A Purer Source

I no longer read the news. I’ve actually been banned from it--a direct order from my therapist. I got into a bad habit of waking up, scrolling through, and stopping to read whatever tragic event transpired while I was sleeping. I’d feel my anxiety kick in, along with the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. As it turns out, this is not a healthy way to begin the day, while caring for 3 small children.

We are already living out the repercussions of destructive leadership, I don’t need to invite it into my mind every morning. Instead, I let the sounds of my daughters dictate the direction of our day, aiding only to nudge them (and myself!) back towards gratitude when we fall off course.

These mornings I’m barefoot in the kitchen sipping on cold coffee, throwing puffs towards my toddler, locating my 4-year-old’s toothbrush, and calling out bribes to my 6-year-old to stay sitting at the computer. In all the AM kerfuffle, I still get to hear the news, it just comes from a much purer source—in the form of a 1st grade Zoom meeting.

Teacher: “Can someone share one thing in their house that’s blue? I see so many friends sitting nice and quietly. “Suzy”, hit unmute and tell us what you found.”

Suzy: No sound, because she’s still muted.

Teacher: “Suzy, press unmute.”

Suzy: Still no sound.

Teacher: “Try again, we cannot hear you.”

Suzy: (Dad comes over to assist. Suzy is holding a blue object--doesn’t acknowledge it.) 

“My Dad told me not to share this because it’s private. My mom got out of the shower and wasn’t wearing clothes.”

Teacher: “You’re right, that is private. Tell me about your blue item in your hand.”

Suzy: “I take bathes not showers.”

Teacher: “Last chance to tell us about your blue item.”

Suzy: “I usually don’t wear clothes, unless I take a bath with my brother, then I wear my bathing suit.”

The meeting goes on like this for 45-minutes. 15, 6 and 7-year-olds and their gloriously innocent oversharing. I marvel that their logic always follows a zig-zagging path, eventually and inevitably tracing back towards losing a tooth, showing us their dog, or that one time they swam at a hotel pool.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to hear, as a former teacher, one of the main perks were these pure nuggets of delight. I think I worried all they would have to share are the struggles from the pandemic, since that has literally been every adult conversation since March. But children would rather tell you about that one-time Grandpa farted in the car, than complain about wearing a mask. 

How unbelievably refreshing. 

As parents, it’s our job to cleanse the parts of our reality that are too toxic for our children. Just as I needed to filter out the negative noise in the news, I should take a page out of Suzy’s book, and go back to the simple joys of bath time.   

We show them the tough parts they can handle.

And they show us the very nature of resilience. 

We carry the weight, even though it’s too heavy. 

And they keep reminding us to laugh.  

---

The Only Way Out is Through

I was always quick to claim a coincidence. I’d tell my sponsor about each instance, which happened often during early recovery. I’d roll my eyes dramatically at the overused expression, “Everything happens for a reason” especially when it meant going through pain.

It was the weirdest thing; I hadn’t written anything for over 3 years and out of no where, my sister sent me a notebook in the mail.

She nodded along, smiling in her lovable-all-knowing-but-never-smug way. She would say nothing and she waited, for as long as it took. I wanted so badly to skip to the easy part. Bypass all the hard stuff, the darkness that comes with addiction.

The only way out is through.

I know now that things don’t happen by chance, but rather these are “God Shots”—something that is inexplicably profound in timing and occurrence. Smaller than miracles, but too weighty to be ignored. A God Shot can be a single thing, or it can be multiple pieces that all need to discovered, understood, and then pieced together like a puzzle. The story of this God Shot, is the latter.

It was not an accident, in January of 2020, I made a sweeping declaration that this would be the year, I’d declare myself a “writer”. While I was unsure of what exactly this would entail, I knew it was what I wanted and so I would go after it, with my whole heart, like I do for all things that matter. This meant laying out vulnerabilities and sharing pieces of myself as a way of connecting with the outside world. Being a Highly Sensitive Person (also called an “Empath”) in 2020, is like being dropped into a sea of human suffering, while we powerlessly serve as an emotional sponge. Soaking up sorrow, stopping only to absorb more feelings along the way.

Being an Empath is relentless. The only way I found to turn it off, was with alcohol. I would drink at a situation, at an uncomfortable feeling, or almost always, at a person who caused me pain. I needed a numbness to quiet the storm in my head. But this wasn’t the solution; because even the good stuff was muted and everything bleed together--like what happens when I leave my daughters alone with an entire 24-pack of Play-Doh.

Brené Brown says, “The only unique contribution we will make in this world, will be born of our creativity.”

For so long, I had nothing to contribute; alcohol molded all the colors together to create an unimaginative gray blob. I romanticized Poe, Raymond Carver, and Elizabeth Bishop, tortured writers who found inspiration within a bottle. But drinking stifled my creativity.

Seeking inspiration during the pandemic, I purchase a painting from an artist I admire. We met in the hallways of our daughters’ preschool last year when she said, “Oh hey, you are Wit and Spit Up”, likely the closest I will ever come to feeling like a celebrity. I did some light internet stalking and discovered she was, Emily Dilbeck, an undeniably gifted abstract artist. We spoke online and I even interviewed her for reference when I decided a main character in my first fiction novel will be an artist.

After careful consideration, I purchased one of her paintings titled “Encompass”. It has an ethereal quality, that’s both whimsical, yet profound. I chose this particular painting despite a dark speck in the center, that has spent its existence on my wall, mocking me. There are several other spots, but I remained focused on this one. I almost messaged Emily a dozen times to ask about it, but that wouldn’t have helped me.  

In sobriety, I don’t have the luxury of harmless thoughts. My survival hangs in the balance and these past five months, I’ve had to limit my access to the toxic turmoil, as much as I possibly can. So much of it cuts so deeply, my exposure makes me no good to anyone.

But my anguish over other people’s anguish, doesn’t actually help anyone.

Worry and sorrow feel purposeful, but don’t accomplish anything.

Upon recognizing this, I finally understood that piece of the painting and why it haunted me; something I couldn’t understand until it was earned. I saw the speck as the way out, the main escape, and it was all I could see. While that speck holds value, all of the loveliness and depth of the painting surrounds it. I was so distracted by the exit, when I am meant to appreciate the beauty inside.

The only way out is through.

All of this led me to where I needed to end up. My God Shot. I am recording this year, documenting, and finding ways to create words from all these feelings that help to explain the inexplicable parts of ourselves; the inexplicable pain of this time. Something that can only occur because I chose sobriety. Maybe someone finds a connection to something I’ve written, a link that helps us relate, or better yet, helps us heal. Now more than ever, we are meant to encompass each other in creativity, with writing as my contribution, and my only way out of the dark.

Turns Out, I Suck at This

Let me start off by stating my applicable experience for the record. I hold several teaching credentials including mild/moderate special education, multiple subjects (elementary school), and a single subject in English. I have worked with children with problematic behaviors that could make the skin crawl right off the bone. I am even genetically predisposed to teaching, since both my parents spent time in the classroom. Pre-kids, I’d pride myself on my zen-like level of patience. Once, I had my first daughter, I transitioned into a full time stay-at-home mom.

If anyone should be the poster-mom for homeschooling, it should be me.

But I’m failing at it.

Miserably.

I’ll back up a bit.

Charlotte’s teacher has all the dreamy kindergarten qualities parents pray for in an educator. She is loving, nurturing, and caters to each child’s snowflake-like uniqueness. When I learned Charlotte would not be finishing out her kindergarten year in her color-coded classroom utopia, I cried big ugly tears. I lamented the loss of the place that began her love of learning and fostered genuine friendships. I know she will eventually go back to school, but my heart ached for memories unmade.

The ask of teachers to shift their entire curriculum online in less than a month was monumental. But unsurprisingly, those with the biggest hearts and smallest paychecks, rose to the challenge. On paper, our teachers have set us parents up for success.

My preschooler lasted exactly 1 week before I determined I only had the bandwidth for homeschooling one child. She can write her name, albeit illegibly and missing a vowel, but she would much rather be outside digging for worms. My kindergartner, was reluctant to our new system in the way a bull is reluctant to being roped and branded. During every Zoom meeting she would either be hiding under her desk, or running from the room.

Cut to us in our kitchen 3 weeks into distance learning:

I’m sitting at the table determined to finish the small group lesson, she refused to sit through. My arm is already tired from holding up sight word flashcards. The baby is crying, but if I pick her up, she will throw the cards on the floor right after she has licked and crumpled them. Maddie is non-ironically yelling, “Stop yelling, Charlotte” and Charlotte is screaming in a repetitive loop, “I hate this school! No! I don’t want to! Please, no. I can’t read!”

This continues and I am no longer attempting to teach, but to de-escalate and regain her compliance. The entire process takes 48 minutes and I know because I watched the little hand move around the clock, as it felt like the room was slowly filling with water. At first it puddles around my feet and I splash it around, eventually as I’m wading, all the sounds merge together and then suddenly, I’m drowning. I contemplate how my thoughts can be made of equal parts anger and sadness. All the while, there is only one question swimming around in my head:

How am I not equipped to teach my own children?

The outside world has shouted its recommendations:

Only focus on their emotional well-being with no added stressors!

Make sure you implement a structured academic routine for consistency!

Do what’s best for your family!

So, which is it?

I’m here to tell you, I have absolutely no idea.

I could analyze and overthink and I will and I do. But it all boils down to the fact that I’ve never transitioned a preschooler and a kindergarten into virtual schooling with a baby at the prime age of unrelenting curiosity, while my husband continues to work more than full-time outside the home, in the midst a mandatory shelter-in-place ordinance and a terrifying pandemic. I know the challenges are real everywhere—everyone around us is splashing, wading, or drowning. Sometimes it varies day-to-day or in this strange reality, minute-by-minute.

I have no doubt, some are excelling at teaching, but challenged in other ways. As for me, despite every ingredient for success, I suck at this. I share because someone out there needs to know they aren’t alone in this struggle and I offer this truth to use, when needed, as a life raft.