Catch and Release

At dusk, the lightning bugs emerge. It is well past bedtime, but we go out anyway. My son runs barefoot through the grass with a jar, chasing the disappearing lights. He catches one, then three, then none as he removes the lid for more. He loses another when he adds grass, then loses the grass when he tips the jar over his prey. As night falls, he figures out the order of things. With his one catch trapped in a jungle of lawn clippings, I prod my little boy towards the house. He places the jar carefully on the dresser at the foot of his bed.

The house is quiet in the summer night. My mind is not. The future is too uncertain. It pricks at the skin of my feet and eyes, coaxing me to get moving.

When a woman has her first baby, she gives birth to more than just the kid. A couple of mothers are born, too.  One is a nurturer. She knows in her bones her child is better for the simple gift of her attention. She is made for care. Instinct guides the tender fullness of her focus.

The other is a grizzly bear who rips the throat from any threat. Crafty and determined, she will bust through ice to catch that fish for her hungry cub. When grit is called for, mama bear comes growling from her cave. Instinct guides the sensory vigilance of her focus.

My hide grows thick. My claws are as sharp as ever.
 

In the night when the dog is walked and the lunches packed and the kid has been kissed and cuddled to sleep, the thin remains of the nurturer in me drift to Neverland. This is when my brain's fierce protectiveness awakens. In the dark, the planning begins. A list of tasks awaits me on the desk of an office I am always careful to tidy before leaving for the day. Order improves efficiency. If I can tick items off the list, there may be a small window of time to make arrangements and order books for the classes in which I have enrolled in the fall. Drafting the 30-point co-parenting document required for divorce has fallen to me. In the ever-shrinking summer months before the semester begins, I must prepare this family for the next tectonic shift.

The system is only barely working. Tasks spill over the thin edges of the to-do list. They flood every moment, every spare breath. I must find a way to increase my income to support this child. Steady, focused forward motion is required.  There is no drift here, no feeling around for my bliss or calling. I know very little about business, about job market trends, about spin. It is time for me to learn, and so I will learn.

The clock drags its way deeper into my precious night.

 

What am I missing? My grizzly brain will not ease its grip. It scans the horizons for dangers as well as opportunities. It works to force the germination of solutions not yet ready to push towards the light. 

 

These things are too big for this bed, but they belong nowhere else. They are mine. I want to begin re-arranging the desk space in my room to prepare for studying. I want to get up to finish one of the eight books I will need to read, or work through a section of the parenting plan. I force my body still in the bed despite the pull to rise and hammer away at a project that will provide a better foundation for my child and me.

I remember the lightning bug in my son's room. My mind flits past this. I am already scheduling the next training and untangling the next knot. 

Then I pause. The grizzly mama backs for a moment into her cave. In the quiet, I remember. On my son's dresser, a living creature is trapped in glass. 

I creep through the silent house with the jar. Out in the damp heat, crickets sing to the crescent moon. I open the lid and shake free the grass and the single insect. It disappears instantly. 

Sleep comes. 

The fierce mama has been on the front lines for over a year now. Her vigilance has kept us safe and her craftiness is moving us towards more abundant feeding grounds. Allowing her to be in charge comes at a cost, however. The one threat she fails to notice is her own self. 

 

The tougher I become, the further I have to travel to find my source of tenderness. This patch of earth with its inhabitants creates a small circle of life around me. To flourish, it requires the presence of the nurturer, too. In more ways than I ever imagined, I have to become two parents to my boy. I did not know I was capable of being a provider and a protector, but now I am called on to take on these roles. I am, however, still the mother whose arms fit perfectly around her little boy. That mother is the one called upon to show her son how to love this mystifying world.

The Upside of Insomnia

This morning, I awoke far too early after falling asleep far too late. A morning appointment required me to grab parking at the metro by 7:30, so no chance for a snooze once the sun elbowed my lids open. At 7:15, my little Saturn chugged its way into an indoor spot at the Vienna station. Next would come sitting in a bus shelter for the better part of half an hour waiting for the Fairfax 462. I considered the plexiglass shelter. Mellow morning light filtered down, a floppy hat rested on my head, and sneakers hugged my feet.

This gal ain't built for sitting.

But how to get where I needed to go?

Hoofing it to Merrifield from the Vienna metro requires some fancy mapping. Alas, I was map-less. I was also too tired to think much about the route. I simply pointed myself in a general southeast direction and began walking.

A little over an hour to travel. . . how far? Not quite sure. A few miles stretch between the metro and my destination. Those roads somehow move over (or under?) I-66 and along congested Lee Highway. Between noisy highway and peaceful neighborhood, a crossroads greeted me. Freeway walking is neither appealing nor legal, not even in the Commonwealth of Virginia. The tree-lined sidewalks of Vienna invite a good stroll, so I parted the leaf canopy into an unknown zip code and walked on.

Sidewalks, of course, live next to streets. Cars use streets to navigate between the quaint post-war homes and the assorted services of surrounding Fairfax county. For this reason, one would think it would be possible to find a way out once entering such a neighborhood.

Hah.

I walked and walked. I walked down one cul-de-sac after another, found one dead-end sign after another. The faint rumble of the interstate accompanied me. Every so often, a barrier wall rose like a cliff face from the lush green of a back yard. Somehow, I had to cross that mammoth road to make my appointment. I kept checking the stretch ahead, south and east, for some break or path or side-street. Nothing appeared but fence and obstacle.

I walked on.

The hands of my watch made their own persistent progress.

Dripping with sweat, feet loyally plodding, I ignored another "no thru street" sign and forged ahead. At the bottom of a hill, I stumbled upon a park. Behind chain-link, a narrow trail ringed a ball-field. It carried me past thick brush while presenting no way out. I kept my eye to the east and south.

Around a bend, without warning, the way offered itself up to me.

Slipping easily from one neighborhood to another, I found myself a half mile from a major road. A few more turns, and I was crossing an overpass as the gleaming congestion of I-66 groaned below. Hot and happy, I walked into the building at exactly 8:29. One minute was just enough for a slug of water and a pat-down with paper towels before my appointment.

Sleep deprivation can turn a person into a bully, a wimp, or a fool. I choose the third. Exhaustion impedes the judgment but it need not choke the spirit. A wiser, better-rested person could say, "You need to clear your head, consult a map, develop contingencies." But a clear head has a way of thinking itself out of foolish impulses. And what is gumption if not the better part of folly? No one should postpone an adventure for want of proper plans. 

Maps are less important than destinations. Choose a direction of travel. The road will guide your feet.

Going Up

One activity sure to focus Bug’s attention for a substantial chunk of time is Legos. The kid can build. He has inherited his daddy’s dexterity, which comes in handy because he has also inherited several storage bins crammed with his daddy’s childhood Legos. On rainy days, we don’t need DVDs for mellow entertainment. We can pass a good, chill hour on the living room floor, snapping blocks together.

Legos are only compelling up to a point, though. The angles create a natural limit to creativity. If the kid likes to build, why not build with other stuff? What about the stuff you find around the house or out in nature, stuff whose connectivity is not pre-determined?

Anyone with a preschooler knows this kind of craftiness is the most fun. It also hits its own wall when it comes to assembling upwards. White glue, that staple of every child’s craft box, is easy to spread but slo-o-o-ow to dry. This means that a person can cobble together a fabulous collage but give up in frustration when trying to make a car or a building or a rocket ship with actual depth.

Bug uses white glue as its own medium, painting and making shapes on the page with it. He is fan of glitter and salt-paint. He can create mosaics out of little bits of paper. I do not think he recognizes his capacity to build something three dimensional, however, unless he is using plastic blocks.

Sometimes the only thing separating routine and innovation is a single tool.

Recently, Teacher Tom, one of the most inspired bloggers you will ever read, posted a story about building with odds and ends in his preschool classroom. This dude lets the 4- and 5- year olds  use hot glue guns. Yes, those guns: the ones with the heated metal tips squeezing out scalding glue.

Well, why not? We let our kids climb trees and swim in lakes and roll down grassy hills. Just about every activity worth doing has risk built in. Kids and grown ups both understand owies are an occasional consequence of fun, and we all learn which hazards to avoid.

Today, I broke out the hot glue gun, a heap of cardboard, a few popsicle sticks, and some random bits of trash rescued from the recycling bin. Bug was transfixed. After I explained how both the tip of the gun and the fresh glue itself could burn him, he did not want to touch anything. He watched, directing me. “Build a house, mommy.” I started with a couple walls. In no time, Bug was reaching for the gun. “Let me try.” He squeezed with care, kept his hands clear, and set the gun out of reach between uses. His concentration was even more acute than when he is at the Legos. 

At one point, Bug went tearing into the house without saying a word to me. I found him in the bathroom, running cold water over his finger. He dried off his hand, went back outside, and picked up the glue gun without a whimper or an explanation. He did not even ask for a band-aid.

For his people and his house, he collected some “mulberry leaves” from the garden and affixed them to his stick-person’s arms as hands. The second floor of the house went on, a trap door opened from above, and a roof protected it all from today’s predicted thunderstorms. In the blink of an eye, we had crafted a big kid and a little kid, a rocket ship, and a two-story building with reinforced sides. All of it, after a few tests and modifications, was sturdy enough for a busy boy to play with. 

Bug did not know he was capable of creating something out of trash and scraps. I did not know he could manage a grown-up tool. While we were both initially wary of this approach, we were not too scared of the unknown to try. It was simply. . . unknown. Until today, such a project had never occurred to us. Now, I am left wondering what else we have not yet thought to attempt. 

Without a doubt, I have it in me to chart a course more extraordinary than I had ever considered. This awareness is my constant companion. What keeps some of us from great things is not a lack of courage, but a lack of imagination. This kid and his mama both have oodles of gumption. With the right tools, we can build it right up towards the sky.

. . . I Wanna Bang on My Drum All Day

At camp, people pay for the chance to hang from a rope and climb a wall. We watch and think, "How lucky that guy is!" Today, the dude dangling at the 5th floor window of the building behind mine elicits a different response. "How lucky I am not to be that guy!"

What differentiates work from play? The window washer makes me think geography and a paycheck are the main culprits. It's a shame to know nothing can bleed the thrill from an activity faster than getting paid for it (or, to be fair, having to get paid for it).

Over the past few months, anxiety about an uncertain future has been weighing on me. How does a single mother who spent the better part of five years as a stay-at-home camp mama position herself to support her child? I mean, how does she do it anywhere, let alone in the competitive, crowded job market of the DMV?

An increased salary means creating bigger job than the one I have. Because of this, I have begun to chart a course of action. No one out there is going to care that I have good reasons for a weak resume. It’s time to run that puppy through boot camp and build some solid muscle. This requires research, contingency plans, truckloads of advice. It demands thinking and planning and reflection. All of this, I have taken on with the fervor of the truly desperate.

A solid plan exacts its price. I had not noticed that by zeroing in on a goal, I was also wearing myself thin. Gentle dreams, finally restored after nine months of insomnia last year, were beginning to rattle with tsunamis and predators. My voice was growing louder. Keys were lost, appointments dropped, and I caught myself rolling my eyes in the vicinity of people who deserve better.

This is no recipe for professional success. In my quest to prepare myself for a future career, I was overlooking the career solidly in my grasp.

Right here in my hands is a job many would love to land: a supportive, student-oriented, opportunity-rich position in a well-run department with a boss who should be training the universe in superior boss-dom. This job here is paying the bills and paving the way. Because of this work, I am able to cobble together a vision of that future with its pots of gold, its milk and honey. I don’t get there by blasting past this. I get there by doing this.

Doing this one thing.

Like any job, mine has its moments of drudgery. However, I chose this position because it feeds me, in every sense of the word. It is only when I begin to count the dollar value of the minutes that I begin to curl my lip at the work. When I feel far from Bug, wishing I could meet him for lunch or commute home with him, I despair about my situation. What dark magic turns the gratitude into grumpiness? 

Geography and a paycheck.

The work is only toil when looking forever beyond it. Quieting the comparisons, thoughts, and research allows for taking pleasure in the activities that fill a day. It is possible to set the planning into a crate for unpacking when the time is right. This frees me up to go into the office each morning with my eyes and mind on what is before me. The reflective journal awaits me at my desk, and I write through projects and improvements for the day. Next comes a priority list, and, finally, leaping into the first item with a can-do attitude and a warm smile. 

As my co-workers arrive, they can hear sunny welcomes from my office and inquiries that bring out their best hopes for the day. Students and colleagues come with their requests. I seek to serve as a resource and to make their experience of the university (through me) a positive one.

Nothing else needs my attention. Shannon the Struggling Mother has left the building. She has been replaced by Shannon the Assistant Director for PhD Student Services (or, as I like to think of her, Shannon the Kick-Ass, Smokin’ Hot PhD Lady).

The spirit I embody at work contributes as much – perhaps more –  to my future prospects as any dozen plans for career advancement. Here, success is within reach. It is play. It is the wide arc of a rope swinging across the sky.  It is a single, elegant stroke of the brush.

My job is joy. With full attention, I will breathe delight into this one thing.

Ripe for the Picking

Bug has been hitting lately. He has also become an expert at spitting, pinching, kicking, and making awful faces. This has resulted in three visits to the “principal” at his preschool, countless time outs at home, and at least one instance of missing out on play date with neighbors.

A positive discipline approach was the first line of attack. By modeling the appropriate way to deal with frustration, talking with Bug about his options, and providing time-outs, the behavior was supposed to abate. The opposite has happened. Reliance on aggression when he is feeling off-balance has become Bug’s modus operandi.

The intensity could be an expression of our son’s anxiety over our separation. I will certainly keep vigilant about this possibility. However, friends with four-year-olds and intact families give similar reports. We are probably experiencing a delightful blend of developmental stage and response to circumstances.

Yesterday, Bug was eating his oatmeal and fresh berries at breakfast. He spit at me from his chair. My new approach? Remove something appealing, immediately and with clear explanation. His berries disappeared from the table. When he came to me sobbing and ready to hit me, I said gently, “Little boys who hit and spit do not get to have their berries.”

“But I want it! I want the strawberry!” He clung to my leg and cried with that full-body despair only the smallest children are capable of tapping. I hugged him and told him I was so sorry he lost his berries. Again, though, “Little boys who hit and spit don’t get what they want.”

“But I want it!”

And this is the rub, isn’t it? He wants it. He wants that bowl of berries, wants it enough to dissolve into hysterics. But he doesn’t want it enough (yet) to restrain himself from a choice that will surely result in losing it.

The neurological tasks involved in this extended moment are stunning. Here is a child who wants incompatible things. He wants to have that fruit, but he also wants to be able to express his frustrations in familiar ways. How will he get to the other side of this problem? Numerous times a day, this little boy is pushing up against the edges of his skills and finding them lacking to meet his goals.

Despite constant reinforcement of verbal expression feelings, Bug has not yet practiced this strange language. His toe nudges the boundary between known and unknown. It is surely frightening, and I don’t blame him for wanting to retreat. When he feels distress – Mommy packing for work or a classmate taking a toy – and lifts his fist to pound out the feeling, he has a big chore. He must pause, consider the consequences, weigh options still odd and new to him, and decide what to do.

When Bug finally makes the developmental leap to the other side of hitting and spitting, he will enter yet more strange territory. Over there, he will be green again, having to learn on the job and with little experience how to speak through his feelings to achieve his desired results. He might get it wrong. He might even make things worse. This is very confusing for a little guy.

But, oh, that strawberry.

Does he want his precious object enough to let go of the familiar approach?

Desire is a tricky little devil. I want, too. I want a career lucrative enough to support my child but fulfilling enough to allow me to serve, all while enjoying the process. I don’t have it now. To have it, I have to enter the borderlands. The patois spoken there is disorienting. I know my skills are limited, but I don’t quite know what I am supposed to know. I can write like a fiend, but finishing a piece and publishing it are foreign processes. I can study hard, but how do I produce original research? My administrative proficiency is conversational, but project management, complex budget negotiations, and large team supervision require fluency.

Where the hell does a person begin?

Achieving a “balanced life” is often the excuse for staying put. Doing enjoyable, comfortable things offsets the drudgery of plugging away at necessary tasks.  If I were to undertake developing the expertise necessary for a substantial career, I would have to want it more than anything else. The hunger for it would have to eclipse my desire for long walks every night, open stretches of time to dance and write poetry, lazy weekends with my kid.  I would have to want it more than this trim body and this circle of friends.

These components of my life are not certain to disappear. But many of them might go, and I might not find them again anytime in the next decade. Yet, despite losing those things, I still might not achieve the desired result. I could get it wrong, or the situation of my life could change dramatically enough to knock me off course.

The problem is that the approaches I have used so far keep me hungry for something beyond my reach. The “balance” I have attained fixes me right here to this spot.

Right here, life is manageable and familiar.

Right here, my income cannot support my son.

Oh, that strawberry.  

Prophesy

People sometimes ask, "If a fortune teller said you only had a year left to live, how would you spend your time?"  You are meant to zero in on what really matters, and consider whether or not you are living in sync with that purpose. It is a fun exercise. A little anxiety-producing, too.

I propose an alternate question: What if you knew you had thirty years left to live? Or, say, sixty? What if that tea leaves told you that the next twelve months matter, but only because the choices you make in the year to come will determine the quality of the sixty to follow?

What if you knew today that you would live to be 110?

Don't scoff. It is possible, after all. It is even likely, considering demographic trends. You stand a good chance of sticking around longer than your parents and grandparents. You don't need a crystal ball to know that the cumulative effects of choices -- finances, diet and activity, social connections, occupation, and even attitudes and beliefs -- determine what will become of the protagonist in the story of You.

In my tale, I recognize this body is a machine built for endurance. I try to orient my mind and behaviors towards longevity and wellness. This is all fine. But is it sufficient?

I stand here with a brief glimpse into a future not yet written (yet being written, nonetheless). My husband and I are parting. Bug is growing up. My job is manageable and brings a bit of satisfaction. I dance and write and have friends and family. It is a fine life. Alas, it won't be long before my son becomes a central character in his own story. He will, Inshallah, embark on adventures that will make his mama's head spin. If Madame Suzatska is correct, a good fifty years will still roll out ahead of me once Bug heads out.

Fifty years!

I like my work, but will it propel me to serve and learn and grow during the half century remaining once Bug is no longer my raison d'etre? Is higher ed administration where I can make my best contribution? 

I am at a crossroads. You are too, I suppose, because we are all making formative decisions every day. The quotidian, however, does not have the clarifying power of unexpected upheaval. Divorce is Lasik surgery for the foresight. I can see now that I am, ultimately, in charge of myself. I can no longer hitch my wagon to someone else's mule, then complain when I end up too far down the wrong road. My success, contributions, satisfaction and life situation are my responsibility. Perhaps you read this and say, "Well, duh. We're all in the same boat, lady. You're just figuring this out now?"

I suppose I am. Better now than at the wrong end of that 110 years.

As I write this, I am proctoring the qualifying exam for a dozen doctoral students. They have all just completed their foundational courses, and they hope to move on to developing research fields. Their performance today will determine whether or not they continue in the PhD program. Most are younger than I am. A few are older. A handful have children. Several came from overseas, many from developing countries, to study here. Wherever they are in their journeys, they have all decided to deepen their understanding of public policy and work their hineys off to achieve a degree in the field.

Last night at convocation, the select few who survived the rigors of the program over the previous five to ten years donned their doctoral regalia and received a hood and a diploma. Many in this room today will fall away between qualifying exam and graduation. Those who persevere have greater opportunity, a larger vocabulary, a solid area of expertise. Most importantly, perhaps, they will possess the knowledge that they can accomplish what they set out to do. Whether each graduate has two or six decades remaining hardly matters. Each has the capacity to craft something exquisite in the years ahead.

What am I willing to take on in order to enjoy the next half century or so? Could anything that matters really be too hard?

If I were to take on doctoral studies in a field that compels me, I will be in my mid- to late-forties by the time I walk across the stage. This is chilling. It occurs to me, however, that I could be pushing fifty with a degree in hand and the next chapter in my career underway, or I could be pushing fifty adrift. I will be old someday either way. Which old do I choose to be?

While my students sweat and tap at their computers, I am at work on a goals statement for a graduate application. As an administrative faculty member at a state university, I enjoy the benefit of free tuition. The building right next to mine houses a doctoral program for which I am qualified and about which I am excited. This is a big step I am considering. For now, I am only just considering it. I can take one class in the fall and then, if all goes well, complete the PhD application next winter. Small steps, yes. But as the fortune teller says, the choices I make in the next year will determine the quality of the decades to follow.

What are the characteristics of the protagonist in the story of Me? Excitement? Curiosity? Determination?

How about courage?

Yes, yes, yes and yes.

Bugging Out

It's time. Past time, actually. The temperatures have been creeping up into the 80's here in the suburbs of the Nation's Capital. I may only be a temporary inhabitant of the second floor spare room, but summer is coming no matter whose name is on the mortgage. There is just no more avoiding the inevitable. The storm windows must go up. The screens must come down.

Only two tools are required for the job: a vacuum and a big dose of courage. 

Inside the aged seal of the window frame, a whole community of stink bugs has taken up residence. They have mated, built homes, borne young, grown old, and died. They have hung the carcasses of chosen ancestors in the cobweb drapery of their makeshift castle. They have nested in the dark detritus of their forgotten dead.

The hardy stink bug is a recent arrival in this region of the world. They were first discovered in Pennsylvania in the late 1990's, having made their way to this continent from Asia. With no natural predators in the States, their spread is damaging fruit crops and causing widespread disgust among human residents of the eastern seaboard.

This slow-moving little insect wields considerable power. The stink bug is not stinky when it is just loping around. When you crush one, however, it smells like dirty gym socks. This makes removal an ongoing adventure. As one creeps up the curtains looking for a cozy bed, you cannot just remove your shoe and give it the spider treatment. Overriding the basic bug-smashing instinct is not easy. Instead, you  have to take a deep breath, find a tissue, pick the thing up gently, and ferry it to the toilet. Be sure to flush, however, because they can swim and have no problem gaining purchase as they make their way out of the bowl.

My own four-year-old Bug has no beef with most wildlife in the outdoors. He will pick up a worm with his bare fingers and transport it to a different part of the garden. However, a stink bug on his dresser sends him into hysterics. As the weather warms up and the sun shines on his south-facing bedroom wall, the numbers of visitors making their lazy way across his territory are on the rise. Bug will stay awake until nearly midnight, hollering every ten or fifteen minutes, "Mommy, there's another stink bug!"

No man in the bed next to me means no man to elbow into action. If anyone is going to drown the bugs and slay the dragons around here, it will have to be me.

Which brings me back to the windows.

I take a few deep breath, remind myself that they do not bite, and raise the sash on my bedroom window. Vacuum hose roaring, I demolish the stink bug village. I have declared a scorched earth policy. No insect will safe haven here. Down come the spiderwebs with their gristly ornaments. Even the refugees hiding in crevices stand no chance against the Wrath of Hoover. The townsfolk attempt escape, taking wing and buzzing straight for me in their disorientation. I squeal and try desperately to still the urge to smack at them. I chase them around my bed and body with the hose.

This is just the first phase of the attack. The storm windows still have to go up. As I squeeze the release buttons and lift the pane, a horde of stowaways rains down on me. I scream, drop the pane, vacuum madly, and repeat. I can only get the storm window halfway up before I am simultaneously hyperventilating and hurling profanities at the little monsters. Inside my rational mind, I hear myself saying, They're harmless! They're just stink bugs! This mantra aims to drown out the other voice, the one sneering, This is what you get, lady, for splitting up with your guy. Now MAN UP!

I swallow back tears that have no place here. This task must be done. The second floor is famished for breeze. No one is going to tackle this for me, so I had better get used to it. These days, I air up my own tires and pull ticks from the dog. Divorce exacts its price. Not all fees show up on the invoice.

After a few centering breaths, I reach past the climbing, falling confusion of insects and squeeze the latches once more. I only lift the pane a few inches before another flurry of bugs falls down on my exposed forearms. I scream but don't let go, pushing the pane higher.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. "What the hell is going on up here?"

I let go of the latches and sit back, shaking. My father is stepping into the breach.

"For crying out loud, they're just stink bugs! They're harmless! Here." He pushes the pane up. "Turn that vacuum on! Quick!" Together, we jump and roar after the bugs. We slide the screen down and chase the few stragglers into the hose before they can sneak back into the crevices. My dad chuckles at me as I squeal and squirm. "You're such a wuss," he says.

He is right. I am. But only because I can be, just for this brief stretch of time while I share a house with my father. Once my son and I get it together to get out on our own, I will be flying solo on Stink Bug Patrol. I am ready for it. I am! It will be good practice for the return of the 17-year cicada in 2021.

For today, though, I will just enjoy the fresh air making its way into that spare room on the second floor.