An Open Letter to Kindness

This letter is written to my 2nd grade elementary school teacher. I have been intending to write her for years but have convinced myself to first attend to far less meaningful pursuits that have neither praised nor thanked the soul work of many wonderful people.

Let me preface by saying that I was perhaps a difficult child, full of vim and vigor. But I was lovable, dadgumit. Mom used to recount stories of teachers who after going over my academic performance for parent/teacher conferences would clear their throats and shift uncomfortably in their seat...

"Amanda, while being sweet and loving, tends to be a bit disruptive and... busy."

Translation:  "I've wanted to wail on your child but the law won't let me."

Paying attention to instructions or following directions were merely suggestions as I absorbed and dialoged with the world around me. This meant that at times, in my busy, confused little mind, I felt misunderstood by teachers.

But not by all, thankfully. 

To Kindness,

I have chided myself for not openly thanking others for the big and small ways they have enriched my life. It has been my intention for some time to recount for you a few memories from my early years in elementary school. Admittedly, some were spent in a corner and occasionally outside on the line but most of them were very fond memories of which you were most certainly a part of.

What I recall most vividly about you was your intangible kindness. We somehow believe that children are unable to fully understand the world around them in the way adults do, but speaking as a former child, I know that is not true. They just gather information differently. While critical thinking and a ready vocabulary in which to express themselves are years away, we absorb and thus process our environment by observation and by feeling. 

I knew that you loved me (us) in my core and sometimes in spite of it. You were patient. You allowed us to believe that you enjoyed us, even the naughty ones. 

As a 7 year old girl, "older" women (or ladies with pierced ears) were worthy of honor and deference in my book. You were one of them with your hair curled and smelling of baby powder. Top that off with the fact that you had swirly handwriting that I tried to imitate at home, my hand clutching a Husky pencil, tongue poking out the corner of my mouth in rapt concentration. And when you sang, you had a distinct vibrato which I also immitaed at home. In my closet. With my tape recorder unmercifully recording. 

At the end of the day, you were simply open to use your god-given gifts. We all have gifts, some more immediately consequential than others. The difference being that (little) people were being affirmed and approved of in such enriching ways. So much of life communicates the opposite: we are too much, too little, too insignificant to handle. That's why it's been nearly 30 years and I can still recall your influence in ways not shared with many others.

So, I thank you for this narrative, a loving narrative, a better narrative. 

With gratitude,

Amanda 

Hard

Motherhood is so many wonderful, soul-fulfilling things but sometimes it’s just hard.

I read over my two prior posts that showcased the wonder of it all, which all still exist. He is still doughy and spicy.

I adore him.

Still, I ask myself at least a few times a day, “Just why is this so hard”?

I’ve told my husband a few times, I think some women are born better mothers. It is baked into who they are as humans: patient, empathetic, selfless, and engaged. We’re honest if we admit not everyone has those qualities in equal measure. It is when you are squeezed of these so often day in and day out that you are confronted either by a wellspring or rung ragged and dry. Of course there are many more qualities that a good mother makes but those stand out as clear winners.

So there’s the personal component of it. But, I think there’s much more.

Loneliness. I rarely, if ever, have felt lonely. A qualified introvert, I find time to myself to be pleasurable and necessary. But the day in and day out of living life at home with a small soul with no vocabulary or hobbies makes conversing a one-sided affair and depleting. Conversely, having a pleasant conversation with a neighbor takes serious thought, much like I’m on a first date: look interested but not desperate.

I can remember watching my husband leave for work just two weeks after birthing a human into existence. I felt desperate, tired, alone. For the modern day mom, the message is clear from the start, “You’re on your own, Lady”.

Intellectually, it is much harder to keep up with the woman you once were when you were meeting deadlines, asking big questions and being asked big questions. A clear part of my mind has atrophied to be replaced by other homespun skills, whether they are touted as skills or not. This leads me into more subjective waters, waters in which I’m still trying to wade through and make sense of. That is a post for another day or another year as often as I update this blog.

What the culture, the church, and the Bible have to say about motherhood have been most recently at odds and sometimes it feels as if we (I) am the collateral damage, trying to find my way through what is real and true. Because truth is all I’m ever called to live for, in any and every season of life.