Draft 2021

So I came across a piece of writing a few weeks ago that upset me quite a bit. Someone was extolling his at-home do-it-yourself treatment of his child's near-crippling anxiety disorder and declared it a success. Apparently it was successful primarily because this was "accomplished' without "labeling" the child with an official diagnosis. The parent read a bunch of books on OCD and anxiety and used the cognitive behavioral therapy techniques described in them. I just don't get this whole idea that a diagnosis equals a "label" of some sort that is harmful to the child. Any diagnosis I've ever received, for myself or for my children, has been a huge relief. A relief, that is, coupled with appropriate medical care. No one worries about "labeling" a child with diabetes, or a a birth defect, or any of potentially thousands of other diseases or genetic conditions. What makes a diagnosis of mental illness or learning disability somehow detrime

Yesterday I was reminded of one of my mothering failures. I saw a photo of a mom baby-wearing not just one of her children, but two. One in front, one in back. Holy cow! Talk about Supermom. This amazingly beautiful photo took me way back to my early years of motherhood. A little more than 26 years ago, my second son was born. He was a sturdy little guy, weighing 8 lbs.13 ounces at birth. He was in the 99th percentile for height and weight all through his infancy, quite a change from my firstborn who was always 99th percentile for height but barely made it to 50th percentile for weight. I remember dressing my second-born in his brother's hand-me-downs and not being able to snap the top snaps! So, as the mother of a toddler (2 years old) and an infant, I figured I'd give baby-wearing a try. I bought a sling, of sorts, but couldn't get the hang of it - and Zachary hated it! We also had a backpack-type carrier my sister had given us, so one day I decided to try it out on our d

All throughout the day I have bathed in the heady scent of lilacs. The large lilac bushes - the ones with the enormous flower heads - are done for the season, but the bushes with smaller clusters of blooms are still in full flower The first wave of scent caressed my awakening, carried in by the cool breeze of a May rainstorm. Eau de lilacs enveloped me in a gentle cloud of fragrance. I took a moment to inhale the bouquet of spring along with the sharply brazen smell of coffee. As I let the dogs into the yard, another whiff of lilacs lured me to the porch, where I spent a moment inhaling the beauty before me; purple iris a riot of color in my not-yet-weeded flower beds, and glorious shades of hostas - from palest yellow-green, through stripes of white, to darkest blue green leaves, a lush study in monochrome. Later, as I waste time on my computer instead of preparing for a class, lilacs' sweet aroma circles my senses, bringing me back to the task at hand. A trip to the library and m

Last year I wrote a happiness plan. Then life got in the way. I recently mentioned this in a small group and someone commented, “I hate when life gets in the way of happiness.” My first reaction was agreement, but then I realized this wasn’t quite what I had meant. While upheavals in my children's lives derailed that particular plan, I’m not sure that my happiness was completely quashed. Oh, I definitely wasn’t happy as first one child, then another, then another, had major mental health crises. In fact, their dips into major depression and anxiety took me to the precipice of my own mental well-being. But these were just circumstances; events that have been an all too frequent part of my life since my children's illnesses became apparent. And before that, I had my own struggles with depression and anxiety. And while the pain of watching my children's suffering is excruciating, somehow I’ve learned to maintain my own core of contentment. I hope this doesn’t sound crass or la

I stood in the open doorway; most of the furniture was already gone. Just a smattering of cat toys and miscellaneous socks littered the floor. It was just a little more than a year ago that we repainted her room - a surprise for her return from abroad. Now she’s leaving in a week - first apartment, first professional job, first time that home will have a different meaning for her. But the room looks so empty. We have plans for the space - a computer desk for my husband, an out-of-the-way place for the exercise bike. It will be ours from now on; she’ll only be coming home to visit. The cats will have to adjust to having just me; only one lap, one person to exclaim over their antics. My son busily sorts through his papers, packs books and miscellaneous keepsakes to be stored in our basement. He has lived away before, but now he’s leaving for a grad program in a different state. No more random coffee cups left on end tables, giant shoes cluttering the entryway; one less person coming and

Where do I begin? You are my life­ partner, my one and only love, the man with whom I ­- we - ­ have created our amazing family. Most of the time I recognize that I have been a good mother. Motherhood for me has seemed a kind of calling; ­ the one thing I knew I could do and do well ­ and enjoy more than any endeavor I have ever undertaken. But without you, my love, I could not have been the good mother I have been. You have supported me without fail, always ready to help or take over, regardless of how tired you might be after a long day in the field or exhausted from weeks of traveling. One regret I have (though not the only one) is that I didn’t adequately show you what a wonderful father and life ­mate you are. All those years of sharing the feedings, bathing the babies and children, taking over when you got home, reading, story­telling, holding, laughing, loving our children without fail,­ all those things you did from your never ending well of lo