Home #1

So…

I have been thinking a lot about home.  About what we mean—what we feel, really—when we talk about home.  About going home, being home, staying home.  Leaving home.  Missing, creating, remembering, moving past, adjusting our understanding of home. 

It’s is an enormous word—a weighted one, thick with individualized meaning, heavy with comfort and safety and, sometimes, pain.

The older I get, the more I love just being home.  This is a change back to the youngest me, the child, the little girl who loved being home.  I didn’t need to be anywhere else.  Of course I went out and about in the world and did the things people do to turn into grownups, but I felt my best when I was just home.  Before I was 18, I lived in one place—one little house on one little country road outside of one little town. 

But after high school, by my own choices and circumstances, I lived in ten different places from age 18 until 28.  A move a year, roughly.  I lived alone and I lived with roommates.  I lived in dorms, apartments, houses, and—my favorite—a rented mobile home on a rough, unkempt lot with six other mobile homes ($215 a month, thank you very much).  I even spent a few months on a ratty, smoke-scented couch, crashing the apartment of two high school buddies who had become regulars in the pub where I was a bartender.   They offered their couch, and I took it.  When I arrived the first day and knocked on their door, a black garbage bag full of clothes in my hand, I knew instantly it was a mistake.  The guys greeted me enthusiastically, albeit a bit slurred and red-eyed, and I swallowed the lump in my throat that was asking me, How did this happen?  How did your path lead to this?  I did everything I could to avoid the place, only going there to sleep, but sleep was largely elusive because of the ongoing reel of country music videos on the television and the constant smell of Budweiser and Marlboros in the air.  When I did sleep, it was only because I’d cried myself to a place of complete exhaustion. 

There.  That story just happened, didn’t it? 

Here’s the thing about home, for me: Each home has its own story, and they all come together to tell my story.  Each “home” defines a place in my life.  A mindset, really:  where my head was, and how I was figuring out my path.  Each home was a specific mark on my own timeline.  Maybe a place of a stumble, or victory, or stability.  A place of clarity; maybe a place of confusion.  I could go on and on about each of those places I’ve lived, give specific details about each front door— and how I felt each time I walked through it. 

I think most people have a complicated story to tell about home. 

I started thinking about home because I have noticed the deep meaning behind some of the most common ways we talk about home.  We have all said or heard one of these things:

I just stayed home.

I couldn’t bear to be at home.

I really want to go home.

It just feels like home.

It never felt like home. 

I’m never home.

S/he’s never home.

S/he’s always home. 

It will be good to be home.

My first home.

Our first home.

Our next home.

And so on.  Think about it.  When people use the word home, they really mean something.  They’re saying something important.  Something that should really make us stop and listen.

Next time, I’ll tell the story of one of my students, and how his request to go home stopped me cold.  

I'm Sorry

There’s this awesome scene in Parenthood where Adam tells his brother, Crosby, to just suck it up and apologize to his mother-in-law for something that had happened. 

“For what?  I didn’t do anything!”  Crosby protests.

Adam answers, “It’s just… you know what?  You’re a man.  It’s just what men do.  We apologize.  I say three ‘I’m sorry’s before I get out of bed in the morning.” 

Smart.  It’s true.  Sometimes, you just apologize. 

But Adam is wrong about the man thing.  I think it’s an everyone thing.  It’s certainly a leadership thing.  When you’re a leader, apologizing isn’t at all about if you’re right or wrong.  It’s about something simpler.  It’s the right thing to say.  I’m sorry.   Sorry for a situation that sucks.  Sorry for a bad decision on someone else’s part.  I’m sorry.  Just sorry.

Not long ago, a couple students got into some silly scuffle.  These two have been classmates for several years now, especially if you count their time together in preschool, and they are sick, sick, sick of each other.  They actively seek ways to get on one another’s nerves.  They each wish for nothing more than for the other one to get in trouble for something.  Anything.  So, on this particular day, we had yet another version of the same story that has been told between these two kids for months now:  Kid #1 took an item from Kid #2 and threw it in the trash.  Kid #1 didn’t admit it, in spite of a long and involved search for said item.  Another kid ratted out Kid #1 and the item was retrieved. Kid #1 got in trouble for being mean. I called her parents; they understood, promised to deal with it at home, everything good.

And then, with a sick feeling in my stomach, I called the mother of Kid #2.  This woman is challenging; I’ve had enough interactions with her to know it wasn’t going to be a pretty phone call.  I knew she’d be really, really pissed.  And she was, but this time, she went even farther off the reservation than I’d ever predicted she would.  She screamed at me.  Screamed.  Said she’s sick of Kid #2 picking on Kid #1, she’s sick of her kid being bullied, she’s sick of this school, she’s sick of me.  She’s sick of me putting her kid in danger (!??!), sick of me not expelling Kid #1 (!?!?!), sick of the whole *&$@%( school (!?!?!).  She said a whole bunch of other things, too—mostly about my incompetence.

 

“I’m sorry,” I said, about five hundred times.

I had nothing to be sorry for, if you got right down to it.  I wasn’t even in the building when this particular incident happened.   I’ve done everything exactly as I should have with these two kids—investigate, intervene, communicate, make a plan for going forward.  Of all things, I shouldn’t be sorry, for cryin’ out loud.

But I recognize that it’s my job to be sorry, to apologize, to recognize that this woman was frustrated and angry and needed someone who would take her fury.   I knew there was nothing I could do to make her feel better—except, maybe, apologize. 

I do it a lot, just like Adam says he does. I say I’m sorry.  Three times before getting out of bed, it seems.  And all throughout the day.  It’s what leaders do.   We be sorry. 

Sick

There's this great Minion meme that says, "Being sick is your body's way of saying you're way too awesome, and you need to slow down, so everyone else can catch up."

Not so with me.  Being sick is my body's way to tell me to freakin' stop already.  Period.

I got sick this week.  The kind of sick where my body felt like it had been in some sort of accident.  Like I'd been shoved to the ground and kicked a few times.  My muscles ached.  Little portals in my body had masses of... just... hurt.  Even my armpit felt like it had a bruise.  My armpit.

I stayed home from work Wednesday, alternately watching Netflix and trying to keep up on the endless emails that come into my work account.  I wasn't much better the next day, but I mustered my toughness and bungled my way through another day of work.  It was fine.  Not good, by any means; I felt like crap and looked even worse, and I blew my nose so many times it grew red and raw.  But I just kept telling myself I felt okay.  It was okay.  I was okay.

That night, I made dinner and we all sat down and ate, all civilized and stuff.  Afterwards, as the kids played on the trampoline, I cleaned up the mess, like I always do—it's a comforting habit, really, making my way through the lists of tasks:  I clean the dishes, store the leftovers, wipe the table and countertops, and then sweep the floors.  Except this time, as I worked, I started feeling worse and worse and worse.  About halfway through, I just started to cry.  I admonished myself several times:  Oh, stop it.  You're fine.  Why are you crying?  Stop it!  STOP IT.

But the tears kept coming, even as I picked up the broom and finished up the cleaning, even as I kept reminding myself I wasn't actually crying about anything.  And by the time I was completely done, I was so achy and cry-y I couldn't do anything except... ache and cry.

I went to our back patio, where my husband was watching our kids jump and play.

He looked at me.  A look of alarm crossed his face.  "What is it?" he asked.

I shook my head.  "I just can't," I said.

He jumped up.  "You're still sick," he said.  He took my shoulders in his hands, turning me back into the house and murmuring something about getting me to sleep right now. "I'm sorry," I said, feebly apologizing for leaving him alone with the bed-and-bath routine with the kids.  "Don't be ridiculous," he snorted. He lifted back the covers and nudged me in, pulling the blankets up around my head and tucking them around my shoulders.  I closed my eyes and just let go.  I heard other noises—there was the shake of an Advil bottle and a water bottle filled up, placed on the bedside table "just in case."  I think the kids came and kissed me goodnight.  I can't say for sure.  I was done.

And I slept.

A couple hazy days have passed.  I'm not yet feeling well, but I'm past the break-down-into-nothing stage.  I'm ready to tackle the last month of school, with all the ridiculousness and fun that comes with it.  I can do this.  I've had my shut-down; time, now, to power back up.

No. More. Decisions.

I read somewhere that the human brain only has a certain amount of energy in it.  It can be used up, so to speak.  So after a long day of work or play or conversation or whatever, the brain needs us to go to sleep so it can regenerate itself.  It's why we wake up in the morning with strength and resolve and we can make sound decisions; but it is also why, after a long day, we kind of lose ourselves.  We lose control.  And willpower.  And common sense.  Which is why evening is the time stupid decisions are made and stupid arguments happen.  'Cause our brains are all used up.

There's some real science out there explaining all of this, but I don't really want to go find it to quote it here.  So let's just say I know it's out there and I believe it.

Every Friday night, I believe it more.

Fridays exhaust me.  On Fridays, I feel like I will never, ever, ever catch up.  They make me feel like a tree that's got a whole flock of woodpeckers on it, peck-peck-pecking away at me.  Like this past Friday:  I don't even want to go into what all happened.  I can't.  It's too much.  I don't even remember it all, even.  I woke at 5 a.m. and went like gangbusters all day.  I had tough conversations.  I mediated.  I planned.  I made decision after decision after decision.  I pinch-hit and bunted and struck out, boom-boom-boom.  Kicking ass and taking names.  Except really just whirling around punching at the air and decidedly not taking names.

So when the day wound down and my husband and I met back at home with the kids, the Friday night script began.  It's the same every week.  My husband starts it off.

Want to eat out or make some dinner here? 

I don't care. 

Well, which would you prefer? 

I don't care. 

Well, if we go out, we could just walk up to Donatos and have pizza.  It would be easy. 

I don't care. 

Or I could just grill some brats and you could make some rice and a vegetable.  That would be easy, too. 

I don't care.  


You don't care?  Because, like, both are fine. 

I don't care. 

But what do you think?  You've got to think something. 

Which is when I stop whatever I am doing, look at my patient and persistent husband, and say:

I. Do. Not. Make. Decisions. On. Friday. Nights. 

And he laughs, and shakes his head, and says:

Yes, that's right.  You don't.

And then he'll make the decision.  Which is why this past Friday night, like most of the Fridays before it, we walked up the hill to our local Donatos and ate pizza.  It's what he wanted to do anyway, I don't care.  Not on Friday, I don't.  Because my brain is all used up.

I have come to adore Donatos pizza.  Its cheesy, greasy, piping-hot goodness represents a simple end to a long week and a long day.  It represents the teamwork of my family.  It represents a break from the pace of a regular week.  And most of all, it represents a decision I didn't have to make.

Unexpected Toughness

Yesterday at recess, a little boy fell from the monkey bars and broke his arm right in two.

He's not just any little boy, either; he's Benji.

Benji... darling, dramatic Benji.  He's in first grade.  I discovered him the first day of school when he stood smack in the center of the lunchroom, sobbing, devastated to the very core because his mother had packed him a sandwich instead of noodles.  It was my first day in the school, too, so we were brand new to one another.  I didn't yet know his whole story—how he cries at the slightest adversity, how he drives his parents and older siblings bananas with his whining and woe-is-me view of the world; how he asks fifteen questions for every one of the other kids in his class.  He's like a little five-year-old Eeyore.  And he can be exhausting.

Thanks to his teacher, who has the patience of Job, he's made tons of progress this year.  He's doing really well in school; he's built some really good friendships; and he tries—mightily, he tries—to think carefully before shouting out an impulsive question or comment during class.  It's hard for him, though; in spite of his efforts to control his reactions, he's simply an emotional kid.  He can't help but default to dramatic, tear-filled responses to things the universe hands him.

So when he fell from the monkey bars and landed right on his wrist, one would have thought the world would end.  One would have thought he would crumble into a pile of tears and screams.  After all, his arm was bent in an awkward, horrid angle.  Something was sticking up out of his wrist, jutting his skin up into a triangle.  It was pretty awful.

His teacher was there when he fell, and she—mama of three boys herself—knew exactly what to do.  She braced his arm using a Frisbee and walked him quickly into the school, murmuring reassurances the whole way.  She worked with our clinic aide to secure the arm into a splint and sling while I hustled to call his mother, who promised to be there right away.  Benji waited quietly, his face white and his lips clenched into a hard line.

"How are you feeling, Benji?" I asked.

He looked straight at me, his brow crinkled earnestly.  "I hope it's just bended," he said.  "But it willy, willy, willy huwts."

I realized then that our weepy and whiny little Benji hadn't shed a tear.  He hadn't whined.  I'm no doctor, but I knew that arm was broken pretty badly, and I knew it must hurt enough to justify a huge, full-on, blowout fit.  But he didn't do any of that.  He just crunched his face muscles together and endured the pain.  No tears, no fanfare, no muss or fuss.

Tough.  Really tough.

Who knew that version of Benji even existed?

Here's one thing I've learned:  It's when kids are faced with real adversity that gives us a glimpse into who they really are.  Not the little stuff, like forgetting an assignment, getting into a spat with a friend, or losing  a game.  No, I'm talking about the kind of adversity that requires them to reach way, way, way down into themselves and be strong.  The kind of adversity that would cause anyone—even an adult— to fall apart.

When Benji's mom arrived, she leaned down and tousled Benji's hair before gathering him into a gentle hug.  "I'm taking him to Children's Hospital for them to take a look at it," she said.  "I'll let you know what they say."

"I think Benji's going to be just fine," I told her.

I hoped she knew I wasn't just talking about his arm.

Bring it to Life... Or Not?

A few years back, I was part of a long, uncomfortable meeting in which multiple people were sitting around a table trying to figure out how to best help a student with significant disabilities.  Everything felt awkward, because the parents were scowling at one another with raw contempt—their pending divorce was contentious and ugly, and they'd brought their feelings right into the room with them.  Between the two sat a court-appointed guardian ad litem.  She'd been assigned to the case by the courts, given the role of determining what was best for the child, since the parents were unable to agree.  About anything.

I was particularly nervous, because I was leading the meeting—and it was my job to negotiate, explain, and nudge everyone toward an agreement.  I was the mediator.  The one who would find compromise.  Eeeek.

Soon after we started the meeting, an idea came up— something that we thought we might try when working with the student.  I've long since forgotten the specifics, but it was some sort of behavior modification that we thought might be successful.  The child's father adamantly agreed with the suggestion.  Yes, he said; he thought it would work beautifully and he'd be happy to implement components at home.  When he's at my house, he said, rather pointedly.

Annnnnnnd, of course, the mother disagreed.  Nope.  Wasn't going to work.  Too much work for too little possibility of growth.

I could feel almost feel the heels digging in.  The line being drawn in the sand.  The flags being hoisted.

Eyes darted nervously around the room.

Okay, I thought.  Here we go.  

Before I could jump in to try to mediate, though, the guardian ad litem raised her hand slightly, not in a can-I-speak way, but in an I'm-going-to-make-a-statement way.  She looked back and forth between the parents and said, ever so quietly, "Are we going to give this a life?"

Both looked down at their hands.

"No," said the mother.

"No," said the father.

"Okay.  Let's proceed," she said, nodding over to the intervention teacher leading the meeting.

Just like that, we moved on.

Later, when the meeting was over, I pulled her aside.  "Tell me more about this 'give it a life' thing," I said.

She laughed.  "I use that phrase all the time with clients," she said.  "The people I work with are often emotional or angry.  It's hard for them to think rationally, so they pick battles that don't matter, or battles they are sure to lose.  I like to remind them that it's their choice to make the issue bigger... or smaller.  In other words, it's their choice to give something life or not."

I nodded.  It made sense.

She went on.  "And here's the other thing I tell people.  If you choose to give something a life, it's now... a thing.  It's a living thing that will take time and energy to sustain.  So no matter what it is—a particular battle to fight, an alliance you are considering, a lie you're telling—unless you're willing to invest time into it, you better not bring it to life."

Wow.

In both work and life, there are a lot of times we should consider whether we want to bring something to life— or whether it's better to leave it dormant, inanimate, and quiet.  I use this little trick a lot, because it helps me to better manage my efforts and energy.... something that I'm always trying to master.

Amy and Empathy

Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of others.

My friend Amy—?  She defines empathy.

The thing about Amy is that she is genuinely, completely, and whole-heartedly happy when good things happen to other people.

This came clear to me when I told her, a little bashfully, about the contract I'd signed to write a book about school leadership.  We were working together at the time; I was the principal and she was the assistant principal.  I loved working with her.  She was my sidekick, my confidant, my sounding board, my partner in laughing at absurdities that popped up along the way.  We were a great team, too—she was good at everything I wasn't, so I leaned on her a lot.

Working with her, the thing I kept seeing was how she was truly rooting for everyone.  Kids, parents, colleagues, her friends—she wanted them all to succeed.  There wasn't a jealous or pouty bone in that girl's body.

"So, I wrote a book," I started.  I mumbled through a little explanation, a little unsure how to say it. Her smile widened as I talked.  "So... it should be out in a year or so.  I just thought I should tell you. I should tell someone, right?"

With a wide, happy grin, she looked at me straight in the eye and said, "That is so wonderful," she said.  The tone of her voice was as genuine, kind, and happy as I'd ever heard.  "You love to write... you love being a principal... and you had the courage to combine the two."  She paused for a moment.  "Good for you.  I am so, so happy for you."

And I could feel, in my guts, how much she meant it.

I'd always loved Amy, but I loved her to itty-bitty pieces in that moment.  Because her response was so honest and so clean and so pure.

There's that phrase, "I am not competing.  I want us all to make it."  That's Amy.

And, it's important to note, she's not just like that with close friends. She's like that with everyone.  When hearing good news, it would never occur to her to think, "Why not me?"  or, "She so doesn't deserve this," or, "When will it be my turn?"  She just shares the success and celebrates it whole-heartedly.

Another thing:  It's not just happy stuff, either.  When crappy things happen to others, she aligns herself right with them and feels the struggle, the loss, the anger.  "I'm so sorry," she'll say, and it's not just her words that say sorry, but it's every single bone in her body that is sorry.

I don't get to work with Amy every day anymore, because of unavoidable changes in our job paths.  I think of her every day, though, because of what I learned from her about empathy.  I make it a conscious thing to never miss a chance show someone the kind of empathy that Amy does.

For her, it's as natural as breathing.  I have to work at it a little, but I'm happy to do so.  Really happy.

Friends, Florida, and Self-Actualization

I’m in St. Petersburg, Florida, hanging out with seven of my favorite women.  We met our freshman year of college, thrust together by chance and circumstance on the third floor of Baldwin Hall—a square, nondescript dormitory smack in the center of our college campus.  We stumbled our way through our freshman year, building a solid friendship one stupid mistake at a time.   After college, we went off in seven completely different directions, but we have worked fiercely to keep ourselves connected to one another.  

So here we are, 24 years after our first meeting, and we've become college graduates, teachers, professors, salespeople, scientists, mothers, homeowners, and lots of other stuff, too.  We’re still flopping around, trying to find our way, but still, once a year, we come together to talk about the path and the stumbles and the triumphs. 

With the passage of time, the main difference is that we’re all deep in the motherhood thing. 

Yesterday at lunch, we talked about that.

We’d spent the morning on the beach—a feat in itself for the northerners in the group, who had been receiving texts from downtrodden spouses back home immersed in a snowstorm.  Not us, though.  We were warm.  It was sunny and sandy and salty and perfect.  

Midday, we meandered our way toward a nearby hotel and sat down at the pool restaurant for lunch.  As we waited for our food, we fell into our typical routine of talking about the stuff that's happened to us in the past year—and years beyond, too.  

"I love the forties," several of us said.  "We're in good relationships; we have stable work; we're connected to good friends.  In a lot of ways, we've figured stuff out."

“I feel like there’s some self-actualization,” someone else said.  “Like I’ve come to know and understand my flaws and faults.  And I’m really okay with them.”

“I can even laugh at them,” said another. “My things are just part of who I am.  I’ve got things.  Yeah.  So what.  So does everyone.”

Which led us to our children.  We all admitted that we see traits in our children that mirror our own things.  Anxiety.  Fear.  Perfectionism.  The ability to be crushed; a refusal to compromise; a naive and foolish view of how things work in the world.  And so on.  All seven of us are identifying the things we've passed on to our children that we, ourselves, had to manage or overcome over the course of our four decades.

“The crappy thing is that they’re going to have to recognize and manage these things on their own,” someone said.  “We can give them all the hints and the tricks that worked for us—the things that carried us along through the mess and pushed us out to the place of acceptance.  But they don’t want to listen, necessarily, and they don’t have to.”

“Because they have to find their own way.”

 

“And it’s going to be hard.” 

“For them.”

“And for us.”

Said every parent ever.

Let the journey continue.