...You're saying no to something else.
Easy concept, right? So why has it taken me darned near fifty years to figure it out?
We're looking at moving to a better school district for our kids. Problem is, I really enjoy my corner of the planet: The Writer's Barn, my garden, my manicured horse pastures and lawn. Yes, we're fifteen miles from decent shopping and forty minutes away from my middle kid's school. But it's quiet out here. In the spring, we're visited by rabbits, bobcats, and the occasional deer. In Summer, we sit on our back patio every evening and watch fireflies while our kids prowl the woods behind our property. Every Fall, I mulch my garden and vow to do a better job pulling weeds next season.
So why do I bitch--daily--about the drive?
Maybe because I haven't truly grasped the concept that when I say yes to one thing, I'm voluntarily saying no to something else.
For a control freak like me, taking ANY option off the table is the worst kind of torture. I hate to hear no, and my coping mechanism is to 'find a way,' which works about a well as you'd expect.
For example, when we built this house, I didn't want to waste money on rent. We sold our house in town, I found an RV, and for eight months we camped; me, my husband, our infant son, and our seventy-pound dog. But RVs decline in value. Propane is expensive. And weathering an Oklahoma storm season in a fifth-wheel trailer with a baby and a thunder-shy Doberman will cure you of the camping bug. Forever.
But I face the same problem with every situation. When I decide to write a thriller about the guy whose former girlfriend wants him to help find her low-life husband, I'm saying no the other dozen stories residing in my outlines folder.
When I say yes to being out of debt, I'm saying no to a new car, and when I say yes to a writing retreat, I'm saying no to being debt-free sooner. When I say yes to living in the country, I'm saying no to low gas bills and short drive times and great schools.
In the end, if I wind up saying yes to city living, it means saying no to The Writer's Barn, to my garden and visiting wildlife; saying no to my manicured horse pastures and lawns, to my fireflies and peaceful mornings. It means saying no to rototilling, to watching my tulips bloom, to harvesting peaches from the trees I've planted. And that makes me sad.
So, I suspect this will be a year of Trying to Find A Way. This time I plan to do better with praying for help, trusting the universe, and accepting the results.
Hopefully my solution won't involve anything that remotely resembles camping.
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Abyss
Our tiny rural school lost one of its own last weekend.
His name was Austin. A good kid. Well-liked and from a nice family, he'd seemed as healthy as any seventh grader on the playground. Third-hand accounts are always suspect, but apparently he'd been running, went for a drink of water, and collapsed.
His older brother was with him the whole time.
So this morning I looked at our little family, at our three-plus-one* children, and thought about all the precautions we take to keep them safe. The healthy food, early bedtimes and limited electronics, the visits to the doctor and dentist. I thought about teacher conferences and late-night parent strategy sessions and how we've chosen where we live based on the quality of schools. How every life choice starts with them.
And then I thought about the tears, the joys, and the tiny insistent worry that never goes away--that your kid will be the one struck by lightning. That you'll be the parent forced to grieve.
To say it's a nightmare is a poor cliché.
To say you'd never truly be happy again probably gets close.
We've known other families who lost children. At the funeral of their four-year-old daughter, my college friends talked about their precious girl, trying to describe her quirks and endearing qualities for those who'd never met her.
Our daughter was the same age. I remember listening to them, sobbing, wondering how anyone could really know our sweet child without having been there the Christmas she stepped into three-inch Barbie heels and chased her brothers around the living room. Without knowing she always puts on her best velvet dress to play in the sand pile, and that she likes to snuggle after her bath.
Who could truly appreciate our beautiful daughter when her daddy's the only one who saw the camel she drew last week during church...and the only one who heard her giggle through the service because she'd drawn a pile of manure behind it?
No-one loves our children like we do because no-one knows them like we do.
And no photos, no stories can truly describe them.
Maybe that's the real tragedy of a lost child. That the treasure we've held and cherished and looked forward to presenting to the world will forever be known only to us.
My friends buried their daughter six years ago. And they do have good times. They celebrate and laugh and enjoy their growing family. But when anniversaries roll around--their daughter's birthday, the day she passed--you sense the deep, painful abyss in their lives.
And so, like this weekend, when other parents lose a beloved child the rest of us can only swallow the lumps in our throats and try to listen to the stories they tell about their sons and daughters...
...and then go home and hug our own.
-T
*We're blessed to have a friend staying with us. She won't understand how much joy she adds until she has children of her own.
His name was Austin. A good kid. Well-liked and from a nice family, he'd seemed as healthy as any seventh grader on the playground. Third-hand accounts are always suspect, but apparently he'd been running, went for a drink of water, and collapsed.
His older brother was with him the whole time.
Photo Credit: http://www.billemory.com/2006/02/time-to-die.html
And then I thought about the tears, the joys, and the tiny insistent worry that never goes away--that your kid will be the one struck by lightning. That you'll be the parent forced to grieve.
To say it's a nightmare is a poor cliché.
To say you'd never truly be happy again probably gets close.
We've known other families who lost children. At the funeral of their four-year-old daughter, my college friends talked about their precious girl, trying to describe her quirks and endearing qualities for those who'd never met her.
Our daughter was the same age. I remember listening to them, sobbing, wondering how anyone could really know our sweet child without having been there the Christmas she stepped into three-inch Barbie heels and chased her brothers around the living room. Without knowing she always puts on her best velvet dress to play in the sand pile, and that she likes to snuggle after her bath.
Who could truly appreciate our beautiful daughter when her daddy's the only one who saw the camel she drew last week during church...and the only one who heard her giggle through the service because she'd drawn a pile of manure behind it?
No-one loves our children like we do because no-one knows them like we do.
And no photos, no stories can truly describe them.
Maybe that's the real tragedy of a lost child. That the treasure we've held and cherished and looked forward to presenting to the world will forever be known only to us.
My friends buried their daughter six years ago. And they do have good times. They celebrate and laugh and enjoy their growing family. But when anniversaries roll around--their daughter's birthday, the day she passed--you sense the deep, painful abyss in their lives.
And so, like this weekend, when other parents lose a beloved child the rest of us can only swallow the lumps in our throats and try to listen to the stories they tell about their sons and daughters...
...and then go home and hug our own.
-T
*We're blessed to have a friend staying with us. She won't understand how much joy she adds until she has children of her own.
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