Down by the River

It was beautiful fall day in Minneapolis. Soon, it will be cold and the ground will be covered in snow. We'll all be bundled in coats and scarves and hats and mittens, lumbering about in our heavy boots. Days like today are to be treasured so we went for a walk down by the river with our friends.

We arrived, found a place to park and stood by the car waiting to cross the street. I wrapped my left arm around Miguel's waist, grabbed his hand and began to dance. He laughed low and quiet, the way I imagine he'll laugh when he's a teenager or even a grown man. He said, "No waltzing in public, mom." I pulled back, "No?" He smiled and said, "Just about anything but waltzing." Anything but waltzing turned into a faux sword fight with sticks we found.

Once our friends arrived, the adults took off down the path and the kids lagged behind, exploring and climbing trees. They were never really with us - always doing their own thing. They do that more and more; They need us less and less.

I kept my eyes on them, not because they needed me to but because I needed to do it. I needed to feel that they were all within my reach when more and more they are just beyond it. When we reached the river, we stopped and turned around and watched them in the distance, all three kids straddling a fallen tree and talking animatedly to each other while we sat on another fallen tree and talked and took silly pictures of each other. Parallels.

We walked away from the river and into the woods and came to a small stream with muddy banks. I yelled back to the kids, "Don't get muddy!" Miguel called for me and I turned to find him standing with his toes on the very edge of the muddy bank, smirking at me. I watched as he jumped across the stream, watched as his shoes slid in the mud and he laughed as he ran to catch up to me.

"You got mud on your shoes. You are in big trouble, kid."

He shrugged before bumping me lightly with his shoulder, "Yeah, yeah, mom."

I watched him walk away like I was seeing him for the first time.

I don't know how many more days like this we have...days filled with sun, days of sword fighting with sticks. Time is taking us ever forward from fall to winter, from our kids' childhood to something beyond.

Girls with Guitars

I was 8 years old when I started taking guitar lessons. I had been asking for lessons for at least a year before that but my mother didn't give in until she was convinced I was serious about it. I'm not sure what finally convinced her but she found a teacher for me and I took private lessons for 8 years. In my more dramatic moments, I am convinced that music saved me. Not only was I able to pour all of my emotion and confusion and fear into writing and playing but my teacher was a consistent, calm presence in my life. In my less dramatic moments, I am simply thankful that I have a party trick.

A couple years ago, Miguel asked to learn the guitar and we bought him a guitar and I gave him a few lessons but it became clear pretty quickly that he wasn't going to stick with it. I suppose this is why my mom waited until she was sure that I would.

Zeca started asking for guitar lessons when she was 6 but we waited until late this past Spring before we arranged lessons for her. She is 7, a year younger than I was when I started, and I can already see how much it means to her to create something of her own with music. I hope that she continues to play and hope that it will provide her with the same solace and joy that it has always given me.

Tonight, we attended her first recital. She was the youngest student and the only one to play an original piece. You can't see her very well in the video but you can hear her. So, this is Zeca playing "Rain in June":

http://youtu.be/8ElhIClKIKM

Braver Than You Believe

Tonight, as Zeca and I cuddled at bedtime, she told me all the gossip from her second grade class - who wasn't speaking to whom, who was on a power trip, who had been cruel. Her stories of elementary school drama are always my favorite. They are a peek into her world and a glimpse of my own distant past. At some point, she began to talk about friendship and said that she wished that she had more friends. I told her what I always tell her - that kindness and compassion will lead to friendship. She nodded and told me that she had been working on that and that she was happy to have more friends this year than last.

I kissed her on the head and held her closer. We were both quiet for a few minutes and then she said, "It's hard to be different."

It was one of those moments that we all have as parents, a moment when your child is struggling and there is nothing you can do to take the burden from them. I can't change the world right now so that it is easier for her.

But I do know a little bit about being different so I told her that it is hard but it gets easier, that you find people in the world that understand you and even love you just because of your difference. She cuddled closer and said, "I know, mama."

As a kid, I always felt like I was different but I didn't always look and act like I was. In elementary school, I grew out my hair to look like the other girls. In junior high and high school, I tried to dress like everyone else and pored over Teen Beat Magazine even though I didn't feel quite the same excitement about Rob Lowe as the other girls did.

The point is that I did my best to conform.

Last summer, Zeca told me that sometimes she gets tired of being different and thinks about growing out her hair and going back to wearing dresses. She said, "It would be so much easier." I said, "I'll support whatever decision you make about the way you look." She said, "It would be easier...but it wouldn't be me."

Thinking about the conversation we had tonight, I realized there was something else I should have told her. I should have told her that she is probably the bravest kid I know.

It is hard to be different.

It's even harder to own it at 7.

*The title of this post was taken from Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne: "You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think."