The Day My Kids Taught Me to Stop and Pick the Flowers

“Come on, boys,” I scolded, exasperated as their tiny toddler feet wandered off into the weeds for what felt like the hundredth time in the last five minutes. “Keep moving, and stay on the path, or we’re never going to get to the end.”

We’d set out on a family walk at a local park, and my twin boys kept darting off the designated path to pick flowers—most of which were actually weeds—effectively turning our “walk” into more of a “stand around in a puddle of my own sweat while the kids get dirty, itchy, and bug-bitten” situation. No matter how much I insisted that they stick to the route we’d set out upon, they refused to cease their floral-driven detours.

As I stood there, squinting in the harshness of the July Texas sun, I became increasingly frustrated with their apparent distraction. As the mosquitoes descended upon my ankles like ants on a sugar cube, I finally decided I’d had enough. I ventured off the path myself, and, grabbing my eldest just below his pointy little elbow, half-dragged his kicking body back onto the trail.

When I released his skinny forearm from the grasp of my hand, he replaced it with a hodgepodge bouquet of flowers, weeds, and (based on the sudden itching sensation in my palm) a few more mosquitos.

The sweet simplicity of the gesture made me pause, and, for a moment, I stopped clawing at the burgeoning bug bites that were making my knuckles double in size.

I moved my eyes from the tangle of wildlife in my hands to the tangle of his blond curls, slightly damp and glowing in the afternoon sun. They framed a face that was also glowing—not only with the light beating down from above us, but also with the pure, unadulterated pride of a toddler.

I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the 100 degree heat index.

After that, I let my boys wander to their little hearts’ content. And I started watching them. Really watching them.

I watched them sprint through the weeds, the tall grass tickling their kneecaps, staining the bottoms of their shoes as they raced each other to a far-off flower, their faces blooming even more beautifully than the object of their quest.

I watched their tiny fingers meticulously pinch off the stem of a dandelion, just below the blossom, and listened to the awe in their voices as they excitedly christened it their “Big Yeh-Yo Flower.”

I watched their knobby knees press into the earth as they knelt down to uproot weeds, and I saw them grin at me as they looked at their blackened legs and proclaimed, “Big mess!”

I watched them study tiny white buds as though they were as rare, delicate, and valuable as diamonds, the paleness of the alabaster petals standing out against the bright pink of their flushed cheeks.

I watched them toss dirt in one another’s hair as though it were pixie dust, laughing with that magical laugh that is born exclusively between the lips of a child.

I watched them hold a tiny blossom to their delicate nostrils, and grimace upon discovering that flowers don’t taste as good as they smell.

I watched them fight over something as simple as a dandelion, as if the color of its petals were actual gold, not just the pigmentation of a flowering weed.

And as I watched them, I came to the sudden realization that—despite the fact that I’ve had more “experience” with it—sometimes my kids know more about life than I do. They know how to pause and enjoy a moment. They recognize the opportunity for discovery around them. They know that the most important thing is not always “staying the course” or “moving forward.”

Sometimes the most important—the most beautiful—thing is taking a moment to stop and pick the flowers.

As my sons ran up to either side of me, each taking one of my hands in theirs, I took a moment to revel in the smallness of those hands, in their softness, in the slightly sticky combination of sweat and dandelion juice that coated their skin. I thought back to my earlier words: “Keep moving, and stay on the path, or we’re never going to get to the end.”

Sadly, that’s the way most adults think today, isn’t it? Stay focused. Set a goal, and work towards it. Don’t allow yourself to get distracted.

How often have I ignored the beauty right in front of me in order to “stay the course?”

I’m so desperate to get the kids to bed on time that I deny their request for “one more story,” and I miss out on the feeling of their tiny bodies curled up in my lap like kittens, as they point to pictures and read along with me (even if their “reading” is really just memorization from having heard the book a million times).

I’m so anxious to get them through dinner and into the bathtub that I don’t take the time to laugh as they stuff their cheeks with strawberries, scurrying around the kitchen like little blonde chipmunks.

I’m in such a hurry to get them dressed that I don’t oblige their request to put their own socks on—knowing it will take ten times longer than if I do it—and I deprive myself of the chance to hug them as they grin at their accomplishment, squeezing them close to me and whispering, “Good job! I’m so proud of you!” in their ears.

I’m well-acquainted with the cliché, “stop and smell the roses.” But sometimes—as my kids reminded me that day—we need to do more. Sometimes smelling the flowers isn’t enough. Sometimes we need to grab them while they’re still within our reach. Sometimes we need to pull them up by the roots, clutch them close to our hearts, and then hand them to someone else. Sometimes we need to take all that life has to offer and share it with those we love.

Yes, sometimes we need to just stop and pick the flowers.

And if they turn out to be weeds? Well, all the better: It only reminds us that there is beauty in everything, even in places we wouldn’t normally bother to look.

My Weight and My World

“The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight, the weight we carry is love. ”  

-Alan Ginsbergy

*

Today I feel fat.

Today I am plagued by toxic thinking.

Today my weight is my world. And I’m forced to carry it with me. I can feel it pressing down, threatening to crush me.

Today I am extra aware of the friction between my thighs, the spot where they touch when I walk.

Today none of the clothes I put on fit right. They’re too tight, and they hug me in all the wrong places…

…and today, all the places feel wrong.

Today I don’t like what I see in the mirror. I see her. The one who mocks me. The one who manipulates me. The one who tells me I’m not good enough.

Today, food is my enemy. Everything that touches my lips expands my belly, engorges my hips, and poisons my mind.

And, God, do I hate it. I hate recounting calories over and over and over in my head. I hate compulsively pinching the skin beneath my rib cage and analyzing it between my fingers. I hate getting dressed, and—even more so—getting undressed. I hate feeling disgusting. I hate feeling inadequate.

Today I want to hide.

*

In the past, I would hide on days like today. I would allow my feelings to dictate my actions. I would refuse to eat. I would work out at least twice as long as usual. I would not face the day. I would not face myself.

I would lose myself in the darkness of my thoughts.

I would disappear.

But this is not the past. This is now. And now, I have you: my vibrant, charming, beautiful baby boys. I have you to remind me how precious every moment of every day is. I have you to pull me back from the lure of all-consuming shadow.

Now, I have light.

*

So today I will not hide.

I will throw on a pair of sweats and embrace the feel of the elastic waistband, pressed against the scar that spans the loose skin of my abdomen. I will thank God for that scar, and for the two precious angels that came out of it.

I will not starve myself. I will ask you to help me bake cookies, and I will giggle with you as we snitch the dough and lick the beaters. I will wipe the flour from your cheeks and chomp at your fingers as you feed me chocolate chips. And I will not let the sweet memory-in-the-making be tainted by the bitterness of unwarranted guilt.

I will look in the mirror and smile at the woman you call “Mama.” I will let her pride and worth shine through, shattering the shallow reflection of the woman who once stood there, taunting me.

I will bounce you up and down on my thighs and give you piggy back rides. I will toss you in the air and spin you around to our favorite song. I will dip you at the chorus and revel in your boisterous laughter and the way your hair tickles my face when I pull you back close to me. I will be grateful that my body is strong enough to play with you.

*

My weight? It’s meaningless. I carry it superficially.

But you? You are my world. I carry you in my heart. You are a weight I choose, a weight I embrace.

Today I will feel fat. Some days I do. I am still healing, and I still have moments of weakness. 

But I will also feel happy. I will feel grateful. I will feel blessed. I will feel good enough.

Because I have you.

Thank you for showing me the light.

“Can’t”: The Worst Four-Letter Word You Can Use Around Your Kids*

*Although I don’t condone the use of f*** around them either, which isn't to say that I'm not often tempted.

The tenacity of toddlers never ceases to amaze me.

I took the boys to the playground today, and Trystan was in a particularly fearless mood, swinging from the monkey bars without me standing nearby to catch him, sprinting up the slides, tip-toeing down the ladders. (I've told him, repeatedly, that the playground has the same rules as the board game: UP the ladders, DOWN the slides. He’s not one to stick to convention.) At one point, he even had the nerve to approach an adorable curly-haired little girl and initiate a little play-date of sorts. I mean, the kid’s got swag.

Ed Sheeran's Lego House ain't got shit
on this Mega Bloks tower.

After about fifteen minutes of this playground bravado, he decided he wanted to take things a step further (literally) and traverse The Stairway of Death. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, I mention it here, about halfway through the post. Essentially, it is a treacherously steep staircase, constructed on the local playground premises, presumably to keep moms on their toes and off their iPhones, since it follows The Universal Toddler Law of  x¹⁰ = y, where x is the likelihood of death a given situation presents, and y is its corresponding level of appeal. I suppose you could also refer to it as The Stairway to Heaven, depending on how dark your sense of humor is.

Trystan is well aware of my feelings toward TSoD. I've pretty much brainwashed him with warnings about it. Whenever we’re near the thing, he looks at me; points his typically-toddleresque, dirt-encrusted fingernail at it; and parrots “Doo deep! Doo deep!” (Too steep! Too steep!)

Today, however, on this ballsiest of mid-mornings, he decided nothing was “doo deep” for his bad-ass, three-foot self.

There is more than one path that leads to the top of TSoD (doesn't that sound philosophical?). Besides the obvious one (scaling it like a rock climber), you can also take a less-lethal staircase, followed by a benevolently-inclined ramp that winds around to the top. Trystan took this amiable route, looked down at the challenge before him, and gingerly lifted his Planes light-up sneaker, allowing it to hover over the top step. He then proceeded to look at me expectantly—a mischievous, challenging glint in his perfectly-hazel eyes—and waited for the words he knew I was about to spew in his direction.

“Trystan, you can’t walk down that. It’s too steep.”

I moved to stop him, but he started whining and stomping his feet in that comical, quintessentially tantrumming-toddler fashion. So I backed away but told him, again, “Honey, you can’t use those stairs."

He just grinned that impish little grin of his and slowly began making his way down. Instead of fighting him on it, I stood at the bottom, waiting to catch his tumbling little toddler body. I thought that maybe if he fell once, he’d be more inclined (pun intended) to heed my warnings in the future. And when that little toddler body did, inevitably, tumble into my arms, it began shaking with—what I presumed to be—frightened sobs.

But it turns out, I was wrong. He wasn't afraid; he was disappointed. He had set his mind on walking down that staircase and failed. I'd barely had the chance to console him before he was sprinting his way back to the top of the staircase—tears still fresh on his cheeks—and once again embarking on the perilous journey down.

This time, he made it without so much as a stumble.

This time, once he'd reached the bottom, his eyes didn't glisten with tears; they glistened with pride.

As I embraced him and congratulated him on his achievement, I felt his little heart beating rapidly against my own, still racing with the exhilaration and adrenaline of his feat. It dawned on me that my “can’t” had almost cost him that moment: That sense of accomplishment. That look of pride. That exuberant grin. That exhilarated little heart and that elated hug.

Why are adults so eager to put limits on what kids “can” do?

This wasn't the first time that I’d been humbled by my kids’ unwavering determination. I once observed Ollie stabbing at his Cheerios with a fork during breakfast, and instinctively told him, “You can’t eat Cheerios with a fork, honey.” I didn't give his endeavor a second thought as I turned my back on him to resume doing the dishes. Shortly after, I felt a gentle tug on the back of my pajama pants and turned around to see him grinning up at me, his crooked little teeth jutting out beyond his lower lip, holding this up proudly, as if it were the Olympic torch, and he’d just carried it all the way from Greece:

I had to steal it from him to get a decent picture 
because he wouldn't stop slashing it through the 
air, as if it were a sword, forged in a plastic toddler 
bowl, ready to slice my closed-mindedness in half, 
to the tune of  its maker's defiant battle cry: 
"TOLD YOU SO!"

Although it certainly comes with its frustrations (trying to brush their teeth comes to mind), I’m glad that my kids are so stubborn—that they don’t automatically accept an adult’s words as universal truth. Like Trystan on the staircase, Oliver refused to take my “can’t” to heart. He learned to be creative. He learned not to give up. He learned that Cheerios taste so much sweeter when they're eaten off the prongs of a kiddie fork.

We could learn a thing or two from our kids about the value of perseverance.

How many other “can’t”s have I committed as a parent? How many other times have I deprived myself or my children of a poignant moment, a beautiful memory, or a personal triumph by using that restrictive four-letter word? How many times could I—like my children—have found a way?

We can’t go outside right now because it’s raining.

So let’s run around barefoot and build a mudman. Let’s do the Hot Dog dance in the puddles. Let’s make mudcakes and hunt for worms and paint each other’s arms with dirty rainwater.

We can’t go for a walk; it’s bedtime.

Let’s say our prayers outside and marvel at the moon. Let’s make wishes on stars, chirp along with the crickets, and laugh at the fireflies winking at us through the darkness.

You can’t play that board game; it’s too complicated.

So let’s make up our own rules. Let’s make the game pieces talk to one another, stage a Candyland battle, and point out all of our favorite colors on the game board.

I can’t read to you until I finish cleaning the kitchen.

Why don’t I do the dishes in the morning, while you’re eating breakfast? I can splash you with dishwater and talk to you in my Skippyjon Jones voice—the one I used last night, while you were curled in my lap, shaking with giggles at my horrendous attempt at a Spanish-kitty accent.

I can’t sit with you all night until you fall asleep.

Why not? There will come a day when you don’t want me to anymore. I can spend the night reveling in the sounds of your gentle breathing, basking in the softness of your baby-skinned hand in mine, and drifting to sleep with my lips pressed gently against your forehead.

I can’t hold you right now.

Yes, I can. But I won’t be able to when you’re 18.

You can’t have those M&Ms; they’re Mama’s.

(Okay, maybe there's just no way around this one.)

There is something heartrendingly beautiful in a child’s belief that he can do anything. As adults, we become complacent. We stick to what we know, what is comfortable, what is easy, and what is safe. We shy away from things that we might fail, because we know how much failure can hurt. We allow that fear to staunch the flow of passion that is born of our hearts—to choke it off before it even has the chance to reach our heads and compel us to act. We settle.

I don’t want my children to settle.

I wish they could feel invincible forever. But we live in an often unforgiving world, a world where people are ready to spew out the word “can’t,” where people use the failures of others to justify their own, where it is the norm to allow the fear of disappointment to dictate our actions.

I hope that as they grow older, and other people scoff when they stumble, they maintain the resiliency that I see in them now. I hope that they remember all the times they proved Mama wrong, and how good it felt. I hope they keep braving steep stairways and garnering stray cheerios.

If there’s one thing I “can’t” do, it’s protect them from the cruelty of others.

But for now, I can teach them that it is better to try and be laughed at than to not try at all.

I can support them. 

I can encourage them to test their limits and push beyond the edges of their potential.

I can applaud their efforts, even when they're futile.

I can allow them to try and fail, and try again, and grow.

I can be there to watch them fork a cheerio.

I can be there to catch them when things are “doo deep.”

I’m not naive. I know that when you’re raising young children, your first priority is to keep them safe. There are times for “shouldn't.” There are times for “won’t.” There are definitely times for “I really don’t feel like it right now.”

But there is never a good time for “can’t.”