How I ended up at the Hmong Slaughter House

These words feel like a meager offering in return for the cherished gift I received with this experience and friendship. Yet it felt wrong not to write about it. 

I had half of this story written a week ago, and low and behold, you let your kids anywhere near your computer and a blank page greets you when you return. Ugh. All of my raw feelings and thoughts and words that flowed naturally no longer exist, but that's real.

Instead we can start from a more seasoned place where all those experiences have had a chance to expand and grow in knowledge and understanding. 

Three weeks ago I asked for help on Facebook in finding an Hmong grocery store so that I could bring an offering of food to my next door neighbors whose husband had just passed away. 

(We have lived next door to the same family for 15 years. They speak Hmong, and we don't. We have worked in our gardens side by side. We have exchanged plates of food for every birth of every baby. My kids play with the grandkids all the time. We are neighborly. Ms. Yang's children have been able to help me translate at different times, and we chat. It's been wonderful.)

I could have easily just looked it up online and gone about my way. I included my network of folks for a few reasons.

1. I knew I could bring a lasagna and that would be fine because my culture dictates that's what I do. But I believe a true gift is one that is thoughtful and says, "I took time to recognize your culture and traditions and learn a little about you and bring a gift that would mean something to you, not to me". 

2. There is so much knowledge and wisdom and ideas and creativity housed in the people who live around me and I wanted to tap into that humanity instead of a stale electronic search.

3. I love giving people an opportunity to be apart of something bigger then themselves. Asking for help does this. Including folks in the process does this. Do you know that people I rarely talk to ended up reaching out to their neighbors and asking what an appropriate gift for me to give would be? People searched all over and sent me messages and texts and emails sending me to all sorts of great locations and ideas of what to give. Strangers were invested in this simple gift to say "I'm sorry" to a woman who just lost her husband. The circle of care and kindness that surrounds this one little act now extends all across the city. That's why I did it! Come on, I am an intelligent woman, I can figure this shit out on my own. That's not the point. 

Lastly, two incredible things happened by being vulnerable and asking for help. First my neighbor and friend Mai Neng Moua offered to meet me at the local Good Deal market and walk me through it. She met me after work, taking time out of her day, away from her family to help me learn more about Hmong culture and food and traditions. We strolled down every aisle  rich with ingredients I recognized and a bunch a I didn't. Explaining and teaching me Hmong for the items I couldn't read. She showed me the difference between herbs and different pork sausage.

I was very humbled that this woman would be so patient with me, and also very kind in giving me her time so that I could learn more in turn so that I could love more.

It is often in the position we take that will increase our relationships and expand our knowledge. When we can openly and humbly ask for help in learning what we do not understand, those who hold that knowledge often can meet you with more understanding because of our willingness to learn.

Mai Neng Moua's willingness to walk with me through a generally uncomfortable experience (I was clearly out of place in this market, especially not being able to read much of what was around me, or how to use half of the items sold there.) made it possible for me to release my ridiculous fear and be ready to shop there even more. She turned something uncomfortable for me and made me feel comfortable. 

Thank you Mai, I can't wait to cook with you soon and have our families share a meal. 

Now... the reason for this story. Mai's husband Blong Yang read my post on Facebook and sent me a message that said, 

"A 50lb bag of rice is a good gift and says, 'I'm sorry for your loss and I care.' But a slaughtered pig says, 'I'm sorry and I love you like family.'"

Wait... what? Really? I mean I guess I assumed somewhere there was a place where those things happened, but truthfully, my meat comes dead and wrapped in paper from the store.

Then. "If you are serious about the pig, I can take you to the slaughter house down in south St. Paul. Do you want to try to give them a pig?"

As I was sitting on my couch, I looked over at Paul to which he squinted his eyes at me and said, "You are completely curious aren't you?"

Um... Yeah! Wouldn't you be?

For the next 45 min, Blong proceeded to walk me through multiple layers of cultural context surrounding death and rituals in the Hmong culture. I told him I was in. I wanted the pig. Since I was convinced already I wanted to do this, I then decided to ask. "What does this entail?"

"Well... you pick a pig. They weight it. They kill it. They clean it. They gut it. You take it home."

"You mean like in a cooler?" Is my brilliant and naive response.

"No, like in a tarp. Fully intact. Oh and bring a bucket for its insides."

And.... we have officially entered unchartered territory. What exactly have I done I wonder as a full fledge city girl who has incredibly limited experience on any type of farm. 

In the end, we set a date to head to the slaughter house. 

The next day I hit the streets and started door knocking to my neighbors in attempt to collect enough money to bring a pig to a family in mourning. 

A family in mourning. Friends, I wish I could unhear my sweet and devastated neighbor as she sits on her back porch and wails from the depth of her sadness. I have never heard crying sound like this. I have never heard pain sound like this. Every morning, before the sun is up, her tears are falling and it is her cries that tell me another day is coming, and she will be facing it alone. And every morning as I lay next to my own husband, I squeeze him a little tighter as my heart breaks for her a little more. It feels like a pig is the very least thing I can organize. 

Our official "Get the pig day" arrived with a trip to the gas station to pick up coffee, the golden rule of getting up early, and I went to get Blong for our adventure at the Slaughter house. 

When Blong gets in the car he asks, "Do you have any idea what you are walking into?"

Nope.

Not at all.

Not even a clue. 

But I packed my garden rubber boots just in case. (who knows right? Not me obviously.) And a jacket. And I put a tarp in the back of the minivan because you know... full faced empty pig.

Blong and I make it to the slaughter house around 8am, to discover it is already packed with people. We came to realize that it was Ethiopian Easter and so everyone was there. Blong takes me to the back where the livestock is. They have separate sections for chickens, cow, and sheep and lambs. Blong looks at me and says, "Pick one".

Sure. Just like that. Just. You know...pick one. 

But how? How can you tell if its a good pig? Or a bad one? Should it be fat? Do the marks on the skin matter? What about short legs, or bad breath? Do I pick a slow one or a fast one? How in the world do you a pig to be slaughtered? I mean, I stood there with the full weight that I was now solely in charge of ending the life of a living thing. I know my eyes got big, my heart lurched a few times, and I will admit it took me a little bit of time to decide. 

This struggle of ending a life to give a gift. To bless a family. In trying to do a good deed, I felt like it was starting with a dark deed. To give to one, I must take away from another. And I had to wrestle with all these heavy feelings in a span a few moments, because the guy speaking Hmong in his rubber apron and paddle was coming towards us to mark the pigs we had chosen. 

I tell you that I would have not survived without Blong. As one a very few women in this place, I was also the only white person. Oh the extent of my Hmong speaking skills are about nill. Not only do I look out of place, it is clear I have never done this before and am struggling to communicate. Blong led this whole ordeal for me, he answered all of my questions, and was so patient as I know I asked some ridiculous questions. I mean not only are our cultures very different, I also have very limited experience with animals in general and my skills in the kitchen are still new. So I feel a little green in all things in this situation. 

Because it was so busy, we stood in line waiting for our pig to be next in line, we got to talk about everything. From our families, to different cultures and thier impact on America, his wife's book, North Minneapolis, politics, what it means to be an unseen minority. You know...small things. 

After a couple hours and a tour of the rest of the warehouse (with cows being skinned and chickens being chosen and feathered), it was our pigs turn. My heart turned over once realizing this was the moment that I set into motion. In full disclosure, this moment was hard for me yes, but knowing what a gift it would be to the family made it better. Knowing that Hmong culture animals are sacred and there is only respect for the animal in giving up its life. They utilize and eat every part of the animal so as not to waste it. I came to this with understanding, but the reality was just... more real.

I don't know that I want to write about the process of what happens next. Not because it is simply to grotesque to discuss, but because it really isn't the point. I wan't ever disgusted by what was happening in front of me. I simply kept thinking, 

"Everyone in here is Hmong, or Muslim, or variety or version of a "minority" here in America. There is such a strong cultural experience happening here that I never knew existed. I am experiencing something that I never would have had the chance to see and know without the gift of Blong and my neighbors."

For this small moment in time I got to see a little bit of their world and what they experience. Not only their culture, but truthfully? I was a minority that day in a place where my language is second. Communication was hard. I clearly stood out because of my skin color and my gender. I believe it is imperative, especially for white folks, to put themselves in uncomfortable situations and walk a bit in someone else's shoes. For a brief moment, and in a fraction of a similar context, I experienced what it means to be in a place that doesn't fully make sense. I didn't hold all the knowledge of what happens in this place. I was lacking in almost every way to know how to navigate this. 

Yet people were kind, though maybe looked at me a little funny. We made our language barrier work, and I met some really wonderful folks while waiting for this whole showdown. And I was there for awhile. 

Yeah. Cause this girl? Picked the only sick pig all morning. After it was all dead and cleaned and ready to go, they slit that pig open to find out it was diseased. 

Yeah. I am really good at this.

So we had to start all over. From the beginning. Blong looked at me and said, "Pick another one!" I thought, "Clearly I showed my lack of skills last time around. I can't even be trusted in this!" 

But I scored a good one, and they rushed us through to the front of the line where we watched the whole thing again. Where they gave us all the innards in a bucket then wrapped the pig in a tarp and dropped in my trunk. 

Blong and I enjoyed an authentic Mexican lunch (where I ate tongue tacos for the first time. This was a day of many firsts!). Hours and hours later (Seriously, he was going to be with me for two max and ended up spending six hours with me on this adventure!) I dropped him off at home. 

Then with a car smelling of dead pig that is getting warm from the sun and the hot car, I started to make the drive to a northern suburb where my neighbors family was gathering. Ms. Yang's son has a home about 20 min outside of the city. 

In my sweatpants, big garden rubber boots and tank top, smelling like slaughter house, I pulled up to a huge family gathering with tents and lots of food. Many of the adults were sitting around tables quietly talking while kids played in the yard trying to distract themselves from all the melancholy adults. Then there's me, timidly looking for a man I have never met before who owns this house. A woman stops me and I say,

"I am the next door neighbor of the grandfather who passed away. The neighbors and I pitched in to buy your family a pig as a way to say we are so sorry for your loss. I hope this is an appropriate gift to bring and I haven't done anything offensive by bringing a pig. Otherwise this a really terrible practical joke." 

We laughed together. Whew.

And I looked at her hoping I made sense and praying that I did't have to keep explaining myself, still feeling unsure about looking so out of place, in the suburbs, with a Hmong family and a rotting pig in my trunk. I mean come on.

Everyone came out then, and I had to talk again, and I was so uncomfortable and the attention was getting to me, and grandma just kept hugging me, and then they sat me down and kept bringing me food to try. The family sat with me and talked for more than an hour.  More than we ever have. 

It was so incredibly overwhelming. 

It was so incredibly beautiful. 

It was so incredibly humbling. 

My day started at 630am. I came home at 7pm. This was what I was going to do with my morning. I was gonna make a quick trip to the slaughter house then "drop" off the pig with the family.

I am reminded again that people do not belong on a timeline. That giving of ourselves means sacrifices we never thought we would need to make.

I am reminded that being in someone's pain with them is potentially one of the most powerful things we can do. 

I am reminded by the beauty in people. That Blong and these neighbors of mine would give of themselves without expecting anything in return. They simply gave because someone was hurt. Human interest stories aren't going to save us, but they do give us strength to go on. That's what this did for me. I saw the Beauty in people. I saw hope and love. I saw the way it could be when we look out for each other. 

I learned what it means to walk a little in someone else's shoes simply to know them more. To understand them in a way I didn't before. To grow my heart and make room. To remind myself that my way isn't always the best or only way. 

My neighbor still wails in the morning. I still wake up to hearing her cry. Her pain is deep. Yet, now, she stops and hugs me. We didn't do that before. 

A wall came down.

We are closer now.

We share something now.

Special Note: I did not take any pictures of this as it felt insensitive to me. I wasn't there to capture something for you, I was there to experience it fully for me. (yes I am sharing now, but only after I took everything I wanted to keep and protect for myself. You get the highlights)

Special Thank you: Blong Yang and Mai Neng Moua for ALL the time you gave to walk me through this. To help me see and understand. For your patience with all my questions. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

To my neighbors who contributed to make this moving gift happen. We couldn't have blessed them without you.

To all the folks who shared info with me, asked their neighbors to help me, and took time to do research for me. You went above and beyond and that was very heartfelt. Thank you.

The unseen things...patience with humanity

My son shyly approached me the other day. It was a moment that I knew held emotion and weight by the way he awkwardly didn't even know how to be in his own skin. He was uncomfortable and then, unable to keep it in anymore, he said,

"Mom I am scared of spring. The weather is nicer now and spring means storms. Storms mean lightening and thunder and tornados. I feel dumb because I'm scared of storms and they still bother me. I'm too old to be scared of storms. I don't want to be scared but I don't know how not to be."

It is the stirring of the unrelenting chaotic current that lies underneath our demeanor. 

I know it. 

I know many people who know this feeling well. 

It is the anxiety of what could be, what has been, what might happen. It is the unknown, sometimes based in reality, other times rooted in fear.

I forget sometimes how deeply effected my son was by that day 5 years ago. How that struggle stays with him as he tries to learn how to do life with this wound. 

I think about how already he is worried. I watch as his eyes follow the clouds. How he sneaks peaks on my phone to check the weather. I notice how he plans time with his friends around the weather to not expose his fear or weakness to the people around him. 

His fear and earth shattering experience through the tornado has altered him. 

It makes me wonder about all the others out there who are struggling with a fear, a demon, a ghost, a moment, a person. It makes me wonder how they change their lives to work around this scar in their own existence.

We all have them, yet we feel pressure or shame or anxiety about the timeline in which we should be healed. We have these moments that redefine who we are because these moments never leave us. We simply hold them differently.

Yet from the outside, it is easy to forget that someone else would have an internal scar that I can't see. I only live with your coping techniques, and the sad reality is most often we forget or don't understand so we cast judgements on one another. 

The wind was picking up and tossing and throwing items around the yard and my oldest son wanted to come inside and stop playing catch with his brother. He was embarrassed and so didn't explain why he wanted to come in, he simply left, to which it caused a rift between the brothers. There was angst and some name calling and lots of frustration. 

I saw it and knew. I knew it was  based in fear and panic, lack of communication and embarrassment (shame). It was all about deflecting and hiding and projecting. 

I think it's easy to forget the pain and scars others carry. I wonder how our friendships and relationships could be stronger if we held each other more gently and had patience for the healing process. 

I am no one to judge you and the process of how you carry your struggle, your wound, your scar.  We are all mostly simply trying to navigate our lives and emotional healing is a beast that takes much longer than expected to tame. 

I'm his mother and I forgot his scar. 

I want to take this moment with him and remember to hold him well, but also to reflect and remember that most around me carry scars as well. I am not responsible for all the pain and healing in the people around me. However, if we are in community and relationship as we say we are, then I deeply want to be a vessel for healing and peace. And in order to work towards that beautiful gift, we must be patient with one another and grant understanding. 

What's the rest of the story?

I love catching up with my friends, but I have never been a fan of small talk. I like knowing the real things. The hard things. The struggles of life, the temptations, the scary dreams and I feel especially honored if you tell me the things you are never supposed to say out loud. It means we are in. We have open the door and exposed our insides trusting them to someone hoping they won't reject us.

Due to time and friends living all over the globe, maintaining that level of depth and transparency is difficult at best. I don't know how you do it, but I have found one simple question cuts through the awkward back and forth banter that we all dance to trying to reestablish relationship intimacy. 

After our general and casual catch up I love asking, "What's the rest of the story?" 

It reminds us that even though the easy surface stuff is real, it is not in truth the whole story. There are always feelings and moments and stories that exist under the surface. 

It acknowledges that yes, I love knowing those things about you, I want it all. I want to know all of you. I want to help hold your heart and your hurt and your fear. 

It recognizes that somehow, even though and time and space separate us, we are still intimately connected. I haven' forgotten the real stuff. I long to know the "whole you". 

Asking "Now tell me the real story" implies that the easy day to day stuff isn't real, which just isn't true. Those small surface experiences make up the fabric of our life as well. There's just...well...more. The fun things are real. The easy moments are real. The boring things are real. 

They just aren't the whole story.

I love this question. 

What's the rest of the story?

I use it for a whole host of my friends. 

But for my girlfriends? Because we are a highly emotional bunch, I usually ask, "How's your heart?" Talk about cutting right to the depth of the matter. There is no hidden agenda there. I want to know. is it bruised? Broken? Wounded? Full? Tired? Embarrassed? Lonely? I beg wanting to know, "Trust me with you".

I just don't think there is any point in wasting time not knowing the people we care most about in the world.

If you are longing to deepen your relationships, maybe try one of these questions. It's incredible how quickly conversations get real and good and honest. it's beautiful, and I am thankful for those in my life who are brave enough to answer honestly.

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What going to the pool looks like now...

I used to be the mom that would meet other moms at a splash pad.

I used to be the mom that would pack one bag for snacks and juice boxes, one with sunscreen, towels, extra clothes, extra bathing suits (for the kid who always has an accident), a bag with toys, water bottles, wet wipes, water guns, sunglasses, sand toys, garbage bags, and of course sweaters in case it got cold. Don't forget my purse and my other small bag that housed the small first aid kit I needed, and emergency kit of Chapstick, essential oils, lotion, tweezers and other small random things that I never thought I could leave home without. You know library books and sewing supplies that somehow just in case I am gifted with 23 seconds of no one needing me, I can get some "Me time". (Cause that totally happens when you are out at a splash pad with three kids.) Then I would stuff the stroller, piling it high so our need to have everything covered was taken care of. I didn't just plan. I over planned. (I think I just stressed myself out reading this.)

But now?

Now we have traded our half day trip to a special splash pad for our public wading pool at the end of our block. 

We traded our 20 minute car ride for a 3 minute walk.

We traded our one hour of prep time to actually just heading out in our clothes, suits long forgotten and optional at best. (I love how all the kids in the hood just come and swim in whatever they are wearing, no one has towels and empty water bottles are the toy of choice.)

We learned to swim with our mouths closed tight because who know's whats in that inner city pool water.

(Actually I have seen some things in that water I wish I could un-see.)

We don't bring towels with us, choosing instead to drip dry on the cement or on the walk home. Instead of packing sunscreen and googles, we bring trash bags to pick up all the garbage that litters our streets. 

We traded conversations about cartoon characters for big beautiful questions like, "What causes someone to start doing drugs? Do they use these needles or are there other ways to take drugs?" or "Why do people throw their trash on the ground? Don't they want to keep our neighborhood clean?" or "Why are there so many police sirens and shootings here?" 

Right? Big. Hard. Questions about culture, about crime, about hurt and what we do with it and why it's here all the time. Questions that don't have easy answers. Questions that I can either answer with prejudice or judgement, or we can talk it through giving small insights and things to ponder. Mostly I answer with more questions urging my kids to think for themselves. Then at night we pray for what we do not know and ask God in all of his mercy and goodness to reveal himself to those who are hurting and grant us trust to live and love.

We traded planned play dates to walking down the street and kids running out of their houses to join us at the pool. As soon as we say park, it somehow sends a virtual message to other mothers I have never met that send their kids out doors and we all go to the park with the pool together. 

I traded a suburban mindset for the inner city lifestyle.

I traded a host of expectations for the simple act of just living. Not planning, just experiencing.

I love watching the kids at the pool now. I love not being burden down with so much stuff.

I traded my preconceived ideas of necessity for a healthy dose of reality.

I traded mom's regulating everything their kids did with being helicopter parents to being the only parent at the pool and having my kids learn every bad word in the American language.

I traded the simple struggle of stuff with deeper struggles of fairness, culture, neglect, and a different set of rules. Rules that seem to apply to the hood and not in other areas of the city. Rules that shift and change and demand you pay attention so you know how to play the game. Struggles that leave kids that aren't yours in your care. Struggles that have kids stealing from you and playing with your kids and eating your food. Struggles to find a way to respect each other when language stands as a barrier between you. 

I traded a perceived idea of safety with always feeling exposed and vulnerable. 

I traded my false idea that I was in control with the harsh consciousness that my kids are exposed to all sorts of things I don't want for them on a daily basis. Yet, that demands my attention, and our conversations and processing about life means and what respect means and how prayer and faith fit into it all.

I traded what I once knew which was easy with what we understand now which is by far much more complex and tangled and messy. It's harder, but I like it a whole lot. 

So now we swim. I bring my key and my phone and we walk out the door ready to embrace whatever adventure meets us on the way. It's our own inner city neighborhood swim club.

The thing you must realize is that I understand full well the privilege we have as college educated whites. We weren't living in great means and decided to move here. It's all we could afford, and being a one income family keeps us living here. However, we do have privileges and opportunities that many in my community don't have. I understand that we often choose to live simply, but for others, limited means is not a choice. My hood is a really mixed bag of folks. Race, culture, expectations, histories and stories. We are so incredibly diverse and that is the piece I love. Maybe some don't have a towel to bring. Others like our neighbors don't have a mother to bring them to the pool because they were left on the door step over a year ago. But others do have means and still they come to the pool with nothing but the clothes on their back just like us. So I don't sit here and make assumptions and judgements on others and what their story is. I am simply put, just thankful for the constant daily reminder that there is another way than the way I understood things before.

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Non-Pinterest Chore charts and Payouts

I kind of just wish I could just blink my eyes and my kids would know how to do chores, manage their money and never complain about helping. I would have magically somehow found a way to have bread three Mother Theresa's.

Chores and Allowance and Volunteering are all things that I want my children to have a healthy relationship with. Not OCD, or hoarding or laziness or compulsion.  I want them to understand these things, respect them, and give them their right place in their life. 

Unfortunately, this knowledge isn't something they just have. Seriously, out of everything else, I wish I could buy this knowledge for them, or give it to them like a vitamin every morning ensuring they were responsible people who were capable and able of great things. 

Bummer.

In the past we have been really, really bad at following through on chores and paying an allowance. We are sporadic at best, consistent never. As I look at how quickly my children are growing and they currently don't posses skills, in my opinion, they need to be moderately adjusted adults. Heck, I want them to be moderately adjusted people always, even teenagers. So... that means this summer became our responsibility training. For all of us. Me included. 

One of the reason Paul and I haven't jumped on the allowance band wagon is we were really struggling to figure our way through it. I am all about kids learning how to manage money and the easiest way to do that is by giving them a allowance. However, we also strongly believe that if you live in the house, then you are responsible to help out. No financial gain. You eat the food, you help clean up. You make the mess, you clean up. We are a team and it is not the responsibility of the parent to assume all of the chores and cleaning and organizing. This is unfair to the parent and most unfair to the kids who never learn how to take care of their things or themselves and live as a community or team.

Then there is the issue of being a team player, but also having some set chores that are elective in choosing to earn extra money. More than this is the fact that I want my kids to learn about volunteering their time without asking for money if they help weed the community garden.

With all of these issues, and the fact that I have a son who needs to know every little detail about every guideline so he can manipulate himself around it and find the loop hole, I decided to write down all of our chores along with our expectations. Gheezzz. it seems excessive, but there is small part of me that likes having it all spelled out on our door so that there is no question about what we expect. 

We broke it down into three different categories:

Family Chores: These you do because you are a part of this team and we live, work, and love together. Because we each take up space in this house, we each are expected to pull our weight in pitching in.

Allowance Chores: The kids have a daily chore they must accomplish without complaint. If they consistently complain, we can withhold payment. I HATE complaining. (Wait, I think I am complaining..)

Community Involvement: Much like our family chores, we live in this neighborhood and the garden and garbage walks help better our neighborhood. We do this because we have pride in where we live, and we want to do our part to take care of the place we live. We live by example. We do not get paid for volunteering. 

I am hoping this will clear up our confusion and expectations. That my kids can go to the board and know what to do. Starting this in the summer allows us time to teach them how to do these chores properly and allow them time for this schedule to become a habit before school starts. 

I will be honest. I am not super excited about all the time this will take on my end to teach them about saving money, how to manage it, and put some way for donating. Or the time it takes to teach them how to clean a bathroom or vacuum out a car. 

BUT...

I would really like to send equipped adults into the world. I want my sons and my daughter to show respect for their things, know how to clean, and have some organizational skills under their belt. More than that, I really want my children to have a healthy relationship with money. To learn how to save it for multiple purposed instead of spending it right away. To learn how to wait and save for the toy they really want, and not spend money they don't have.

Again, if there was a pill that I could give them that would this work for me, I would buy it in a second. I would even donate plasma to make sure we could afford it. Alas, it does not exist, and so our current future looks like we are learning how to be responsible.

Paul and I too, since we have to make sure we follow through and they learn these learn. 

Here is what our overall door looks like now. Meal schedule, daily check list to get screen time, and chores. Whew. Who has time to do chores when making all the signs took this long?

Midlife crisis at the ripe age of... 5.

Our Little was born at the stroke of midnight. We tell her she was born at this magical moment that stands in between time. The witching hour. I told her that every year on her birthday at the stroke of midnight, I come in and kiss her on her nose and say a prayer of thanks for her big beautiful life.

When she woke this morning, on her fifth birthday, she was immediately distraught. Her eyes accusing and her words laced with frustration as she yelled at me,

"I missed it! I missed my birthday! You didn't wake me. You were supposed to wake me!" 

In my most calming voice I said, "You didn't miss it. I kissed you and now its your birthday! We get to celebrate all day!"

She was not convinced as her eyes narrowed at me trying to decide if I was telling the truth. 

She left the room and then came back a moment later. The lines still formed on her face, the frustration still in her eyes, she scowled at me,

"I'M NOT FIVE! YOU SAID I WOULD BE FIVE, BUT I'M NOT. I'm still four! I weigh 40 lbs. I am supposed to be 50 but I am still 40. When do I turn five?"

Well, I never saw that loop hole coming, so I explained the difference between time and weight and how she has a whole year to gain her 10lbs. (I left out the part where we don't actually want to accomplish that every year. I figured baby steps were in order here.)

She was still not convinced. 

The weight thing came back to haunt us a few times today. Each time re-explaining that she can be 40lbs and five years old. I'm not sure where stand on that still. Hopefully the doctor tomorrow can explain it with words she will understand since mine clearly aren't working.

At nap time, I laid her down and she burst into tears. She has currently been obsessed with death. We passed a cemetery the other day and she asked about the grave stones and if people were laying in the ground. I told her their bodies were but their spirits weren't. Everything that makes them alive is still alive in heaven (I went for the easy answer, don't judge me) but it didn't work. She started crying her hysterical cry where you can't understand what she's saying because she is sobbing more than talking. So then I have to ask her a couple times to repeat it because I can't help if I can't understand. Then all of a sudden, the tears magically stop and she is calm so she can talk to me and then the out of no where the tears and sobbing are back. It's amazing to watch actually. I am convinced she has already taken acting classes without my knowledge. 

So she is currently terrified of being put in the ground. I mean, downright convinced that they will put her in the ground while she is still alive and the actual act of being buried is what is going to kill her. I understand, she's five, so it's child logic, I am just not really good at these things. Clearly, since in my effort to help her feel better about being buried alive, I actually said, "Well, you can be cremated instead."

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW! Now you can judge me. 

Ever have that moment where your mouth acts before your brain catches up? And it's like you experience the words for the first time as if they DIDN'T come from your head? Almost as if you were a whole other person in the car and you think, "How stupid are you that you just said that?" 

Yeah. I know. I get it. If there was one wrong move to make in this conversation, I just made it. "Sure little girl, if you don't want to buried alive, they can burn you to ashes instead." 

Way to go mom. There is no way you are winning "mom of the year" now! So much for talking frankly and honestly with our children. Maybe there should be some fine print in this manual that says, "Honest and truthful yes, but age appropriate critical." I think I missed that memo.

So, the wailing got worse. I actually rolled our windows up in the car because I was afraid someone was going to report me for child abuse if they heard her screaming. About an hour later after lots of consoling and trying to back pedal in the most tragic way, I didn't actually convince her that things look good when we die, I just tried to focus on the "Let's live and focus on having a life full of love and fun and family and friends... etc." She either started to listen to me or ran out of steam. I'm not sure which one.

So back to today at nap time.

I laid her down and all of a sudden she started the ugly cry again, (Yes, we all have one and even at age five, it's not pretty. It's actually comical and I have to try really hard not to laugh. One time in the midst of a melt down I excused myself to get her some tissues to help, and even though there were some in the room, I went to another room to get them so I could get my laughter out. I only wish I could secretly record for you. It's RIDICULOUS!) In between her sobs, she tells me,

"I don't want to die and be buried in the ground or burned! (sob) I want to go back to being little. Now that I am five (hiccup) I am big and I don't want to die. I want to be laid on the grass like a flower or be brought back to my bed. (sob) I don't want to be (hiccup) big."

Wow. 

And then at bedtime...

"I wish I was little still. (cry) When I was little, I could go with you everywhere. I have to (sob) go to school now and I am going to (hiccup) miss you. We do everything together and I am going to miss you. We are going to be lonely without each other. I don't want (cry) to die or get big or go to school without you."

So.. we clearly have some issues we need to work on over here. We have some anxiety, obviously, we have a strong fear of death (thanks to me) and we don't like change.

And you know the terrible part? She doesn't even start school for four more months!!! The really selfish and dark hole in my heart wants to scream, "Do I really have to do this all summer?!?!"

My small child thinks her life is over because she turned five today and only death and separation are in her future. Maybe I should make a dream and vision board with her. Find pictures of all the fun things we get to do in the next four months and in then in the next six. You know, give her something to look forward to so she doesn't think it's all down hill from here.

And the next time my child asks me about anything remotely life changing, I'm calling my mom.

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A Birthday Disaster

Let's take a minute, (or 10 since I have lots of words with this being my second cocktail and all tonight) and reflect on my weekend. 

We had a community garden tree planting event and two birthday parties to throw. It didn't sound too difficult.

Friday night Paul was out with a friend. so I did minimal cleaning to prepare for the party. By that I mean I put all the embarrassing things away, but let the vacuuming, sweeping and dishes get the best of me. I claimed I was inspired and wanted to write, so I headed to my room with my laptop in hand, settled into bed. I think I wrote four sentences, got distracted by Facebook and then fell asleep. 

Due to that great responsible move, Saturday morning left me hours behind in prep. While ignoring my kids plea for breakfast, I threw a load of laundry in, put clean dishes away and then realized I was supposed to make a gluten free pastry for our friends who were coming to help plant apple trees in the community garden. I hadn't even made Middle's birthday treat, so there was no way a breakfast pie was happening. At that moment of realization, our neighbors showed up with breakfast in hand to come help plant. I threw on the clothes that were heaped on the floor, because I had worn them yesterday and opened the door with a smile. Having no gluten free option available, I brought forth grapes, and then didn't even end up washing them, but had my neighbor do it. My patheticness took over in that moment. 

Once everyone was assembled, we went outside to plant and that's when we saw a crew of Whole Foods volunteers come to plant the trees that they donated to the garden. With more people than were necessary, we decided to move our effort to cleaning the garden, which turned out to be the smartest move I made all weekend, considering all the x-rated items and glass we pulled from the dirt. Don't want the kids finding those things!

After the cleaning and planting had commenced, it was time for a quick lunch and party prep. Oh yeah, I still hadn't made Middle's birthday treat or decorated. So as the clock struck 1pm and the first friend showed up while Paul and our oldest were putting up streamers. (The only reason we were doing that was because I bought special streamers for Little's birthday party the next day which ironically never went up and I didn't want Middle to think I would decorate for her and not for him. Got to have it fair and even right?) While the streamers went up, I was still mixing the ice cream that was supposed to be frozen over night. But me? Oh no, I was going to be serving it in exactly 1 1/2 hours. Yeah, I was winning over here. No birthday treat, (the ONLY thing we are serving mind you) the bathroom is disgusting, there is garden dirt all over our floors and that is when I realized that we don't have a birthday present for our daughter. Who we are celebrating. The. Very. Next. Day.

So... the first party has started, barely, and I sent my husband away to go buy the bike she was getting from her grandparents who live far away, and a special stuffed animal from us. I am left with the couple of friends who Middle invited, a few of the siblings who decided to stay and the neighborhood kids who joined us. Seriously, it was like I was standing in some weird multiplying machine. I had kids running around the house, running outside the house, and running in our neighbors yard. They were waving sticks and lightsabers and screaming and playing and fake dying all over the ground. I had coffee brewing, the phone started ringing, one kid came in and was bleeding and needed a band-aid, another one was crying, and Paul was texting me about help with what bike to get. I was four stimulations over my max. 

At this point, my dear friend showed up with her son and I clung to her like a life line. We were headed to the park! I had to do something. So for the next 45 min the kids ran and played at the park down the street, and I actually had a conversation with my friend. Once we made it home at the time when the party was ending, we sang Happy Birthday to Middle and we dished up the special ice cream fudge he picked. Izzy drinks were served, and spilled on the ground, presents were torn open, and parents were coming to get their kids, sadly observing the chaotic state in which we were currently existing. 

I am not kidding. At that moment, we had more people show up to the community garden next door to prep the land and get it ready for planting. My son invited those kids into the house because we were having a party, shared the drinks and dessert and we added a few more to the mix. I went outside to talk to Michael who is one of the leaders. His brother joined us and started an inappropriate relationship with my hand, as he wouldn't let it go and continued to bestow kiss after kiss with over indulgent compliments. Paul still isn't home, so I wasn't sure how to get myself out of this awkward conversation. Pulled my hand away, he took it back. Moved myself out of the conversation and he brought me back in. It was then our housemate Chad came home, saw my distress and rescued me. 

When Paul finally made it home to wrapping paper all over the floor, garden dirt smashed into the carpet, the sink full of dishes, the first thing he heard from our oldest was, "SOME GUY KISSED MOM AND I WANTED TO PUNCH HIM." Well, that needed some explaining to say the least. (It wan't kissing... it was my hand... it was innocent...it was awkward....we handled it...Your the only man for me.) Done. 

While making dinner, I decided to have a cocktail. I don't need a drink to relax, but it sure is nice once in awhile. Right after my vodka and OJ and Cranberry (don't judge, it was all we had) I realized that everyone was contained with a movie, the sun was shining and I was desperate for a run. I got changed, and was heading out at 730 before the sun set. Before I made it to the door, Paul grabbed my face in his hands and said to me, "Please be careful. You are going out at night and I need you to be aware and safe. Make smart choices and come back to us. I love you." 

Yes it sounded as final now as did to me in the moment. But living where we do in Minneapolis, he wasn't off base. His fear is founded and I was actually surprised he let me go. (That sounds bad, but I am hoping you know what I mean by it.) So I headed out and about five blocks into my run, my cocktail caught up to me. More than the extra weight I put on, that cocktail is what slowed me down and made my head fuzzy and giggly all at the same time. I thought to myself, I just left my house slightly buzzed (not being a regular drinker, apparently one cocktail will do that to you) going out for a run in a highly complicated and threatening neighborhood. 

Not. My. Best. Moment. 

I had a lot of revelations during that run. Many pondering's about fear and violence and culture and the ghetto that will end up in my next book, (It's name to be leaked later), but I made it home safe and sound, though albeit still a little foggy and completely exhausted. Paul was doing his workout and the kids were asleep so I laid down in bed to wait for him to be done and catch my breath. Apparently when my head hit the pillow, I was out. The next thing I know is that I woke with a start and it was 1145pm. I came out of the room, cold sweat chilled on my body, me still in my workout clothes, and Paul was sitting on the couch all showered and relaxing. I think what came out of his mouth as he looked at me was, "Nice nap? You are a big hot mess that passed out still in your workout clothes without even waking up." I think I glared at him then hopped in the shower for a quick rinse off and crawled back into bed.

Since for the second night in a row, I was apparently incapable of cleaning or joining the land of the living, I had to clean up from one party and prep for the next one all before church. With legos everywhere, the dishes still piled high, the bathroom still not clean, I figured the one thing I could do right today was getting Little's treat ready on time. (Middle's turned out more like soft fudge and not ice cream which worked just fine for the kids.) With some picking up done, breakfast only consisting of two spills, one of milk and one of cereal, we made it to church on time and back home in time for the party to start. 

We wanted to give Little her new bike before her friends showed up. Paul and I made a big deal about the reveal with our camera in hand and unveiling it with the lift of the garage. We were expecting joy, laughter, a squeal maybe.  We were so ready to capture this amazing moment. Her first real bike. All her own. She has been asking for one for over a year and now she got one. When the garage door lifted, we got nothing of what we expected. We literally got...NOTHING. She looked, she saw, she walked up to her bike and just looked at us. I think the word "cool" came out but I'm not sure. What I can say is she was unenthusiastic, unimpressed and the one thing we hoped for didn't happen. 

So while she starting riding her new bike, her three friends showed up and everyone started to play together. I was able to make the ice cream she requested, but I never got the decorations up, and half way through the party, I realized I never even changed the Happy Birthday banner. It still read Happy Birthday Caleb. At her party! After about 10 minutes in, Little started sobbing that her brothers were more fun than her and that her friends didn't want to play with her. She was the Birthday girl so she was supposed to be the favorite. 

I took my kids aside and had a talk. I thought it was all figured out. We separated out the girls and the boys were going to a park with Paul. We had five peaceful minutes, and then Little was crying again. I have no idea what set her off that time, but she came up to me and said, "Mama (hiccup) I need a moment alone (sob) with you to speak about a problem." How can an almost five year old talk like a refined old lady while in the midst of an epic melt down? This was number 2 of I don't know how many because I lost count of the number of melt downs she had. Her party was 2 hours long and she was actually only apart of it for about, oh, a whole 15 minutes. With Paul being gone now for the second party in a row, and me trying to hang with the 3 girls who were invited to this tragic party, all while Little still cried in my room, I went upstairs to elicit Chad's help in convincing Little to come out. 

While Chad was in the room with Little working his magic, the girls and I were playing with the farm animals. Somehow we got on the subject of "if the White and Black cows only gave milk and the Brown cows were for meat." We did some research and kept talking about cows and milk, and babies and feeding them, and milking them. Then questions were happening about other animals and babies and feedings and milk, and all of a sudden I realized I was sitting in my living room ready to deliver a reproduction speech to little girls that aren't mine! All I kept thinking was, "THIS IS NOT HAPPENING?!?!" My daughter is literally living  the mantra"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to" while I have other people's children asking me about milk and mommies and babies.

For the second time, of this backwards, upside down weekend, I found myself a little lost and completely unprepared. I have no problem talking about sex, or any issue with my kids. However, I kind of have this fear of other kids asking me questions like that, me explaining things in a matter of fact kind of way, and the child going home slightly traumatized as if I just told them Santa wasn't real and their parent coming and yelling me. So I get a little panicky when the topic turns personal with children who are not my own.

So I decided to distract them with ice cream and cookies. I know. Real mature.  

(Those are the two left over streamers from her brothers party, which she later pointed out where not the special colors she picked.  whoops.)

It was at that point we got Little out of the room, we sang happy birthday to her, dished up ice cream, the moms showed up to get their daughters. That was the moment Little noticed I hadn't changed the birthday sign and it didn't have her name on it. "I don't even get a sign with my name on it?" (tear)

Oh, epical hot mess this weekend.

I sat on the porch with my dear friend who's daughter was still here we shared a cocktail while we talked and the girls played nicely AFTER the party was over. 

So all in all, Middle was a screaming mess, Little was a crying mess, Paul got kicked out of both parties, and I clearly couldn't handle myself this weekend. My obvious coping mechanisms are a blinding light as indicators go.

Middle never figured out how to be quieter, Little, well, we are hoping and praying that the emotional tidal wave of today is not an indicator of her teenage years, though we know we are wrong, we are going to try to keep Paul around more, and  I switched to coffee.

If you made it this far, I am impressed. We should share a drink together. 

I mean get a coffee.

Or a glass of water. 

Bike earned life lessons

The kids and I went for a bike ride today and all of a sudden it was as if my real life collided with my big picture life in the span of a moment. And it happened over and over for the next 30 min.

My real life would be that this was the first time the kids and I biked this year and the rules are different now. Last year Little was still in a buggy attached to my bike and Middle was on the one wheel attachment with Paul. Big would ride in the pocket between us. Everyone was contained and we could keep our eyes on each of the kids. Paul led the way, I brought up the rear and we were all good. Contained. Dare I say, we were in control?

Then somehow this year, everyone got bigger. Older.  More grown up. Independent. And that means that life changes, rules are different. Little rides the one wheel attachment and both boys are free. It also means that we have the freedom to ride without Paul when he is at work. Our family dynamics have changed and we find that we are still a team but with different roles to play and different dynamics when we engage with one another. 

Life doesn't stand still. Families aren't imortalized. We grow, we learn, we gain wisdom and fall in foolishness. We are human living in a world that requries we keep moving forward.

In my real life, I hadn't ever ridden with the one wheel attachment. Fumbling our way through, I almost lost Little because I forgot that she could get on and off the bike. I realized I had to actually check to see if she was ready. Before, I would just put her in, pile in her books and snack and we were good. I could stop and start whenever I wanted. She was contained and under control. Now the girl has freedom. And I'm not gonna lie, its a little unnerving. So after I almost left without her, then almost dropped her because I wasn't used to her unbalanced weight, we slowly took off. 

That's when it hit me. I can't see my other two kids. I take the lead and they bike behind me. Not only are they biking behind me, because I am the one who sets the path, I actually have to trust my oldest to bring up the rear. Trust him. Trust that he knows the rules. Trust that he will be responsible. Trust that he will communicate when something is wrong and that he can recognize when that might be. That's when my heart start pounding and growing big with panic. 

Once that thought hit me, I realized Little and I were tipping. I am used to carrying dead weight on two wheels while she sits tucked in a sturdy buggy. With the one wheel attachment, she can pedal and lean and the whole bike shifts. And she's only almost five so when she leans and panics, that means she over corrects herself to not fall and screams and panics and yells at me that everything is horrible and she can't do and we need. to. stop. now.

So I say in my most calming, I am not stressed out voice, "Little we are OK. You have to trust me that I will keep us safe. We have to do this together. If you feel like we are going to fall, trust that I can keep us going. We are team now and we can do this together. "

Middle chimed in that Dad gave him the same speech when they biked that way too. 

As we biked along, I realized how quickly my children are growing up. How without even realizing it, they are learning things, growing in wisdom, and becoming real people. (Not that they weren't real before, but they becoming their own I guess in a way that I don't get to dictate or control.) 

Next year Little will be going to full day Kindergarten. I will have my days free to workI and volunteer and take care of my family on my own schedule. My children will be living their lives at school apart from me, learning and growing and I need to trust them. I also need to trust that we are doing our job and they are learning from us at home as well. 

Above all other growing pains I realized today, is that the rules are changing. They are getting bigger and even though they need to learn themselves in new ways, I need to relearn my role with them as well. So many pieces of their lives are out of my control and even though that truth has always been real, it is evident in more ways than our previous years of their young childhood. My role as their mother is not to see everything they do and control it, (though seriously I would beg for that to be the way because I have fiercely good ideas and have made so many mistakes, if they just did what I said, life would be so much easier for them.)

I ride along with them. I ride to encourage and guide back if they need it. I am there to tell them are OK. I am there to say, "You are not alone. If you need me, we got this." I am their support system. The place they fall back on because they overcorrected and made a mistake. 

As kids get older, their personalities and opinions change. They shape their own ideas. They gain independence even though we live as a unit, they need to live on their own two feet. The rules change and its important as parents that we let them learn what that means. But it also means that our role changes as well. I need to learn to trust them. I need to learn that my job isn't to control everything but to guide, support, love and help when they ask.

I was thankful today for the physical reminder of what is emotionally happening in our household. Our bike ride reminded me that even though I have been clutching to hold on, I need to let go a little bit and just hold my children and our relationship gently so they know they can trust me not to overcorrect them in my parenting. 

Our roles change as we grow. And as we grow, we change. I hope I can be patient with myself and my children as we figure out this space in our life. And if you find yourself in the midst of shifting roles and growing pains, I am with you. You are not alone.