drummed up a lot of “God Talk” in our house. Emma, as I mentioned, takes things literally. She is also not satisfied with an answer that involves the word “symbol.” So I try to put things in more tangible terms, but that usually backfires, too. As I curled her hair for her spring chorus concert, she says:

“So I get Jesus. He was a real person, like…Abe Lincoln, right?”

“Yes. It is documented.”

“Then what’s the deal with the Holy Spirit?”

“The Holy Spirit….is….something that helps us in time of weakness. That helps put us on the right path. Kind of Glenda that Good Witch from Wizard of Oz.”

The minute I said it, I wished I could take it back. Wrong answer, Jessie. Buckle up.

“So the Holy Spirit is a princess-witch??” Her voice was getting tense. “Or like, a symbolic princess-witch? Why can’t anything just BE WHAT IT IS? AND CAN WE PLEASE GET HONEST ABOUT THE EASTER BUNNY?”

Sigh.

Now, I love Emma for exactly who she is, and I can relate. My last letter to Santa said: “Show yourself, old man, or the jig is up.”

But sometimes I need a break from these probing philosophical inquiries. Which is why I have Phoebe.

Phoebe is more like Phil in that she seems immune to the Catholic guilt of sin and unworthiness.

Don’t let this angelic pic fool you.

Phoebe is also on a God-streak as of late, but she doesn’t ask me many questions – in fact, she speaks with authority on the topic. While eating her lunch at the kitchen counter, it is not uncommon for her to get quiet for a few minutes, and then say:

“God is here, you know.”

“He is?”

“Yup. He’s eating a hot dog.”

“Does He want mustard?”

“Let me ask.” She cups her mouth and whispers to the empty chair next to her, then reports back: “Only if it’s Dijon.”

Since starting Catholic school, Phoebe blesses herself incessantly, which made me a little nervous at first. Why is she doing that? Does she feel she needs to do that to feel like, cleansed? Is she sad? What is she praying for?

So when she blessed herself for the fifth time in an hour, I asked her:

“Hey Pheebs, you ok? What are you praying for?”

“French fries.”

Oh.

Now I know she’s only 4, and things could change as she gets older….but I am pretty sure Emma was not praying for french fries at 4. In fact, that was about the age she drew this cheerful Easter picture:

That’s around the time we decided to take a break from Catholic school.

Phil, on the other hand, is 42, and I wouldn’t put it past him to pray for french fries. And a Coors Light to boot. So I asked him:

“How did you get through all those years of Catholic school without a guilt complex? How do you still feel so good about yourself?”

“I just don’t give a shit about rules,” he said, “and I hear what I want to hear.” “People get all bent out of shape about the word Commandment, because it’s such an authoritarian word. But I just ignore that word and choose to hear “Love your neighbor and yourself.”

“I don’t think that’s one of the 10 Commandments…that was Jesus.”

“See? Details, details. They will bring you down.”

I had to admit he was on to something. Why choose to be heavy when you can be light? And for me, listening to Phoebe’s theological ramblings is music to my ears. Emma must feel the same way, because it’s the one time she will let Phoebe talk uninterrupted. On the way home from school yesterday, this conversation happened in my back seat:

“Hey Emma, I’ve been to heaven you know. Before I was born, I was with God.”

“That’s cool Pheebs. What did you do in heaven? Was God nice?”

“Yeah, He gives me gummy worms. And He has a hamster who pooped on my hand!”

“Gross! Was anyone else there?”

“Yeah. Nannie, Ellie-dog, and Bob Marley. They are in a band called God’s Rockin’ Angels. And George Washington. He plays the tambourine.”

Emma caught my eye in the rear-view mirror and smiled. If that’s heaven, we want in.

Theologian Evelyn Underhill said:

The fundamental difference between [mysticism and magic] is this: Magic wants to get, mysticism wants to give.

So, ok. There is definitely an I Dream of Jeannie element to Phoebe’s mode of prayer. She actually does a little Walk Like an Egyptian dance after blessing herself. But I am not going to tell her to stop praying for french fries, or My Little Ponies, or talking hamsters. Because it is my experience that the guilt about the getting eventually blocks the giving.

And Phoebe gives me a lot: hugs, finger paintings, sloppy-on-the-lips-kisses, and joy. Lots of joy, in the present moment…and the realization that there are many ways to pray.

* Phoebe highly recommends rolling down a hill as a form of prayer. Just not too many times or you might puke.*

The Occupational Hazards of Being A Mary

Posted on March 20, 2014 by jessiepbraun

Ok, so I am not trying to make this a Biblical blog, but I felt it was only fair to pick up where I left off in my last post. It wouldn’t be honest to drop it, letting you believe that over the past week I was transformed from a harried Martha into a Zen master Mary. Because -shockingly – that’s not how things shook out. You are already laughing at me, I know you are.

I began with good intentions. One afternoon while the kids were at school, I chose to put aside my to-do list for a home yoga practice. I have practiced yoga for over ten years and even taught for a while, but amidst our string of moves from PA to MA back to PA, my mat has been rolling around the back of my car caked with rock salt and smashed up Cheddar Bunnies.

So it seemed like a very Mary thing to do, to forgo the organization of the linen closet for a little self-care. I rolled out my mat in Phoebe’s bedroom and moved through some Sun Salutes and the Warrior series – a little stiff and distracted by the naked Barbies under the bed, but there nonetheless.

Then I got to Eka Pada Rajakapotasana, or Pigeon Pose.

I. Started. Bawling. No, no. I mean it. I totally flipping lost my mind, like Full-frontal-Oprah-ugly-cry-nervous-breakdown-Beaches-Wind-Beneath-My-Wings-Put Me On-Paxil-STAT kind of lost it.

One of the “benefits” of hip-openers is the release of emotional….gunk you have been carrying around in your body. I have gotten weepy in Pigeon before, but this was like cleaning the gutters for the first time in two years – gutters packed with leaves and sticks and mud that I just didn’t have time to deal with amidst the packing and unpacking and repacking of houses.

When inward tenderness finds the secret hurt, pain itself will crack the rock and Ah! Let the soul emerge! -Rumi

I am all for a good cry, but this was intense. And when I realized how long I had been there, and that the kids would be home soon, I started to panic.

Occupational Hazard #1 of Being a Mary: Feel your feelings but be sure to leave enough time to pull yourself together so you don’t look like a meth mom in the car line.

After I scraped myself off the floor, I felt defeated and ashamed. I tried to do something positive, yet somehow managed to dissolve into a puddle of sweat, tears and boogers. I suck at stillness, I thought. Stillness just reminds me that I have the happiness set-point of Droopy Dog.

The next day while driving home from school, Emma says: “There is no room at the lunch table I want to sit at, and no one plays with me at recess so I just sit by myself and watch basketball.”

Phoebe chimes in: “I play by myself at recess.”

This doesn’t surprise me. “Really Pheebs? Does it bother you?”

“Nope. I just run in circles”.

With a slight eye roll Emma says, “Well Phoebe, I am sure that is ok for a preschooler but I am pretty sure my chances of making friends will not be improved by running in circles.”

Phoebe shrugs her shoulders. Don’t knock it ’till you try it.

Occupational Hazard #2 of Being a Mary: Trying to listen to your kids’ problems without fixing them and/or offering helpful suggestions but not solutions. Basically, fighting the urge to march into the cafeteria and say, “What’s wrong with you people??”

But I held my tongue, and listened to Emma vent about the playground politics. Then, just as I was about to chime in with my 2 cents, she says: “But you know Mom, despite all these issues, I still have the nerve to be happy. After recess when the teacher puts on dance music, I dance. Because I’m not going to be the girl that won’t dance.”

I mean, what do you say to that? Nothing. It’s why God invented the High Five.

We are the night ocean filled with glints of light. We are the space between the fish and the moon, while we sit here together. -Rumi

Duality is not my bag, baby. I grew up in a black and white world where things were good or bad, sinner or a saint, feast or famine. It may take me a lifetime to really embrace the paradox of this existence, to accept that life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope of light and dark. Why the hell is it so hard for me to grasp? Dolly Parton gets it:

Maybe it’s not about being a Martha OR a Mary; being the one who works OR the one who prays. Maybe we can be both. The one who works and the one who prays. The one who struggles, and the one who dances. The one who cries, and the one who still has the nerve to be happy. All at the same time.

Faith

Posted on January 2, 2014 by jessiepbraun

I feel like I am torturing you guys with my tear-jerker dog stories. But, every story has an ending. I feel I owe it to you – and Ellie – to share the end of her story.

After a few days of watching Ellie decline, Phil and I decided it was time to end our dog’s life. We called the vet and made “the appointment” for the Friday after Christmas. Phil and I took turns being the one that freaks out and the one who says, “We just need to have faith that we are doing the right thing.”

But what does even mean?

Anne Lamott says that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. I find this comforting, because the older I get, the less certain I am about anything.

On that Friday morning, I stood in the shower until the water ran cold. I prayed, Please tell me this is the right thing. Please tell me this is the right thing. This is the right thing….right? Can you send me a sign?

I have a deep but amnestic faith in God. My signature prayer, the one I say every morning, is one of the ADD variety: Good morning G-Money. Please help me find you today, and then please remind me to look, or that I even asked you in the first place. Amen.

We declared Friday a “lump day,” a day spent lying on the couch like a lump. Ellie, who in 9 years was never allowed on the furniture, got the best spot.

Phil and I picked Ellie out together, and we needed to say goodbye to her together. Me, Phil, and our friend Jameson.

The walk into the animal hospital was surreal, Ellie still half-heartedly sniffing the grass as she stopped for a final pit stop. Despite the vet’s reassurances, my silent prayer for help played on a continuous loop in my mind: Please tell me this is the right thing. Give me a sign that we are doing the right thing.

And then something weird happened.

Ellie was really Phil’s dog. He is the master, the alpha-male. As females, there was always a low level of competition between Ellie and I….a desire for Phil’s attention, I guess. When Phil would travel for work, Ellie would get pissed, and let me know by eating garbage, specifically tampons. There has to be some symbolism to the tampons, right?

Anyway.

But as we sat down next to her on the floor of the vet’s office, she rested her head in my lap. Not Phil’s, mine. She looked up at me with those big, pooly brown eyes and with them said to me, “I need you right now. Not as a substitute for Phil; you. I need you here right now, holding my face. And please don’t look away. I need you to not look away.”

Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but I was pretty certain that was my sign.

The doctor talked us through the process as she injected the medication. I held Ellie’s face and she stared into my eyes with a look of pure trust – so intimate that it almost became too much for me, and I was tempted to look away. But I willed myself to hang in there. Within what was probably a split-second – but seemed so much longer, as if in slow motion – I went from looking deep into her brown eyes to suddenly seeing my own face reflected in them. And I knew that was it. She wasn’t seeing me anymore. She wasn’t there. As the deluge of tears ran down my face, I tried to picture her soul rising up and running….running like she used to, chasing a skunk like a bat out of hell.

Why did she come to me? In The Art of Racing in the Rain, the protagonist -a dog named Enzo – says: “There are things that only dogs and women understand because we tap into pain directly from its source.” Maybe that was why.

Or maybe she chose me because she knew I needed it. I needed her to forgive me for flipping out about the tampons. I needed her to know that I loved her. I needed her to tell me that she was going to be ok. And she did.

The next morning, after reading the book Dog Heaven with the girls for the 58th time, we decided to draw our own versions of Dog Heaven.

When we asked Phoebe to describe her picture, she explained: “Well, that’s me and Ellie surfing, and over there is Nannie and Aunt Terry having cocktails.” Of course.

Emma’s spoke for itself:

Much of the research I found says you should be 100% honest with your kids about death; that any watered down version is to rob them of the death experience. Maybe. But my gut feeling was that to describe euthanasia and cremation to my young children would be to rob them of something…of their sense of wonder, of their version of faith and God. Maybe I will regret that decision one day, but right now I have to have faith that it was the right one for us.

John Lennon said: “I believe in everything until it is disproved. So I believe in fairies, myths, and dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind.”

So if my kids want to put their faith in a dog heaven where cocktails are served and doggie treats fall from the sky into the peanut butter river, who am I to say that it doesn’t exist?

Five days later, I am still seeing Ellie out of the corner of my eye. When I walk on the beach, I think every dog is her. When I slice an apple, I wait for her to come running for her share. Then I remember. And the sadness is crushing.

But then I think about her running through grassy fields to the peanut butter river, and I smile.

Waiting

Posted on December 19, 2013 by jessiepbraun

In this season of Advent, I have been thinking a lot about waiting.

I am not a huge fan.

In fact, I hate to wait. I am impulsive and impatient. I make hasty decisions, especially when I am tired and my brain is too full.

I can be ungenerous with those who do not seem to be keeping a proper pace, a quality for which Phil is certain I will burn in Hell. I told him to go grocery shopping at the same exact time as every senior citizen in town, and then we can talk about Hell.

I hate to be late yet I always am – maybe because I fight time rather than move with it.

My impatience – along with my big ears and fear of clowns – has been passed down to Emma. She came into the world exactly on her due date, waiting to be born. Ready to get on with it. Ready to crawl, to walk, to talk, to run.

Ready to go to school: “No kisses at the door, Mom.”

Ready to walk to the bus stop alone: “Stop lurking in the driveway, Mom.”

She wants to know when: When can I get my ears pierced? When can I ride my bike alone? When are we leaving? When will we get there? She is fully dressed – hat, boots, and backpack – by 7:43. The bus comes at 8:35.

Phil and Phoebe don’t mind waiting. In fact, if they wait long enough, they might forget what they are waiting for and move on to something else. Emma and I call it PST: Phil & Phoebe Standard Time. I spend a lot of time waiting at the door with Phil’s keys, his phone, his wallet. Emma spends a lot of time waiting in the car. She hides books between the seats.

But out of all of us, our dog Ellie waits the most. She waits to be fed, to be walked, to have her belly rubbed. She waits by the door when she hears Phil’s car in the driveway; she waits under the dinner table for Phoebe’s first fish stick to drop. She lets everyone else go first while she patiently waits.

And now, she is waiting to die.

In a theology class, I remember learning about the two types of time: chronos and kairos. Chronos is clock time, the time we live in. It is chronological, measurable, predictable. It makes sense. Bus comes at 8:35. Karate is on Tuesdays. Sun rises at 7:07.

The Greek word kairos means “God’s time” or “the right moment.” It is elusive and mysterious. You can’t predict or control it – you have to feel it. Nine years ago, Phil planned to propose to me on the beach at sunset. Instead he dropped to one knee in my parents’ garage as I reached into the fridge for a Coors Light. Why? “It just felt right.” Oh, Phil. You just wanted that Coors Light.

Henri Nouwen writes, “Fearful people have a hard time waiting.”

That sounds about right. I am terrified. I am afraid that Ellie is suffering. I am afraid she is going to fall down the steps or slip on the ice. But really…I am afraid of what’s to come. Of how bad it’s going to get. “Anywhere from a few weeks to a few months,” is what the vet said. It is one month today. 30 days. Chronos.

But right now there are still moments when I can forget. I scratch her ears, she thumps her tail, and I forget that her bones are being eaten away. I forget that her shoulders are disintegrating as we sit by the fire, with Phoebe deejaying on Pandora like any other day. Kairos.

But when will it become impossible to forget? We had to put baby gates by the stairs. Last week she cried when she tried to scratch her ears. Yesterday she had a hard time breathing. What’s next? Will she stop walking? Pee in the house? Stop eating? When? Tomorrow, next week, next month? How will I know when it’s time to let her go?

“You will just know,” they say. “She will tell you when it’s time.”

Huh? What does that mean? How will she tell me? And I never “just know” anything, ever. My sister-in-law had to tell me to go to the hospital when I was in labor because I thought I just needed to poop.

My friend Priya, who has known me and my specific brand of crazy for 30+ years, broke it down for me: “If you are questioning it, you’re not there yet.”

Ok. That, I get.

I want a chronos answer to a kairos question. But we are not waiting for the bus, here. I am being called to a deeper waiting. Nouwen calls it “active waiting.”

Active waiting means to be present fully to the moment, in the conviction that something is happening where you are and that you want to be present to it. Our waiting is always shaped by alertness to the world.

Waiting actively changes what I see, what I notice. When I wait fearfully, I hear Ellie’s labored breathing and think, Should I call the vet tomorrow? When I wait actively, I notice how she lays her paw on my wrist, and I think, We are holding hands.

Chronos vs. Kairos. There is nothing the vet can tell me that I don’t already know. All there is to do is wait. Do I wait in fear or do I wait in love?

John Grogan writes: “Such short lives our pets have to spend with us, and they spend most of it waiting for us to come home each day.”

Ellie has spent most of her life waiting patiently. But this time she is the one who will go first. And while she waits, we will wait with her. Lovingly, reverently, gratefully, until she tells us it is time. Kairos.

Daddy Drives With His Knees

Posted on October 10, 2013 by jessiepbraun

“Daddy drives with his knees.”

“What?”

“Daddy drives with his knees. Isn’t that cool? Can you drive with your knees, Momma?”

“Umm, no. I drive with my hands.”

“Oh. Daddy’s gonna teach me to drive when I’m ten.

“Is that right.”

“Yup.”

Normally I would find this car conversation with Phoebe amusing. Maybe if I wasn’t driving home from the orthopedist’s office with a purple-casted 4 year old, I would have cracked a smile. But ever since Phoebe broke her leg on the playground, I’ve kind of lost my sense of humor surrounding safety issues.

~~Despite being the parent on duty at the time,~~ Phil remains unaffected.

I am not blaming him. The same thing could have happened on my watch. While I ~~always~~ usually have an eye on the kids, my hands are often occupied: sending a quick text, jotting down my grocery list, rummaging through my bottomless bag for Chap-Stick.

The point is, I get it. I am guilty of multi-tasking, of not being present, of courting the hairy edge of disaster. So I did not freak out when Phil called me on the way home from the playground that afternoon.

“I have to tell you something but you have to promise not to get mad.”

Never a good start to a conversation.

I did not get mad. However…

There’s something about seeing your child’s leg in plaster that rouses your inner Mama Bear. That’s MY baby’s leg in that cast. A bone that I grew with my own body. I know every inch of that little leg – I clothe, wash, and carry it everyday. This made me fiercely protective yet uncomfortably vulnerable at the same time. It’s a little like having an infant. A 35 pound infant who screams for the IPad and gorgonzola cheese.

Phoebe took the whole thing in stride. Large strides. Running, careening, wildly unsteady strides. The minute she figured out that she could get around on the cast, she was off and running…dragging her purple leg behind her like a pint-sized, pony-tailed Captain Ahab.

Her drunk pirate routine made me drink. I imagined her flying down the stairs or slipping on the bathroom floor. I saw bloody teeth, a broken arm, potential head injury. Suddenly our own house was a death trap.

When I shared these concerns with Phil, he just rolled his eyes.

“You are being ridiculous. Yay, Phoebe, a new trick!” he said, clapping as she pirouetted around the kitchen.

“Can you please stop encouraging her?”

“Why? I’m teaching her to turn a setback into a comeback!”

“Her limb is being held together by paper mache! Looks, she’s getting all dizzy – and her toes are bleeding! PHOEBE STOP SPINNING!”

Phil is the fun parent and I am the….other parent. As Emma once said: “Dad plays soccer, but only after Mom goes to Target and buys the soccer ball.” I am fine with these roles, but Phil has a tendency to push the boundary of “Fun” and move into the realm of “Holy Shit Who Is In Charge Here?”

Like when he hung a tree swing in our yard that swings directly into the street, aka. “The Suicide Swing.”

Then there’s the time he “temporarily misplaced” Phoebe at a 5K Fun Run. She was later found on the massage table getting rubbed down by a random male masseuse.

I tried not to freak out when I discovered that his version of “giving Phoebe a bath” meant sticking her in a tub of running water before retreating to the upstairs bathroom with the sports section. I remained calm when he admitted to taking “9 Minute Chaise Lounge Naps” when taking the girls to the pool.

But this time was different. The more Phil ignored my plea to protect our daughter from a permanent leg deformity, the more pissed off I became. When he rolled his eyes, called me overprotective, or re-explained the strength elements of a cast, the anger percolated in my gut like lava.

And when I looked outside to see Phil and Phoebe doing soccer drills, I LOST. MY. MIND.

“Really Phil? Soccer?”

“What? The doctor said she could walk on it.”

“She didn’t say she could play soccer on it.”

“Ahhh, but she didn’t say she COULDN’T play soccer on it!”

“Because no one with half a brain would ever think that those words actually need to be said.”

“Don’t you understand the strength elements of a cast? You see, the way it works is…”

No words.

Later that night ~~after a few glasses of wine~~, I came up with a new strategy for getting my point across. While Phil was paying bills in his office, I left this outside the door.

Twisted? Sadistic? Lifetime movie-esque? Perhaps. But it worked.

About an hour later he came downstairs.

“Ok, I get it. I’ll stop. You’re one crazy chick, but I will stop.”

“Promise?”

“Trust me.”

I do trust Phil. Do I trust that he will miraculously transform into a Danger Ranger armed with a First Aid Kit and detailed fire escape plan? No, and thank God. That’s not who he is. I do trust that he will back off the One-Legged Olympics. Not because he wants to, but because he knows I really need him to.

For me, trust is surrender. Relinquishing the need to be right. Going somewhere unfamiliar because it is really important to someone else. Being able to say: “I still like my way of doing things, but I am willing to give your way a chance.” To trust is to consider that maybe there is validity in the other person’s point of view.

And I must admit, the view from the Suicide Swing is pretty damn good.

No Cigarettes, No Bologna

Because marriage is all about compromise and throwing stuff

Tag Archives: Phoebe