Tag: love

27 Jan 21 – Tonight was jam-packed

I made this for dinner tonight. It was delicious.

The 9yo did not think it was delicious. He also did not have the tools or capacity tonight to say it in a way that was kind. So, it was “gross,” “disgusting,” and “horrible.” I told him it was okay that he didn’t like the food, and that those words hurt my feelings.

And, then he was worried that I would get angry. “Now you’re not going to let me have any food. I am going to starve.”

black trash bin with full of trash
Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

Not getting any food if you don’t eat what’s for dinner is not a rule in our house. Everyone gets to always know they will be able to eat and no one in our family will ever go hungry.

He just couldn’t see it.

It took a few rounds and several minutes of him balled up on my lap hugging me before we got to the words he needed and thereby a bowl of cereal with bananas. We found the light and our way out.

Then.

Tucking in 11yo, I went to kiss her on her forehead and she moved her head forward. I saw stars and both lips were bloodied. I’m at the foot of the bed taking breaths, remaining calm, quietly saying, “Owwwww.”

She’s at the head of the bed, holding her forehead, ramping up because she’s scared I’m mad at her.

I cannot talk because my mouth hurts.

I pull myself together and hug her. “What do you have in your head that makes it so hard?” I ask in an exaggerated voice. It is enough to tease out a giggle. Light and our way out.

After books and rubbing her back, I get up to go.

“Hey, Zac!”

This is our ritual. She’s trying to find something to hold on to the day, the ritual, the time together. Some nights, the “Hey, Zac!” gets out before she’s thought of what she’s going to say or ask, and I stand in the doorway waiting. Tonight there’s no wait.

11yo: Hey, Zac!

Me: Yes, love?

11yo: You are the best dad ever.

Me: You are the best daughter ever.

11yo: Love you. Goodnight.

We find the light and our way out.

Come on in; are you hungry?

A cookie tin sits on my counter. There’s a cartoonish Santa face on the lid. Inside are what you might call sugar cookies. I would be quick to correct you. These are grandma cookies, and a freshly-filled tin of them has traveled home with me from celebrating Christmas with my family for as long as I have lived outside of the city limits of my hometown.

When I was younger, my gramma asked if I wanted to help her make the Christmas cookies. Mind you, this was sometime in the Fall, so my tiny self thought she was joking. Not one for abject silliness, my gramma explained that she made the cookies in the Fall so she could have them ready during Christmastime and be a little more available to be with our family. That was the first important lesson I learned that day.

The other began with the words, “Where do you think you’re going?” It turns out, you’re not done baking cookies in my grandmother’s kitchen until the kitchen has been returned to it’s pre-cookie state. To the dismay of my tiny self, this meant washing bowls, spoons, pans, and other paraphernalia. Cookies aren’t all fun and games.

There’s the tradition – cooking. The whole process, from start to finish, of preparing nourishment for those we love is something I know other families share on a regular basis. At the same time, it feels unique to mine. From my gramma’s Christmas cookies to my mom’s potato soup that serves up much larger than anyone should expect its half dozen ingredients to be able to do, cooking, feeding, sharing a meal with those I love is a tradition I can’t shake.

To feed another is not only to say, “Here’s something to eat,” it is also to give of your time, to share in your skills, and to welcome the cleaning and tidying up these meals can necessitate because these people are worth it.

When I was in undergrad, living in a squalid and terrifyingly over-priced apartment, I invited my friends over for a full-on four course meal at the center of which was served a rack of lamb. Nevermind my vegetarianism and completely disinterest in consuming what I’d cooked. I’d heard it was difficult and fancy. That seemed like a great place to start in showing my friends how much they meant to me. I cannot remember how the lamb turned out. I can picture everyone sitting around the coffee table on suspect carpet, eagerly sharing the meal and ridiculous stories served on paper plates.

This post is part of a daily conversation between Ben Wilkoff and me. Each day Ben and I post a question to each other and then respond to one another. You can follow the questions and respond via Twitter at #LifeWideLearning16.

Things I Know 6 of 365: I am loved

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.

– Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

I’ve always known I’m loved.

Always.

Though my parents divorced when I was very young and I’ve never seen their relationship toward one another as a warm one, I was always neutral territory.

For all they disagreed on, they agreed on loving me.

Writing those words seems silly to me.

Of course I was loved. Of course my parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles told me.

And yet, in movies and books, there are moments of revelation where the protagonist’s mother or father (usually father) says, “I love you,” and the protagonist admits it’s the first time this has occurred.

I’ve read or watched more of these moments than I know.

Not until recently, did it strike me that this might not be a fictional device akin to time travel or a cloak of invisibility.

There are children who never actually hear their families tell them they are loved.

Odds are I teach some of them.

Certainly, I could assuage the sadness of this statement by telling myself these children are shown they are loved.

It’s not the same.

My grandmother was showing me she loved me when she read me just one more story at bedtime. The act was exponentially magnified, however, when she said, “And I will always love you – no matter what.”

I knew it was true the way I knew it was true when any other adult in my family admitted I was the recipient of their unconditional love.

Without doubt, it built me to the person I am today.

Because this is my paradigm, I am still struggling with the idea any adult could resist telling the children in their care how much they love them.

I get to spend only an hour with these kids and cannot help but wonder at who they are and all they can do. I can’t imagine how anyone could be keeping their love for these people to themselves.

If any children, no matter how old, doubt they are loved, I want to believe that some adult will intervene and tell them the truth that has been so often told to me.

Would you do that, please?