Life and Limb

Go climb a tree. I mean that in a nice way. Go climb a tree, and pay attention to what happens to your body.

From the moment you tighten your fingers around the first tree branch and attempt to pull your own weight, you send an APB to your entire body. Every muscle must prepare to work, every system must engage. Resistance would be futile. All parts must focus and communicate to protect the whole and meet a common goal. As deliberate as it sounds, something about climbing comes naturally to us as humans. It’s one of our survival instincts.

By the time we feel the gentle pressure of a tree limb pushing back against the soles of our feet, our arms already know to reach for the next branch. Our eyes move up and around taking snapshots through the web of boughs so they can send the images back to our brains, where plans are calculated to keep us safe, but ever-climbing.

The first time Henry tried to climb a tree he was just shy of five years old, and my motherly instinct told me to stop him. Safety is a great concern for any parent, of course. Young children, especially, are just beginning to learn safety rules. They hardly have the real world experience to understand the importance of being mindful. Risk-taking is more fun, anyway, and it's a typical childhood characteristic—I had a fondness for walking on monkey bars (even with a broken elbow). For a child with ADHD, their signature distractibility and impulsiveness only adds to the concern when it comes to things like bike-riding or crossing a busy parking lot. Still, I could see in Henry’s eyes that he was determined to climb that tree. Instead of playing the mom card, I walked over to the giant pine, at the edge of one his favorite playgrounds, and just kept watch. I watched him pull his 37-lb. body upward, carefully selecting the safest branches, steadying his feet from time to time to take a break and evaluate the situation. All around us children played, yet somehow Henry was able to drown out the shouts and screams and attend to the task at hand.

When he got about nine or so feet high, I felt it was high enough. Just as I was about to say so, Henry stopped climbing on his own. He sat down and wrapped his legs around a fat branch, scooted himself backward until his tailbone was touching the tree trunk. Then, he leaned forward and laid his belly down on the branch. His cheek rested there, too. He dropped his arms and let them dangle in the open air. Then, he met my eyes and smiled down at me with a sweet, prideful grin.

He stayed there in silence for about two minutes until another little boy ran up and started a climb of his own. Henry pushed himself up, turned and carefully shimmied back down the tree. When he reached the bottom, I told him I though he was a born tree climber and gave him a high five. Then, he ran off, shouting again with his friends. It had all ended just as suddenly as it had begun. But I knew he had been revitalized by his experience. You see, in the same way that we are hard-wired to know how to climb, climbing itself is deeply gratifying.

It combines a wealth of the things we need to sustain our spirit: thrill of adventure, pride of facing a new challenge, satisfaction in hard work, and of course, a sense of accomplishment. In the end, it also provides peace of mind and new perspective. For those who climb regularly—whether trees or mountain-sides—you already know the secret. Climbing is a way we can access all the enriching sensations we crave in a more immediate way than we are able to in our daily lives and challenges. To have a healthy way to feel these things whenever we want to is important. It reminds us we can feel them, and when we look at life like a big giant tree, we get the sense that if we stay the course and get to the top of our personal climbs, it will be all the more rewarding. Just like a great view from a tree top.

For a child who struggles with attention to the point he is frustrated when he cannot complete things—tree climbing is a reminder that the ability to focus exists in him and that he will find a way to access it and control it at school, just the same we he does when he climbs ... that he already has what he needs to get where he wants to go. Nowadays, Henry climbs all the time, whenever he can. And it’s one of my favorite things to watch. I imagine us climbing together one day—sweating our way up some big old mountain out West where we can hang out on the side of a cliff and talk about that very first climb of his.

But for now, climbing belongs to him.

Sticks and Stones

Henry finds a favorite stick every time we go outside. Sometimes it is short and stubby, sometimes long and skinny. Sometimes it is five sticks in one. Every once in a while, it still has pine needles on it. Sometimes the stick becomes his walking stick, other times his sword. Typically, though, it’s a tool to dig in the dirt or skewer dead leaves like shish-kebab.

Sadie has followed suit, but her preference is rocks. She’ll lug around a heavy rock that, from a toddler-perspective, could accurately be described as a boulder. Or, she’ll stuff her pockets with smooth and round stones, or metallic rocks that shine like baubles in the sun.

I have picture upon picture capturing their many finds. I like to look back and see all the discoveries they have made and think about why they were drawn to that particular stick, or stone. But yesterday, as we sat alongside the Salisbury Rail Trail and rolled rocks and sticks down one of the path-side promontories of stone to see whose rock could “win,” I got to thinking about something entirely different. It was an old saying I remember hearing as a child (probably sung in between rounds of “Red Rover," too): Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. I got to thinking about whether or not that statement was still true today, and about the impact of bullying. Before I get to that, though, I need to lay some groundwork with another Henry vignette.

Henry moves at his own pace, not because he’s necessarily meticulous (sometimes so), but because he is systematic. To achieve what he needs to achieve, he often (not always) has to follow an exact series of steps to do so. That means that on his way to breakfast in the morning, he is compelled to grab his purple car—the one that makes lots of noise when he drives it—and push it along the floor, on his hands and knees from the family room, to his place at the kitchen table, where he parks it, and is ready to eat. Before he crosses the street to get on the bus, he likes to kick the same dirt pile he kicks every morning and watch the dusty air puff up and land on his shoes. The processes he goes through bring him comfort, perhaps, or maybe they give him time to prepare his body and mind for a shift in activity. But they do slow him down a bit (let’s just say the morning routine is not my favorite part of the day). In his mind, though, he is going just as fast as he can—for Henry. I have to support that (why are we all in such a hurry anyway?!), but I also have to give him a dose of reality sometimes (because the world won’t always wait) and set a timer for him, for example, which is just one of the modifications we’ve become accustomed to at our house.

Unfortunately, this means he sometimes gets a little teasing at school. I remember one story he told with eyes full of tears about how a friend at school told him he’s “too slow” and he “holds up the line,” when walking back from lunch/gym class/art, etc. Henry explained to me in a defending voice that he was fast in line and that his friend was wrong (in essence, “Mom, I am doing my best!”). As a parent, I am just now beginning to try and interpret social situations that confuse or hurt him. A whole new layer of parenting is awakened when peers begin to express when they view someone or someone’s behavior as different from themselves or from the group. We suddenly become guides to understanding human nature, and I doubt any of us would claim to be an expert on that subject. All children will experience teasing situations and feelings whether or not they have been diagnosed with a developmental delay, ADHD or Autism. And every time we are privy to those situations and feelings, our hearts will hurt right along with theirs. I don’t have any definitive answers for it, because I know each situation will be unique and will therefore require a different pair of “kid gloves.”

For me, it’s about considering all the factors first: how Henry is feeling (angry, sad, frustrated, all of the above), his opinion of the situation, his opinion of the friend involved (does he consider them a “friend,” for example), what my objective brain tells me about the situation, and what my subjective emotions tell me. Not only that, but I need to consider things like context, like how he is understanding the language he has heard and how he’s processed the social cues that accompanied the language—to make sure he has “read” the message accurately. Finally, I need to balance the important notion of “standing up for yourself” with how to be compassionate (sometimes kids just say every thought they have, for instance, without intention to hurt). I am Henry’s mom, so if I err (and I will), I will err on the side of Henry and what’s best for him. At the same time, I want him to understand social situations and to give him tools to evaluate them before he allows them to affect his confidence. I’m grateful he shares things with me now, and that I can help dissect things for him. But that might not always be the case. And in some cases, neither of us will be able to validate why someone has opted to spread negativity.

With the way “bullying” has been amplified by technology, I think it’s a valid concern. I’m no professional. I’m no expert. But I know that the Internet, social networking and texting are a dangerous arsenal when it comes to bullying and teasing. Growing up is a challenge rife with emotion and hormonal ups and downs as it is—urges of all kinds are difficult to manage. When something like anger or jealousy arises now, though, it’s so easy to pick up the phone and text or pluck out a nasty status update on Facebook and get those feelings out, as opposed to taking cool down time or “sleeping on it,” and coming up with a better plan. That’s why parents today are faced with a supreme call to action. We need an arsenal of prevention that is stronger than technology. We need to pay more attention, give more attention, educate ourselves, and educate our children when it comes to bullying. I am generally soft-hearted when it comes to human nature—and having not encountered extreme bullying, other than through the media— my inclination is to figure out a way to provide love and security for my children and all the children in their circle, to build a sense of community and compassionate—even in the wake of difficult feelings or tricky social situations. I don’t know how to do that, but I know it will be in the forefront of my mind from now until my children are probably 30 years old. I can’t protect them from hurt feelings or the times when they will feel left out, or under-appreciated. Those are things every one of us will feel time and again throughout life. And they are natural. But I can parent to create compassion and teach advocacy for self and others who are being teased or bullied, and I can work to be part of something that encourages positive reaction and pro-action, and crisis management that is respectful, healthy and fair. I can help educate youth on the value of difference, instead of the fear of it. That’s all I know right now. My children are young, but I don’t think it’s too early to be thinking about this topic; because our children are older than we were at their age.

I am eager to watch the new documentary, “Bully,” and expand my knowledge of this problem. The film shows the dangerous side of bullying and how when it’s left unchecked or not taken seriously, becomes an epidemic and not just youthful indiscretion—and has lasting, harmful effects. I am a novice, but a novice who is prepared to take on the challenge and become an expert. You can check out the film site here: http://thebullyproject.com/.

For the record, Henry won the stone-rolling competition. And he congratulated Sadie on doing a good job.

In Bloom

The golden crocus reaches up

To catch a sunbeam in her cup.

Walter Crane

Sadie and I have been taking a lot of walks lately. Nature discovery walks. Through town, around the neighborhood, in the woods. Just to see what we can see. As spring arrives in Newburyport, there has been a lot for us to gaze upon. Tiny buds dot the gray limbs of waking trees. The backyard grass has turned green, its blades reaching tall toward the sun’s warmth. Spring flowers are blooming, too. First the crocuses came, followed by the bright, full forsythia, then the daffodils—and by the looks of the thick green leaves pushing through the mulch, the tulips just might bloom in time for Easter.

Sadie is full of wonder at the changes she sees. She wants to stop and feel the soft petals of the flowers, and stick her nose deep into the blooms. She reaches up to pinch the tight tree buds between her fingers. She stops and silences me until we find the unseen, but very talkative bird, or makes me follow a cat to its favorite sunning spot. Sometimes it takes 30 minutes just to make it a couple of blocks. But that’s what the walks are about. We’ve nowhere to go, no place to be. Just together, the two of us. In between our slow steps, and her soft soprano chatter, though, I notice she’s growing up and that the discoveries on our walks also belong to me.

Sadie Leigh. Her name actually means princess—but, I swear it was unintentional ... okay, secondary at best. Truth be told, I chose her name because it sounded sweet on my tongue, like banana pudding in summertime. Her middle name, Leigh, comes from her great grandfather, my grand daddy and namesake, Howard Lee. And like banana pudding, her name is something of a tribute to the deep southern roots on my mother's side of the family.

So many people, upon meeting little Sadie, have a story to tell about a Sadie they once knew. Every one of them is a tale of a woman remembered for her kindness, beloved for her goodness. Each time we hear such a story, it’s as if a message is being sent out into the universe to remind me of the special person who has been placed in my care.

But, as you know, before Sadie came Henry—the awesome little guy this blog is usually about, the fellow who has probably stolen the spotlight most days of Sadie’s babyhood, which I think is natural. When she came into the world, he was just coming into his own. He was working on using the potty, starting school, learning to ride a bike, and we were just starting down the path with ADHD. And she was, well, mostly sleeping. I think for any parent, when the second child enters the picture, it takes time to fully realize you have a whole new being in your midst, that this new child is her own person—she will sleep differently, eat differently, and speak differently than your first child (the one you now know so well). She will grow differently, learn differently. Everything about her will unfold differently. It’s a game changer for certain, but it’s also a pretty cool adventure. Now that Sadie is almost two-and-a-half (on Easter Sunday to be exact), I’m seeing her in ways I never have before. This is her time to come into her own.

Lately, she’s been walking around with a big sequined purple tiara (that’s constantly sliding down her forehead), bracelets on both arms and a bright, metallic handbag in which she carries her Minnie Mouse cell phone, one yellow-haired Little People girl and a Littlest Pet Shop puppy dog. She often slips on my high heels—her favorite pair is a set of red canvas, open-toed wedge heels with flowers on top—and pulls a dress (any dress) on over pajamas, and just clicks around the hallway full of pride. She has many thoughts to express, and even more observations. She wears her heart on her sleeve, which means tears can come easily—when she feels sad she sticks out her bottom lip and her big brown eyes fill up with water like tiny flower vases. One tear melts you and you feel you would trade your right arm to make her smile again. But her sensitive nature also means she always has a hug, a kiss and an “I love you” at the ready, and she knows just by looking at you if you need one (or all). She's smart. She" tells it like it is." She uses her manners impeccably well for age two, so long as it suits her. If she could, she would stay in her jammies all day. She sings when she’s happy. She says hello to everyone she meets. She will almost always choose fruit over candy, and she's never met a Cheerio she didn't like. Her legs are so strong. She's like a miniature Mary Lou Retton (or should I say she's like a Mary Lou Retton). Climbing, jumping, running. It's pretty typical to find her in her downward-facing dog pose doing her daily "yoyo" (read: yoga). And she already swims like a champ.

Her baby days have come and gone and suddenly in front of me, stands a little girl. Her [finally-growing] hair is a glossy, flossy mix of caramel and gold, framing her round rosy cheeks, but not yet hiding those trademark inquisitive ears. Love for life and innate joy leaps out of her in invisible, yet palpable waves of energy that draw you in. She is a southern spirit after all: sweet and feisty. Pure fun to watch, pure love. I feel very blessed to be with her right now, and to watch the many layers of who she is unfold, petal by petal, blooming into the beautiful person she was meant to be—even before she had her name: Princess Sadie.

How to Believe

For even the most spiritual among us (and I am one of them), believing in what we cannot see, touch, measure or mark on a calendar can be pretty challenging—especially when we’re faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem or when we’re asked to understand a concept so abstract that our brains shut down and announce, “Sorry, no template found.” But to be able to believe is to be able to hope, and hope is one of our greatest allies in life.

So how do we even begin to teach our children how to believe?

Last week Henry lost the teeny-tiny key to a very special bank he’d received from his grandfather at Thanksgiving. Every night Henry’s been pouring the change from the bank onto his bed, counting it and placing it coin-by-coin back inside the bank. It’s been a soothing and important activity for him. So in some respects, his reaction to the lost key was understandable. You see, before he even looked for the key, he burst into tears: “What if I never find it? What if I can never open the bank again?” He was so paralyzed with grief he was unable to believe—even when logic might have told him that the key was probably still right in his bedroom.

I sat down on the floor with him and hugged him and I told him that we would find the key, but that he had to believe we would find it, too. Finally, he nodded and stood to help me look. We found it within a few minutes nestled deep in a bin of Hot Wheels cars. “See,” I said. “I knew we would find it.” His response: “But, how did you know?”

“Faith” is coupled with the word “practice” for good reason: to believe in the face of hardship takes work. It takes patience and a positive attitude. It takes the repeated daily action of squelching worry and releasing the mind to a healthy dose of magical thinking. It also takes trusting in the goodness of the world and the people we’re sharing it with. Some days we just need to pull on our invisible t-shirts that say “Everything is Possible” in big bold letters, and face the day. Of course, what’s possible might take a different or unexpected form from what we originally envisioned, but if we don’t purposely widen our eyes, the possible might never come into view.

That’s why I think teaching our children how to believe starts by cultivating their capacity for awe—exposing them to wonder as much as possible and teaching them to not only take time to marvel at something, but to appreciate the feeling they get when they witness the impossible. Out in the woods, down by the pond and in your own backyard—this is where awesome is happening all the time. You don’t need to go far to find something in nature that defies logic … from the ant carrying a load five times her size over unimaginable distances to the seed that pushes through a clump of dirt to become a beautiful flower. It’s the way a snowflake looks through a microscope, and then the way it unites with other snowflakes to beautify and quiet whatever it falls upon. Or, how Venus dazzles even on a cloudy winter night.

But, it takes more than just pointing out these miracles. We also need to demonstrate our own amaze-ability in front of our children. Maybe that means shutting off the radio in the car to enjoy the full moon in silence, or going on a special trip after dinner just to watch a blue summer sky melt into orange and pink and purple over the horizon. Maybe it simply means saying “Wow!” a little more often, and, “Can you even believe that?!”

Because moment by moment, wonder by wonder, they just might. And when they do, everything really is possible. That’s what I think, anyway.

Merry Christmas!

Moss Grows Fat on Our Countertop

One recent, gently overcast fall afternoon (after kindergarten let out and before dinner needed to be on the stove) we decided to take a stroll through the Little River Nature Trail, a short but richly diverse trail that runs between Hale Street and Storey Avenue in Newburyport—a project maintained by the good people of the Parker River Clean Water Association.

With a bag of Goldfish crackers in hand and boots on our feet, Henry, Sadie and I padded down a thin, sloping and softly muddied trail that led to an expanse of worn blacktop, which used to be part of the old I-95. Sadie took a few stuntman-like tumble-rolls over tree roots hidden by fallen leaves before we reached the blacktop, but when we did, both children went running down the “trail.” They were very excited. We had come to Little River trail in the hopes of seeing the “Happy Beaver Family” that is said to inhabit the marshes, in a dam about a quarter mile down the path.

When we reached the vantage point with the green sign pointing to the beavers’ dam, we sat and ate crackers and waited. And waited. And waited some more. We talked about the work it must have taken to build the sturdy dam, and told stories about how we thought the beavers spent their time (Henry suggested they played board games). When our stories were spent, we tried to tempt the beaver family out of hiding with Goldfish crackers, but the tiny colored fish just made rings on the still water, spinning and drifting in solitude. Finally, we decided to head back. It was nearing 5 o’clock, the clouds were thickening and the air was turning cold. 

Our heads hung low because the adventure we’d planned did not happen as we had hoped. Henry dragged his chosen walking stick through the mud and leaves and along the bountiful strips of moss that grew so heavily on patches of dirt all along the old highway, up the trees and over the rocks. He noticed that the tiny green plants gave way easily under the point of his branch, and he stopped to write his name in a bed of cushion moss. Sadie mimicked him. I tucked my icy fingers into my coat pockets and sat down beside them as they played in the moss.

Moss is magical after all (not just because it had the awesome power to siren in my two young children) ... it's actually a tough little plant that predates the dinosaurs. Its allure has given it major garden cred, too, especially in Japanese gardens. Personally, moss has always been a central character in the archetypal forest of my childhood imagination, growing where fairies and nymphs hide behind ferns and painting every surface of the shadowy woods in bright green Rorschach shapes. I also read that during World War I moss was used to dress wounds due to its absorbency—and long before then, pre-industrial people used it for building, clothing and more (even diapers). Today, moss, a component of peat, is mined for fuel. Some varieties of moss take on even loftier roles, like smoking the malt for Scotch Whiskey. Who knew? (Wikipedia. That’s who.) But the moss at Little River has a simple, humble purpose—to lie around and just be beautiful.

To our untrained eyes, we could discern two different types of moss growing along the trail: cushion moss (named for the way it grows in a circular pattern and has a puffed pillow appearance) and hair cap moss (which grows in sandy soil and has tiny starburst leaves that reach up and out like upside down tree roots).

I particularly “liched” the hair cap moss because it was so intricate and yet so soft to the touch. It looks hard and spiky, but feels like feathers. I wouldn’t even let Henry disturb it. The cushion moss did not fare as well. We turned over its underlying dirt and broke it apart, built tiny dirt roads for passing ants and we poked gaping holes in its landscape. When at last the trail began to get dark, Henry pocketed two clumps of cushion moss—one in each side of his jeans.

At home, we gave the two green clumps a small bowl to share and some fresh water. They looked like two scoops of chocolate ice cream with lots of green sprinkles. We still care for them lovingly every day—and, for now any way, our pet moss works better for us than a new puppy.

The Once and Future Playground

If you’ve been reading The Mud Pie Mission since its inception, you know I am a believer in fate. The concept of the Nature Movement, especially in regard to helping alleviate symptoms and provide alternative coping methods for children with ADHD, was introduced to me at a time when I was very much seeking answers for my five-year-old son, who was diagnosed in spring 2011. Now that we’re a few months into our mission, I can tell you with certainty that the purposeful reintroduction of nature into my son’s daily life, and more importantly the commitment to unstructured time in nature has impacted Henry in so many positive ways. On our outdoor adventures, I’ve watched with a full heart as all the beautiful parts of him shine forth easily and comfortably. He is not overwhelmed; he is calm and focused. The anxiety and pressure I sometimes see him struggle with in structured situations is a faint memory. In the quiet of the outdoors, he is confident and bold—he is in his element. Like love, Nature empowers us to be and embrace our true selves. And there is nothing quite like Henry being Henry.

I think fate was at work again in August when, coincidentally, during our visit to my childhood home (West Chester, Ohio), the Cincinnati Nature Center was unveiling its new Nature PlayScape—one of the nation’s largest pioneer efforts to provide a safe area of natural playing ground for children. How fortunate that we would have the opportunity to experience what will surely become a model for families, communities, schools and churches across the country that subscribe to the Nature Movement and all it has to offer our children at this particular time in history—when technology’s impossible pace and hyper-yet-sometimes-vapid connectedness is, in some ways, stealing away our essential selves and our innate abilities to connect, heal, renew and, well, be human ... Because now, I get to share it with you.

The Marge and Charles Schott Nature PlayScape, located inside the Cincinnati Nature Center’s preserve of land in Milford, Ohio, offers 1.6 acres of “native plants, fallen logs, boulders, rocks, water and soil … and very few man-made structures,” as described by Kristi Masterson of the CNC. What’s even more special is that the land devoted to the playscape is fenced in for safety—something parents cite as a major obstacle when it comes to letting their children fully embrace nature in the way they did when they were young (and the world was a better place, etc.). The CNC partnered with the University of Cincinnati Arlitt Center to make the playscape a reality, and even consulted with Richard Louv, author of “Last Child in the Woods,” to help guide them in this important project.

Now to tell you the experience of this magical place.

At first, as we moved our eyes over the gently sloping hills and trails, the rocky creek with its grand waterfall, and all the mysterious tree-shaded alcoves, it felt like we had simply happened upon a really great “neck of the woods”—everything that makes a forest fun all in one place, yet still wide open. Just leaves, trees, pebbles, and fallen branches. Even the benches and gathering areas were rustic and unassuming.

That said, I carefully watched the eyes of the children who entered—knowing some of them had never been to a playground such as this. Even Henry who had come to love the woods, questioned why I had even called it a playground. Where was the slide? No sandbox? No rope climb or zip line? What about the big, giant pirate ship to look out for the bad guys? This was a different kind of playground, I told him. This was a place where you get to choose your own adventures.

As we turned the corner into one of the many discovery zones along the trail (some even specially designed for the preschool set like Sadie, my littlest), we found children playing in a wide and (what seemed to them accidental) pool of pebbles. They were scooping them up and letting them run through their fingers, making pictures with sticks they’d found lying nearby, filling up hollowed out tree stumps that doubled as tiny seats. This was a sandbox! We had similar experiences throughout the playscape. Children hunted and gathered for the items they needed to create their own toys and tools—and instead of everyone fighting over a shovel or truck, they each had exactly what they wanted and needed born of their own imaginations.

Down at the edge of the creek, children didn’t even stop to ask before pulling off their shoes, peeling away their socks and tip-toeing through the shallow water. Some took leaves and made boats, others dropped in rocks to watch the rings they’d create on the surface of the water. Henry and I sat at the top of the waterfall where we could listen to its sounds and feel the heat coming up off the rock. After that, we came upon a sculpture of tree branches that had been shaped into a sky-high tee-pee; and we added to it! By then, Henry was having real fun. We raced each other up and down the trails. We lifted our noses in the air and tried to identify scents of flowers that came on rogue breezes. We discovered completely untamed sections of the playscape that we claimed as our own. And we followed the map to the great gray boulder, where Henry stood and looked out over the playscape. Who needs a pirate ship?

It was an awesome experience. And it makes me hope along with the CNC that this special place will inspire others to create similar playscapes throughout the country. Masterson said the Nature PlayScape has already welcomed visitors from far and wide, coming to Ohio specifically to experience this new way of play.

I wrote this piece today to do my part to spread the word, to plant the seed of possibility—to be part of the movement.

You can view the slideshow of our day at the Cincinnati Nature Center’s Nature PlayScape by visiting the Mud Pie Mission on Facebook. I encourage you to learn more about this project and read the rest of the story at CNC and University of Cincinnati online. Note that the Nature PlayScape is open year-round, providing children an all-seasons experience with nature in a safe, accessible environment. Check out the special events they'll be hosting throughout the fall and winter featuring stories by the bonfire, hot chocolate—and even maple-sugaring.

Beyond Boundaries

When I was a little girl, I was the type of child who’d carefully study my mom, dad and older siblings (anybody, really) in order to ascertain the exact right way of doing everything, from riding a bike to behaving in church to blowing bubblegum. I could focus my attention so pointedly during my observations that I could discern and then replicate, for example, the ideal length of chewing time, proper positioning of the mouth, exact isolation of the tongue, and optimal release of air—to achieve the perfectly rounded, perfectly nose-touching (watermelon-flavored) Bubblicious bubble. It took me about two hours one summer afternoon when I was six years old (I’m still pretty good at it).

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always applied the watch-and-learn, never-surrender-until-it's-right model, and I’ve always found success with it. Okay, almost always.

There is but one awesome entity that has tested this heretofore tried-and-true method, one challenge so massive that it can be conquered by no single method at all, one insurmountable force so powerful that it might very well be beyond mastery. That force is Parenting. It’s unpredictable, it’s messy, it has no set rules, and if/when, after grueling research and a series of failures, you finally manage to establish rules … the game changes.  It’s a perfectionist’s [recurring] nightmare.

Only after the birth of my second child did I start to learn how to let go of the idea of perfection, or the exact right way of doing things. Quite simply, it became too defeating to live like that, and it was taking away from the joy of parenting. Releasing myself from certain standards has been a process, though. I’m still learning to let go, to go with the flow, to live in the moment—all that stuff. But I feel like I’ve come a long way. I remain a proud perfectionist in much of what I do, but as for parenting, I am now a happy (somewhat calmer) realist, and that feels great.

I was reminded of this personal journey earlier in the week when I brought the kids to one of our favorite local playgrounds—Woodman Park. This park is off the beaten path, it’s small, it’s surrounded by woods and it’s almost always empty. That’s kind of why I like it. It’s a place I can go with the kids and have real one-on-one time with them. While one or two playmates are ideal for Henry and serve to bring out the best in him, a crowd of children can sometimes be over-stimulating for him and (being his mother’s child), he gets overwhelmed trying to pay attention to everyone and everything in the very intense manner he wants to; as a result, he might shut down, melt down or go totally wild (which can be totally fun, but totally exhausting).

At Woodman, we can spend an hour sitting quietly together in the toddler play structure make-believing it’s a Delta airplane headed for Ohio. Henry pilots the plane and even stewards from time to time. We’ve gone as far as Hawaii! We’ve also learned how to shoot baskets at Woodman, how to be brave and climb the taller play structure, and how to race down the dueling side-by-side slides. But what’s even more special about this park is that it sits in the middle of a wooded area, allowing us to sometimes wander off up the nearby trail or across the field to play in the open grass. Since embarking on our mission to spend more unstructured time outdoors, I’ve noticed we’re wandering off more often than not—and having even better adventures.

On Thursday, a little girl—probably two-and-a-half years old—and her grandma came to play at Woodman while we were there. She had her dolly with her and she laughed and smiled as she pushed her dolly in the swing. She was somewhat timid about things like climbing too high, and going too fast down the slide; but she loved watching Henry and Sadie fearlessly scrambling up and through the structure. I could see the admiration in her eyes and the light of motivation going off in her head. Her grandma encouraged her, but followed close behind ready to assist and ward off accidents. Still, the little girl wasn’t quite ready yet. Neither was grandma. In that moment, I recalled being in the grandma’s shoes with Henry at this exact playground when he was almost two, and holding him back from climbing for fear he would lose his balance—all the while the rest of the playgroup kids were jumping, hanging and climbing like monkeys.

Things were different now. This particular day was proof because the kids were playing so freely and competently, and I felt secure in their abilities (and in my instinct to trust). But soon enough, Sadie tired of the slides and swings. I called her over to look at a black-and-orange flying bug—the very same type of bug we’d watched ride the waves at the beach recently. We decided to follow him. He led us beyond the boundaries of the playground and over to a tasty and shaded leaf at the bottom of a small nearby hill. We sat watching it and talking. Henry came over, too.

The little girl and her grandma were intrigued by our stillness, wondering what had instantly captivated two rambunctious children to the point of stillness and silent wonder. They, too, wandered off the playground to get a closer look. I got the sense that it was the first time they had done that.

Our bug-watching turned into races up and down the grassy hill. Henry and Sadie laughed and laughed as they tried to steady their pace and bodies on the downhill runs. Henry was happy to win most of the races. Every once in a while, they’d scoot down the hill on their bottoms, even with slides a stone’s throw away—it was just more fun this way.

The little girl still stood and watched. Her grandma encouraged her again to join the fun and run with us. Surprisingly, she started running. She felt safer in the grass, and after just one or two runs she was visibly more confident in her own abilities. She wore a proud smile as she conquered the hill. I could tell from the waving of her arms and the spinning of her skirt that she felt free and happy.

By then, Henry had run past the field all the way out to the tree line to collect sticks (and possibly use the bathroom, sorry to say). Sadie had taken to curtseying to each of the white button-top mushrooms dotting the field right before lopping them off by the neck and tossing them in the air. I got up off the grass and followed after her. When I looked back across the field, I saw the grandma and the girl still playing on the hill. I felt happy that we had helped them have a new, spontaneous adventure that day. And I was grateful to recognize that I had finally arrived at a point where I not only welcomed spontaneous adventures, but enjoyed the heck out of them. The perfectionist in me felt satisfied, too, because in the imperfect world of parenting, I had managed to shift my definition of perfection and be happy with who I am as a parent (for now).