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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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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