Be Careful

Hi All,

It came to me right when I was tucking them in tonight--the idea: it is not about keeping them from getting hurt. It is not about keeping them safe. I thought it was but I was wrong.

I grew up afraid often. Some of this was a cautious temperament and some of this was being the first child to parents who had lost many children. I had a strong sense of the importance of being careful. The importance of not getting hurt was palpable. It makes perfect sense. After loss the fragility of life is top of mind. Be safe. Be careful.

I grew up in this way. Trying to be safe. I didn't think about in a totally conscious sort of way. I was a kid, I laughed, I ran around, I rode my bike but it was always there...be careful. I was told frequently the story of how as a toddler I had meandered my way to the basement stairs while my parents trimmed our Christmas tree that first year of my life and how my Mom came upon just in time to watch me fall all of the way down them. She said that if she hadn't called me name, "Karen!" and scared me that she felt I might not have fallen. It's clear to me and I am sure anyone reading this that the person who got the most hurt from that fall was the person who watched it. The kid who actually fell, me, has no memory of any of it.

40 years later, with my own children past toddlerhood I think about that story. I think about fear and my new understanding of just what shapes fear and the impact that it causes on those we are afraid for. The message is clear. Do not get hurt. Be careful. The world is something to be afraid of.

For years I complained, laughed, yelled, rolled my eyes or otherwise remarked about my Dad's constant concern for my well being. Call me when you get there. Call me when you are halfway there. Make sure you stop. Stop at every rest area. Don't get tired. Be careful. The world is something to be afraid of.

My kids at the moment are now asleep and tucked in. They are safe. I feel this way that at this time I can relax because they are safe. I can let my guard down now. I've done my job. I got them thru this...this scary life.

And then it occurred to me. I might have been wrong. Maybe it is about more then keeping them safe. Maybe it is about protecting them from the fear. My fear. Our real demon, and truthfully what could damage them more than the outside world. This idea: The world is something to be afraid of.

I lost my Dad to a scary illness. My Dad lost his Mother to the same scary illness. Both my Dad and I share the same legacy of sudden and acute pain. I understand where his desire to keep me safe came from. He just couldn't lose someone else and he was going to do everything within his power to insure he didn't. My anger at his lack of confidence in me was always there. Don't you trust me? Don't you think I can do this? He once said to me, I'm not afraid of what you will do, I'm afraid of what someone else will do. I don't judge him. I get it. I just wish I could have made him see then that believing in someone means believing that they will be able to handle what life throws at them. Ultimately, I guess he knew I could handle quite a bit and he got free of his fear in the only way he knew how.

The trick might be in not instinctively protecting my children from my own darkness and fear. Not hiding it or keeping secrets, but not acting on it either. Laughing. Feeling fear and trusting the world anyway and letting them watch the entire time. The next time I think "Be Careful"--I swear I am going to say "Have Fun." That's called breaking a cycle. xxxK



 

What I Know

Throughout my life I have heard the "write what you know" line. I've heard it so many times that sometimes I actually think, while writing, do I know this? What's true? What's my truth? I tried to write a post last night about the sudden loss of a friend of mine and I tried in that post to break down why it sucked so bad to lose her and why loss in general sucks so bad. I think I wrote it kind of well but I got lost in it and realized it got kind of weird and inauthentic. I felt like I was writing for an audience and not for my truth and I really don't like the way those kinds of post end up sounding which, to me, is usually kind of cliché and vague.

The real truth about sudden loss, for me, right now is that it becomes a part of one big loss and feels like someone ripped a Band-Aid off without asking me first. I know it may sound selfish or inappropriate to say that this loss somehow reminded me of my Dad, but its the truth, it did. I got kicked in the mouth again with the truth that people can die at any time and sometimes when we are not at all prepared for it. It's scary and sad and confusing to try to peal away the loss of my Dad from the loss of a friend from the loss of famous actor I liked. It's just loss. It's just fear. It's just powerlessness. And again my own difficulty with accepting life on life's terms even when I think the terms are fucked up and don't make sense.

Also, I think loss points a light on the things  in my life that are not going how I want. I think...life is short, what am I doing wasting time doing x. I don't have time to waste. I need to be doing more x. Less x. Etc. I end up feeling so darn sad. I guess I cant figure out what I should be doing more or less of. I just feel that it should all mean something. That it should count in some big picture way.

On Monday night I was helping Hazel make a mailbox for Valentine's. It was due the next day and she had woken up that morning crying that we had forgotten and I had forgotten. I reassured her that we would make a great mailbox that night and we did. As I was scrambling around after work in 5 degree weather to buy the stuff we needed I felt so discouraged. I felt like I try hard to do good work that helps others but that that Monday it was just futile and both my clients and my kid got the short end. I felt sorry for myself and for them simultaneously. I drove home ate dinner and then we began the birdhouse mailbox. There was a glue gun that I borrowed from a coworker, a bird, lots of red glitter, hearts, sequins someone gave us, markers. Hazel and I worked on it together and I hung in there for making it just like she wanted it. I burnt my fingers on the glue gun w the sequins. I repeatedly stopped myself from directing how it should be done, color coordinated, or made. Essentially I shut up for once and let her do it with me doing what she needed help with, like using the hot glue. It came out sweet and imperfect and sort of beautiful. We had this big talk about how it was ok if she didn't win an award because we both liked it and thought it was great.

Then after learning of my friend's death, having to deal with the police and very sad and scared children, I got a call from Craig that Hazel had won an award for her mailbox. She won "most creative." He said she was really happy and excited and that it was great. I hung up the phone and there was moment just sitting there where I felt ok, I felt good. It was the sweet spot--that's about all I know.