How Free?

David's journal from his bike trip.

When David was 17, he rode his 10-speed bike from his small town in Minnesota to Washington state, then down to California.

Alone.

Please imagine this with me. Still in high school. No cell phones. No family stops along the way. One boy. One bike. The great unknown and hours and hours and hours by himself. Imagine all the things that could have gone wrong.

Except, nothing really did. He prepared his trip really well, he knew how to take his bike apart, fix it, and put it back together. He budgeted his money for food and supplies. He had family and friends send him letters at post offices along the way. He knew what he was doing and he did it. He confided in me that it was one of the hardest things he's done, but also one of the most rewarding. His mom once said, "I'm not really sure what we were thinking letting him go on that trip all by himself." And we've joked that it was a bit of stretch, his parents letting him do that all by himself. But David was (and is) pretty responsible and was (and is) really great at planning travel. So it all worked out.

If you're not a frequent reader of Free Range Kids, then you should be. I absolutely love that blog and read it often to get a dose of parenting reality. I think, as a parent, I fall somewhere in the middle. Pretty protective in some areas, and super lenient in others. If you've been to our house you know we are surrounded by trees, rocks, and the occasional cactus. Sometimes people will come to our house and be visiting with me and suddenly gasp, "Your children! They're going to kill themselves!" I follow their gaze and see my kids hanging from trees, jumping off giant rocks, and sitting precariously close to places where Black Widow spiders most likely live. For me, when my kids are outside I really don't care what they do. I want them to ride their bikes around the neighborhood by themselves, get to know strangers (like our neighbors), play, get filthy dirty, and build things with hammers and nails. I want them to (and I let them) ride elevators by themselves and meet me at the top. I want them to (and I let them) go into the grocery store with money, pick up some milk, pay for it, and meet me back at the car. I want them to (and I let them) be out of my sight for long periods of time and solve their own problems. Right now Zinabu is in the kitchen cutting his own apple with (gasp) a knife! These sound like such little things, but in today's version of parenting, they're monumental.

Would I let Carver, at age 17, ride his bike to Maine? Probably not. But I always hope I am the kind of parent that lets my children stretch their wings, test the water, loosen the apron strings, and gain some independence without me always hovering over them, making sure their grapes are forever cut in half or that they have clean socks.

It's all about balance.

My Heart
When you become a parent, your chest is sliced open and your heart laid bare. You don't feel it at first because you are so smitten with this beautiful new person who has entered your life. You kiss the little toes. You smell their essence. You marvel at every coo, blink, word, movement. You are so enamored, you forget that this deep love you have for your children comes with a dark side: the pain you feel when they are pained. You don't notice your heart is on the cusp of being put through the ringer. It will be. And it is. Over and over again.

But you survive. You tape it back together. Breathe deeply. Let it heal a little bit before the next crisis or medical diagnosis or letdown or disappointment. You feel in the recesses of your mind that it would not hurt so much if you did not love so much. But the love, oh the love, is so precious you wouldn't give it up for anything.

This past week has been the kind of week where my heart has felt beaten and bruised. Midnight tears and morning worries and the wish that it would all go away. My sweet Lily. My precious Lily is facing what feels insurmountable. We're ok. It's not an emergency. I won't go into details here--which means you're all imagining worst case scenarios of multiple things (don't), but I want to respect her privacy--but it is the kind of thing you hope happens to someone else so that you can keep on living your happy little life. Instead, we are the ones sweeping up the pieces of our hearts. She will be fine. She has to be fine. But right now it is grueling.

Have you ever wanted to quit? To say, "I don't want any more of this pain." Discomfort, sure. Inconvenience, no problem. I got all that and a bag of chips during the get-them-sleeping-through-the-night era. But watching your child hurt? No. I'm the first to admit that I did not sign up for this. Which sounds so weak. But it's honest. I'll say it again. I did not sign up for this. I did not have this in my plans. There was no instruction manual to prepare me. To prepare my heart for the pain of raising children. To prepare myself for a road I don't want to travel.

Yesterday David's high school hosted a statewide cross country meet. It was spectacular. The pageantry and the speed and the teams and the hype and the noise and the cheering. There were 38 teams, all racing their very best. The runners were fluid and practiced and determined and strong. We were watching at a spot about halfway through the course, and long after the boys had finished--right before the starting gun went off for the girls--came a boy all by himself. He was vastly overweight. He was dead last. He was so slow that he shuffled. He had absolutely no reason to be out there except to try. He was not running for the fun of it, because he was stared at, gawked at, and laughed at. He was so far behind he was completely alone, with no one to direct him through the course. He knew most of the girls would finish before him.

And yet he ran.

I watched him the way a mom watches their child take their first steps. I was so proud of him. I wanted to run beside him and hug him. I wanted to tell him that he was the best kid out there. I wanted him to know I had his back and that I thought that if he could do this... in front of thousands of people... he could do anything. He did not give up. I clapped for him. I yelled at him to not give up. I watched him huff past me, carrying not only his physical weight but the weight of everyone's eyes following his painful, slow trudge through the course. He ran because he knew, deep down, he could finish. He did the best he could.

He will never know how much he inspired me. I feel like I'm dead last, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. But what are my options? To give up?  I don't care that people see me struggling, or that I'm dead last, or that the road I'm on is not pretty. Despite the pain in my heart, I love my child.

And I will not give up.

A Change

I love blogging. It's weird, but I do. I like taking a little time each day (or every third day depending on whatever is going on in our lives) to write about what we're up to, share photos of the family, and document how we're changing and growing. I have been so thankful for this blog because I can go back months or years ago to relive memories and gasp at how small my kids appeared. I also love the people I've met through adopting from Ethiopia and blogging. (Pause for a tissue break.) Words just can't describe it. Blogging has been good to me.

But I'm ready to be more intentional in my family with certain things, and that's going to show up here. I'd like to start writing more about how I'm raising my children in our community while teaching them to be culturally sensitive. I want them to be aware of their own uniqueness and heritage and, moreover, be open to the uniqueness and heritage of those around them. Reading biographies aloud has started us on that journey, and it challenged me to look for other ways to bring the world to my kids.

I hope you stick with me. You'll still get plenty of family updates, and you'll also get my attempts at creative parenting. Really, how could you resist that?