“Baby Yoda left,” my older son told me as I was tucking him in. He was referring to our Baby Yoda Tamagotchi, which eventually leaves with the Mandalorian if you take good care of him.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yeah, I looked to see how Baby Yoda was feeling and he was gone. And I was like, Oh, that’s how he’s feeling,” he said.
“Mmmm, well, you know something?” I whispered to him. “That’s how it feels to me with you.”
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My eyes closed, nearly drifting off to sleep, I startle, awakened by a creaking noise. Is it one of the kids’ doors? Is one of them up, perhaps to go to the bathroom? Listening closer, room still dark, I strain to hear. The noise occurs again, but I can locate it just outside our window. “It’s the blueberry bushes, scratching the house,” I reassure myself. But some part of me doesn’t accept that answer and keeps listening anyway – just in case.
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40. 40 years old.
It doesn’t even make sense as an age to me. It’s terribly cliched to say that “of course I don’t think of myself as 40” – but yeah, I don’t.
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“I’m sorry – what was your name again?” I asked the man sitting next to me at the community meeting.
“Luis,” he replied, then gestured. “Remember, I asked you about hosting the neighborhood pantry?”
“Oh, right!” I recalled. “I’m sorry – I’m really bad at both faces and names.”
I’ve had some variation on this conversation dozens, if not hundreds, of times.
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“Nothing is wasted in nature,” I whispered to myself as I dumped moldy strawberries in our composter.
I despise wasting food. There are so many things wrapped up in the production of our food – from how farm workers are treated to the amount of fertilizer used – that throwing it away feels a bit like sacrilege. But we bought far too much for our Christmas fruit salad and the extra got shoved back in the fridge with the other holiday leftovers. So into the composter it had to go.
I at least had the solace that this food wouldn’t be wasted – it would break down into good compost to feed our garden next fall. Just like the fallen leaves in the forest feed the insects and fungus, which in turn feed the roots of the trees and other plants.
In fact, this is idea that nothing is wasted in nature is a mantra I’ve been trying to adopt in life far beyond our composter.
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An empty changing table. But in my mind, my memory, it wasn’t empty. There was a child on it, an excitable, squirmy three year old who was potty training – slowly. A shock of recognition went through me – he was that young last time we were here, wasn’t he? Had it been that long? Yes, it had.
I was standing in the bathroom of a favorite cafe – a place I hadn’t been since COVID started. We were on our way to the Zoolights event at the National Zoo – an event they hadn’t held since COVID started. And when COVID started, my kid was a toddler and now he’s a kid. Not even a “little” kid – just a kid. It was strange how time had jumped like nothing at all.
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Many of us tell our kids that all feelings are okay, it’s how you act on them that affects people. But how often do we apply that to ourselves?
When we attended Zoolights at the Smithsonian Zoo, I was a little disappointed that they got rid of most of their traditional string light animals and replaced them with the Chinese lantern-style animals. At first, I shoved down the disappointment and thought “just enjoy it, Shannon.” But then I realized “no, I can be disappointed. It’s okay to be disappointed.” And accepting that freed up the headspace to actually enjoy what they had.
Holding those contrasting things in tension – that you can be disappointed and enjoy what’s there instead or knowing that our kids are tiring and we love them dearly – is really difficult for us as humans. Our brains want to simplify and eliminate ambiguity. But it’s a really valuable skill for parenting – which is full of ambiguity – and life.
Sometimes, plans don’t work the way they should the first time. But that doesn’t mean they will never work, just that you need to adjust. As someone who gets stuck on expectations, this can be really hard. But it’s almost always worth it to figure out how to make it work.
Every year, we do an activity Advent calendar. For the past several years, COVID has prevented us from doing many of the activities we’ve done in the past, including the train display at the U.S. Botanical Garden. I found out that they finally relaunched it this year, outdoors. But the one day we could do it overlapped with a really important meeting of one of my older son’s extracurricular activities. So that was a no-go. But we were able to go after Christmas – not ideal, but better than nothing. And so we went the week of Christmas break, which worked out beautifully.
This lesson *may* just apply to far more than planning activities. When we hold on our expectations too tightly – whether to who our children are or what we do with them – we miss out on what is possible. As hard as it is to come to terms with what is not, it’s so much better to embrace what is.
As I pumped my legs and leaned back in the swing, I noticed my younger son swinging next to me, in parallel, our swings moving in time together.
A memory of swinging as a kid flashed across my mind – the idea that if you swing in sync with someone else, it meant you would get married. I smiled. That saying was nonsense of course, mere playground silliness. But to see this being, the child who I remember being so small, swinging on his own, next to me, reminded me of our deep connection to one another.
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I opened and closed my mouth trying not to say anything to my younger son. Finally, I just had to. “No, not like that!” I cried, as our kayak started moving backwards. I sighed and thought, “I thought he knew how to do this?!”
My younger son was sitting in front of me in a red double kayak. I was attempting to leave shore. He dipped one side of his paddle in the water, then dipped it on the same side again, and then dragged it backwards on the surface.
“Take your paddle out!” I yelled. I struggled to figure out how to explain the sixteen different things he needed to fix, all at the same time. I tried to start with something concrete.
“Ah, ah, your hands, your hands need to be spaced the same amount apart. Can you spread them out?” I stammered as I paddled, trying to keep us from running into another boat or going backwards. As he fixed his hands, I replied, “Yes, like that.” Then thought, “Or not,” as his hands shifted exactly back to where they were before. And then his paddle was going backwards again. “Ack, no, stop paddling!”
My husband, Chris, spotted our flailing. My older son was in his kayak and while his form wasn’t perfect, he had done it before and was remembering the rhythm. My husband was in a good place to provide a metaphorical hand.