Showing Up

As we approached the expansive green field, we saw it, the swarm of about a hundred 3 and 4-year- olds, all eagerly awaiting to find out which soccer team they were going to be on. My oldest, not quite four yet, clung with vigor to my leg, filled with what I imagine to be a perfect little combo of bewilderment and terror. There was a part of me that just wanted him to walk right up and grab his orange shirt and sit down with his team. I wanted it to be easy for him. I wanted him to feel comfortable. I wanted him to feel like he fits in. I wanted him to like soccer. No, I wanted him to love soccer.

But there was also a part of me that felt very connected to him in that moment, that moment where he was clinging to my leg and saying, "Mommy, you come with me to get my shirt" and "Mommy, you come with me to the team circle." And that feeling of connection is what led me to say, "Yes, I'll go with you, Monkey." Because doing new things is hard. New places, new people, new experiences. That's hard stuff. It's hard because we don't know what to expect. We don't know how things will go. And we don't always know how we're supposed to act or what to do. I get it, buddy. In this moment, you feel vulnerable and vulnerability is often scary. And vulnerability is beautiful. I get it. You know why I get it? Because I often feel the same way when I find myself in new places and new experiences. I do.

And just as my little man has been finding his way in preschool this year, and now at soccer, I am finding my way in motherhood. I had to give myself permission to be anxious and uncomfortable at preschool drop-off at the beginning of the year. Just as preschool was new and unknown for my boy, navigating the world of preschool parents and relationships was new and unknown for me. How will other moms perceive me? How do I connect with these parents? What if I don't fit in? What if I don't dress cool enough (because let's face it, running tights are not that cool. or flattering. at all.)? What if we do things differently in our family? How will the teacher perceive me? What if I am misunderstood? I hate being misunderstood. What if I say the wrong thing, or I say something that doesn't reflect how I really feel? I wish, just like I wish for my little guy, that I didn't care about these things, that I felt totally comfortable in new places. I wish new experiences felt like a breeze for me. But they don't. They don't. They feel uncomfortable and I almost always feel vulnerable. So, if they feel that way for me, I can only imagine how terrifying they must feel for

Mine is the one standing no where near the ball.
He's just finding his way!

 my little not-quite-four-year-old. It's good for me to remember that. It's good for me to identify with how he feels. Because it reminds me that the best thing I can do for me, and the best thing I can do for him, for both of my kids, is to keep showing up. I can give myself permission to feel vulnerable, to feel anxious, AND permission to be brave and show up. (Thank you, Brene Brown for helping me to realize this! If you haven't read her book, Daring Greatly, do yourself a big favor and check it out here.)

"I can see your anxiety, little man, and it's ok. It's ok to be where you are and feel what you feel, and...I may not be the hippest mom or say the right thing or be on time, but I will show up, for me, and for you. And hopefully, in doing so, I will model for you what it looks like to live bravely into life, new experiences and all."

The Story Lines

I shared a sweet moment the other day with my oldest son. We were outside and laughing about who knows what, when he moved close to me and gently placed his finger in one of the creases beside my eye, asking ever so tenderly, "Mama, what are those lines on your face?" "They're smile lines," I said, knowing this was not the end of the conversation. "Did you draw those lines? With a crayon? How did they get there? Do I have smile lines too?" he fired off in his usual inquisitive three year old style. I paused. And I thought for a moment about those smile lines, those wrinkles on my face. And I thought about how exactly one month from today, I will turn 40. That's four decades I've been on this earth. And then I proceeded to answer his questions one by one, as best as I knew how. "No, I didn't draw those lines, life did. And not with a crayon, but with moments. You see, Monkey, you know how you're about to turn 4 years old?" He nodded and reminded me of his intense desire to have a sea turtle cake for his birthday. "Well," I continued, "I am about to turn 40 years old." He chimed in, "whooooaaaah, that's a lot bigger than 4. That's more than 20!!" I probably would have been o.k. without all of the emphasis on how big that number is. "Yeah, it is more than 20. Forty is a pretty big number and it means I've lived a lot of years, a lot of life. And each one of these lines on my face tells a story from my life." I could see the wonder in his eyes as he exclaimed, "there are a LOT of lines on your face!" Thank you very much. "Yes, there are. I've lived a lot of life and there are a lot of stories behind those lines." Always wanting to know more he asked, "can you tell me some of the stories?"

"Each wrinkle and line tells a story of once upon a time,
moments where we did laugh and love, worry and weep;
each wrinkle, a mark of life running deep." ~MLM

I began to tell him about some of my memories from childhood, the good, the hard, the confusing. After a few minutes, he and his 4 minute attention span got bored and moved on to the water table, where he was quickly immersed in his own story-telling, epic tales of how the scorpion crossed the desert to sting the snake and so on. And I, I was left sitting there in a moment of quiet, thinking about all of those lines on my face and the stories they represent. They tell stories of times when I laughed and times when I cried; stories of heartbreak and trauma, triumph and healing; stories of friendships lost and friendships gained; lessons learned and mistakes made. They tell stories of when I was worried and mad; nervous and glad, times when I didn't know what to expect and was anxious about the unknown; stories of when I wanted something so bad and stories of unfulfilled expectations I didn't even know I had; stories of accomplishment and joy, and those of failure and disappointment; stories of faith, and challenge, and growth. Yes, there are a lot of stories behind those lines. Would I love it if some of those stories were absent from my life's repertoire? I absolutely would. And yet, I know that together all of those stories and moments have made me who I am today, for better or for worse, imperfectly beautiful, just like the lines on my face.

I admit, forty for me feels a bit like the halfway mark. Not that there are any guarantees that I will live to see eighty, or tomorrow, for that matter. But turning forty is giving me pause, pause to look back and to reflect, to take inventory of my life and my relationships. Just as I am looking back, I'm also looking forward. I'm asking myself what it looks like to embrace getting older and all that comes with that, and to age gracefully, whatever the heck that means. And I find myself wanting to let go and throw off all of the things that hold me back from being my real self. I don't really want to be successful anymore or spectacular, I just want to show up and be the best me, the one I was created to be. And in the moments and the days, of which there are many, where I am not the best me, I want to own it, and rest in the grace of knowing that I'm still in process. I desire to live each day more and more authentically, with actions on the outside that are congruent to what I believe on the inside. I hope that my face is radiant and my love is strong as I live into the stories yet untold. I don't want to hide those lines on my face or the parts of my story that don't shine, but rather set them free as part of me, imperfectly beautiful, wrinkles and all.