Author: kateleen17

In the morning I rose to snow. A gray landscape and snowflakes scattering and splattering.

“Ugh.”

I pressed past the gray snow that twisted into rain and walked in spite of it. Tossing my chin into the air and walking longer than I originally planned. 

“Take that!”

The weather forecast said sunshine and 50’s. If I hadn’t been set up so poorly perhaps the inner stubborn child wouldn’t have appeared.

The clouds drifted over the course of the day. A breeze shuffling the dreary to the next state.

Illinois, enjoy.

The sun peeked out then opened up into the blue sky. My eyes reflected light, my smile burst free. Sun.

Later the boys and I raced against the fading light. A relay complete with pit stops and the roar of the distant crowd. 

“We’ve got this boys!” I said. 

“Come on Mom!” My middle cheered when it was my turn. 

“The crowd goes wild when he makes a sharp turn!” My oldest yelled into the sunset. 

When I took a final lap, my lungs raking in all the air as darkness stepped in, two of my boys met me, their arms wrapping around my body.

“Yeah Mom!”

“We did it! We won!!” My oldest said.

The grin lingered, stayed as we tumbled inside. Sometimes an unexpected day can turn, becoming something beautiful and bright. And the child within remembers how to play.

“Mom!” 

My middle child said in the midst of him getting ready for bed.

“We forgot to set Leprechaun traps!! It’s St. Patrick’s Feast Day tomorrow and the Leprechauns always come the night before the Feast day.”

He does? This is news to me.

My experiences with St. Patrick’s Day involved lots of good cheer, Irish Soda Bread made by my mom and later, by me. But Leprechauns? I assumed they stayed in Ireland. And I most certainly never encountered one, let alone set a trap to catch one.

But the boys scurried, the youngest popped his “I was just kidding, you and I both know I wasn’t asleep yet” head out of his bedroom.

“Leprechaun Traps!?” he said.

“Go to bed!”

The older boys snuck a few extra minutes of time in before settling in for bed and elaborate traps were set.

“They probably won’t get through his trap Mom,” the middle said pointing to his older brother, “he set it up super well. But I think maybe he might get through mine.”

I could see my middle’s eyes shimmering. 

I remember when I walked through a forest in Ireland. My dad offered to sponsor the trip for my siblings and I in honor of his 65th birthday over Christmas. My husband and I had the only itty bitty children of my siblings but a trip with my family to Ireland? We wouldn’t dare pass it up.

It wasn’t an easy or smooth experience traveling abroad with a nine month old who had (unbeknownst to us) a double ear infection and a two and a half year old who was just deciding naps meant staying up until the wee hours of the night.

So walking through the forest, a soft rain creating a canopy of sparkling moss above us, was a gift when I needed it most. My normally boisterous and “Daddy’s boy” oldest walked beside me and reached for my hand.

The sleepless nights, the tears, the desire to enjoy just A beer or two with the gang of adults instead of being trapped in the Airbnb with two children and a husband who couldn’t sleep faded away with the mist.

“Look,” I whispered, twisting my head close to his and peering into the woods, “did you see that?”

He drew his eyes to mine and then looked into the woods as well. 

“Snake?” He said.

I laughed, “no! But maybe a little person? I could be wrong. Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.”

His tenacious gaze looked out again into the woods, his mouth pulled into a tight frown and his eyes open wide.

We spent the rest of that meandering walk searching for little people that may or may not have been there. 

It is the magic I remember in that moment that carries into the night before St. Patrick’s Day. The glimmer in my middle child’s eye is a glimmer all parents want to find ways to make last forever. It is why, I think, when I asked my dad at twelve if Santa Claus was real he said the spirit of Santa Claus is real and what I heard was – I believe.

There is magic in the world. There is hope. 

Just ask my boys tomorrow morning

The boys and I spotted a coyote alongside the Highway when we drove home from an evening event when Seth was out of town. We were tired, the boys were on the verge of crazy nighttime shinanigans (you just know) and as we zipped up the ramp all of us saw him.

The coyote, pacing in between the ramp and the highway of racing cars. 

“Maybe it’s a dog?”

One of the boys said. 

“No way,” another said, “that thing is wild.”

And big. And beautiful. 

Today we went to the MN Zoo and for the first time we walked the Minnesota Trail. How had I never known about that part of the zoo before? 

It’s a trail that walks you seemingly beneath a pond and into a world of its own. My oldest was the one who determined we would walk the trail because, while I was in the restroom (“stay together and do not lose sight of the youngest”) he had discovered a stamp sheet he wanted to follow along with on that particular trail.

We hit the tropics and lunch first then the oldest insisted we go back.

As we opened the doors I felt the chill of going under and when we looked above there was a scene of a boat stuck above us, a ceiling of water, and an otter – a live one – suddenly popped out beside us, only a thin glass wall separating us from it.

I was in, swept away, and so were the boys. They raced ahead of me, searching for stamp stations of imprints, and I let them as I lingered beside the animals that were so intimately close. 

Then I spotted them – the coyotes. An exact replica of the one we saw the other night pacing. These coyotes didn’t seem wild, though, just bored. One yawned and the other followed.

I stared for a long while at these once wild animals, wondering what had happened to the one who seemed frightened by all the lights and sounds.

“Mom!” My youngest shouted, “come on!” He clapped at me (this is his thing, I think I did it to him, now he does it to me).

I moved along until the next exhibit stopped me in my tracks. A wolf.

Was it a coyote we saw that night? Or was it a wolf? 

The wolf tipped its head back and howled, a long, low howl. My children stopped too, and drew closer to his cage. He did it again, tipped his head back slowly and howled. 

The sign on the way out reminded us, “they need us as much as we need them.”

“What does that mean Mom,” my middle asked.

I gave him an educational answer but as we drove away I thought long and hard – about the coyote, the wolf, the animals out among us. 

“It means we need to care,” I had said at the end of my educational answer, “we need to take care.”

Because we do need them.

A dear friend invited me to her cabin last weekend. There were obstacles and hurdles but we made it and I sighed a deep exhale.

This friend and I spent the weekend talking, connecting, laughing. She cooked for me and I lingered on the barstool nearby and sighed again – someone else cooking for me. Nurturing.

My husband is one of the good ones. He participates actively in the household and the raising boys. But still, this weekend away was something I sunk into. Someone who cared about me – cooking and washing dishes so that I could truly get rest. What a gift.

We would talk for hours and then I’d slip away and lie in the queen bed by myself, the door shut against the quiet wilderness and only my friend on the other side. I would read or sometimes lie there daydreaming. 

When I stepped back out she was there and we would chat, I’d share thoughts that had leaped into my head in the moment just before. No thoughts were intercepted by one, two or three other people needing something.

We walked. We did yoga while gazing at the frozen lake. We watched snowmobiles zip by. We talked about everything essential, life changing, and true.

A respite is an opportunity to shift and start anew. 

When I returned home at the end of the weekend I felt that I was ready. 

The next chapter begins..

These past few days I’ve been managing things sans my husband. He used to travel for work often in a month. It was part of normal. Then Covid…and let’s just say, life shifted.

But he took off on Monday for the first time since an early December trip and the boys and I attempted to rock and roll without the husband.

Normally, life is smooth. The boys will pick and choose who “can’t sleep” and join me so I’m not lonely. It’s sweet and lovely.

This time around – there were bumps. -Rocks thrown at us, huge potholes along the road – literally and figuratively.

Tonight we were still scrambling. After all, like many people, we had adjusted to the new normal. I knew how to manage things with my partner involved. We had it down to an exact science.

Surviving. That’s how it felt. Getting by. Until, I took a moment.

Driving the middle and younger to gymnastics class for the middle child after dropping the oldest off at Tae Kwon Do, I could feel the heat rise in my face again.

“Mom, I hate being late!” the middle said.

I was about to get haughty. I was about to spew all the things I had done for him and for his brothers and for their school today. But I had done haughty. Haughty annoyed me and didn’t further anything between my son and I. What I missed over our hurrying and rushing and scrambling was my favorite part of parenting – teaching, playing.

“Red light,” I said.

We had arrived at yet another frustrating obstacle and I wanted to teach my boys that we can be frustrated or we can manage to find joy even in our lateness. Our scramble.

“Red light is a stop, an end.”

And I rattled off another line to wrap it up into a poem.

Then I said another poem, off the cuff, about green light.

My middle jumped in with his own short poem and I responded by snapping my fingers and telling the boys this is how they applaud in the poetic world.

The youngest threw out his own poem and laughed at the end of it. The middle snapped his fingers to celebrate.

We arrived, finally, and we were late. But the middle and the youngest rushed in to the building with smiles in their faces and fingers snapping.

It doesn’t always have to be a battle, a scramble, a hole we fall into. We just have to find the moments along the way.

I have been working on how I manage the rough hills. The rocky places. The dark corners you didn’t ask to fall into but somehow did.

I have tried the following:

Alcohol. This is a fun one when you’re up and when you’re down. Except, as I have learned, it doesn’t actually work super well as a coping mechanism. A depressant to lift you up? Nope, doesn’t work.

Food. Cookies, ice cream, popcorn! Yippee! But again, when is enough food enough? When does the joy remain longer than the last morsel you pop into your mouth?

Getting active. Now this one is a good one. Running worked really well, until my feet were attacked with plantar fasciitis.

Then, we moved on to antidepressants. Especially because the plantar hit just as the pandemic came screeching into view. Take away my running and isolate me at the same time? Impending doom results.

This winter I became proactive and added in a sun lamp. Sun lamp therapy before 9am for 30 minutes while raising three boys nine and under is…a challenge in itself.

Last night my mood was attacked again and I scrambled through my list of coping tools.

Alcohol. Nope. Food. Nope. Go for a run/walk? Not unless it’s me chasing my boys into their bed over and over again.

Finally, I turned to my spouse, miles away but still able to listen as I rambled about all the misadventures of the night. The boys grew quiet, my husband and I grew more kind in our conversation and eventually I saw the mood lift. I fell asleep early and discovered these are the two coping tools that work best for me – connecting with someone I love and calling an end to the day with sleep.

Tomorrow is a new fresh start.

Last night the rain fell. We could hear the booms of thunder for the first time in our new home. The patter of rainfall against the crunchy snow, our deck, our roof top, was comforting. Lightening zig zagged across the sky.

In the morning we woke to the evergreens and posts along our fence stacked with white snow.

The seasons are confusing in Minnesota. Are we winter or spring? Cold or hot? Gray or sunny?

Out in society we are matching the confusion. At Lutheran Church masks still cover faces. Last week at the new Catholic Church we tried (because it’s near us) most were mask free.

The boys’ school has now dropped the mask mandate but when I skip in to my local coffee shop a sign requires masks vaccinated or unvaccinated.

This isn’t new – this confusion. I think it’s why nature shook rain and snow down onto us. As frustration continues to build God laughs and reminds us, “welcome to this world you have lived in for years now; everything is simple but all is complicated.”

Awesome.

The snowplow didn’t come until the afternoon. My guess is the operator was confused as well. Do I bring salt or attach the plow? Do I wear a mask when I grab coffee but take it off when I eat breakfast?

It’s why we are created to sleep at the end of the day. After days spent trying to understand and step through the tangled hurdles of life all of us need to take a long break; rest and recover from the confusion.

Then we wake up refreshed and eager to tackle the latest and greatest conundrum we’ve been given. And since sleep offers us dreams to sort through the balls of tangled excitement from the day we’ve lived through.

This morning, for example, I solved all life’s problems after waking from the dream where it was revealed to me all I needed to do was take a trip to Ireland with my brother and mother in law.

Life. Solved.

“And yes I said yes I will yes“ – Ulysses James Joyce

The word yes has always been one of my favorites. I read the text toward the end of my journey through Ulysses and while I didn’t grasp what exactly happened with Molly, the way he used yes throughout the chapter made the word even more meaningful to me.

And yet, sometimes the word no has value.

It doesn’t strike me as a pretty sort of word but it is powerful. Especially when it is said without a caveat.

Can I no may I no if only no please no.

In my generation of parenting the word no has become much more of a thing we try not to say. The other day I read yet again, “instead of saying no try saying tomorrow or next weekend.”

But what is wrong with saying no?

He’s touching me no I don’t want to play no leave me alone no.

I practice the word no with my boys because they need to understand the value, the power, of the word no.

When your brother says no, stop, you need to stop. When your Mama says, no, you may not have that treat, it isn’t an open invitation to negotiate.

Hear me, hear the word and the beauty behind it’s clarity; no she said no I won’t no.

Our oldest turns nine today.

We invited family. We invited some friends. We made cake. There were presents.

There was definitely joy and celebration, the subtle feel of confetti being tossed up in the air. But beneath the hum of joy was a somber tone.

I tried to put my finger on it when our oldest began a pizza conversation with his friends, “where do you stand on Russia?”

It reminded me of the story his preschool teachers told of our oldest, three at the time, during snack time, “So, Putin…”he said as he leaned against the tiny table.

I think I have not yet learned how to cope with the awful aspects in the world. Each shoe that drops is another shoe I say will be the last.

The shooting in the schools. The pandemic. The environment. The wars. That’s all there is, right?

And then another shoe drops and I’m startled. It’s a boot, metal parts drilled in, and I wish we could find a reprieve that involves rainbows, butterflies, and bunnies in an environmentally protected safe space.

Every once in awhile I see a glimpse of that perfection. My body softens, relaxes against the pillow of ease, and there is almost a gasp of either relief or peace.

Usually it’s when I am far away from the media, my phone, or the clanging sounds of humanity. There, there it is – goodness.

Tomorrow I will start anew. And with that I plan to whip up a batch of pancakes in the shape of a nine. That’s a tradition in this family.

It’s my attempt at bringing celebration into a world that sometimes feels deflated and lost. I can find joy if I search for it, I can celebrate the best things in life. Like the nine year old boy who wants to sit at the adult table to be in on the real topics of the day. Or a nine year old boy who freely hugs his mom to thank her for all she tries to do. Or a nine year old boy who once was so much smaller. A nine year old brother who is kind and good.

And I will take a moment to sink into the edge of perfection, beauty, that maybe with these children we will do better.

My youngest has had a quiet few years.

The older two met buddies at young ages because I needed to get out and because I felt, as a stay at home mom, it was important I expose them to other children (and their germs). I had similar intentions with my youngest but…I hadn’t planned on a pandemic.

I was grateful in those first few months his older brothers were home from school. While other parents scrambled I took the time to appreciate having all three at home for months together.

The next year our older boys returned to school and the youngest remained home with me. There were no play dates. No visits to the Children’s Museum. No regular socialization. He looked forward to the time his brothers returned home from school, just as the older boys looked forward to being alone for an hour. It was an adjustment.

When I was able to enroll him in preschool I settled on one that focused on getting outside and during the course of his time there he has developed his first true friendship. The boys play together, reach for each other’s hand, and look forward to that day they get to see each other again.

Which is why I said yes when he was invited to the other child’s party. It was my youngest’s first birthday party for a friend.

It’s been a quiet few years for our littlest but he still found his way into the social world.