To my younger son,
You’re five. How has it been five years since that chaotic day you came into our lives, three weeks early and only a few hours after I had a job interview? (Yes, really.) How could it have been so many months since they placed you – so very tiny – in my arms after so much anxiety and bated breath? When I wondered how your brother would react, how you would fit in our family, who you would be?
“The house should be so much cleaner!” I think, panicked about my parents arriving any minute. That streak of panic occurs despite the fact that they know perfectly well that they’ve been the only people in our house since last March and that we’re not exactly the tidiest people by a long shot. Expectations are already low.
And yet I think this anyway. The self-judgment weighs hard, even when I push back against it. The hardest part is that I think this way about everything: cleaning, cooking, parenting, activism, writing, even taking care of myself. Perhaps worst of all, I suspect I’m not the only one.
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38. It’s a weird birthday, isn’t it? It says something about this birthday and year in general that I’m writing my birthday reflection post more than a week after it happened. In the past, I would have been on top of it, annoyed with myself if I didn’t have it ready the day of my birthday. But like so much this past year, my writing has been catch-is catch-can and that’s just how it’s going to be.
“I just want to raise my kids to be kind,” the Facebook comment read.
My eyebrow raised. This comment followed a back and forth between me and the commenter. That conversation was sparked by her complaining that she was sick of people trying to shame white people. That comment was in response to a thought-provoking post about racism that wasn’t shaming. Trying to provide an alternative perspective, I explained because of the unjust systems we live in that we all have some level of racism and we actively have to work to be anti-racist. She basically said that she was disgusted at me trying to create conflict and would raise her kids to be “color-blind.” And then she dropped that line on me about “raising her kids to be kind.”
Really? Really?!
“Let me take a picture of you in the last night of your old bed!” I urged my younger son. Instead, he threw the blanket over his head and giggled. I sighed and smiled. Sheesh. After some playing back and forth, I finally got my photo.
“I’m a hell hound! But a nice one,” my four year old says, referring to a Dungeons and Dragons monster who is literally supposed to be a dog from Hades.
This may seem like an odd exchange, but it’s perfectly normal in our household.
