Dreaming of Ukuleles

“You are the author of your own life.”

This is the first line of a birthday card I received from my wonderful parents. 

Now that I am fully entrenched in the thirties and have started a new chapter in life, this sentence means more to me.  We each have a story to tell and to write.  And it needs to be told while we are still living it. 

We may feel unprepared to give our feedback on life and want to withdraw to the background and let someone else do the talking.  But, we need to grab life’s moments when they come and tell our stories.  The mistakes are as crucial to the story as the successes.  Why do we hide from our own story?  Why do we let someone else take our pen? 

“No one else can know the dreams you dream or the strengths you have within you that will help you make your dreams come true.” 

Another truth that rings true.  When I was a child, my dreams were so clear and distinct.  You didn’t doubt that they would all come true.  As an adult, life gets messy.  Choices become less clear.  Decisions become more difficult.  And dreams take the backseat to reality.  A dream is saddled with consequences and concrete choices.    

My son told me today one of his dreams.  “When I grow up, I’m going to play the ukulele.”  This came out of thin air and I asked him why.  “Mr. Ketterman has one.  He’s my favorite teacher.”  This same teacher taught him the song he endlessly sings entitled, “Joe and the Button Factory.” 

I know why he has this aspiration.  He sees his teacher who loves music and breathes it into life for his little pupils and helps them dream.  He listens to the little voice inside his heart.  He doesn’t care about the consequences or method to get there.    

I had teachers who inspired me to dream and think beyond everyday life.  But, when we grow up and become thirty or forty or fifty somethings, we look back and wonder what happened to our purity of a dream.  What happened to the crystal clear little voice inside our heart that told us what we liked, disliked, how we felt, and what we wanted to do with our lives. 

It’s like we set down the pen and start letting others write our story for us. 

My son just started to learn to write in Kindergarten.  I was surprised that they were teaching this so early in school.  They weren’t worried about misspelled words or grammar mistakes.  They concentrated on getting the six year olds to write a complete thought down on paper.  What did they want to say?  What kind of opinion or question about the world did they have?  What was their story so far. 

They were taught to write the first and last letter correctly, use the proper punctuation, and spell the rest phonetically.  Amazingly, with this limited skillset, I could understand what my son was trying to convey. 

This way of writing is a lot like life.  We don’t have to get everything spelled correctly.  We don’t have to know every letter before we write the word.  But, we have to start writing.  If we get caught up in the mechanics of writing, just like in life, we will never start telling our story.  Getting the beginning letter and the last letter right is the important part. 

My son doesn’t care about his mistakes.  He cares that I can understand what he was saying.  Just like in life, the mechanics are not as important as the meaning.  Sometimes, we lose sight of our dreams and the real story we want to live and only see the spelling errors and grammatical mistakes.  But, we can have a perfectly crafted paper without a story.

Just like my son, who’s not afraid to write on anything, I want to start writing again.  We each have new chapters in life and it’s up to us to fill them with what we want.    

Milestones and Light Up Shoes

This week I turn thirty… devastating right?  I am supposed to have everything figured out at thirty.  And I’ve only just begun.  Certain things change at thirty.  The question, “How old are you?” used to be just a question.  Now it seems like a probing invasion of privacy. 

People have different opinions about this age.  Some tell me it’s when life really starts and you start figured out who you are as a person, what you are good at, what you look good in, and what you really don’t like but used to pretend you liked when you were in your twenties.  Others pronounce that it just plain sucks.    

I’m trying to take the milestone in stride, but I have never pondered over a birthday so much.  It’s a symbolic age I think… three decades.  The end of the twenties.  The beginning of the thirties, middle age...If life was a NASCAR race, I feel like the thirties would be when the flags wave and the race officially begins.  Now we see what we are really made of. 

To calm my concerns, I went shoe shopping.  It’s a motto the women in my family live by.  When in doubt ….about whether the progress you’ve made so far in your life, career, family, and charity work measures up to what a thirty year old should be accountable for… buy shoes!  Or, shortly put, “When in doubt, buy shoes.”    

While browsing, I found some sensible shoes for my son, whose current Sketchers he has beaten to a pulp.  But, he insisted I buy him these rather ugly, silly-looking-light-up shoes with a character called “Illimunator” on the top.  “Tyler, do you even know who the Illuminator is?”  I try to reason with him in the aisle at Shoe Carnival.  I see now why they call it a “carnival.” 

He solemnly nods his head.  I’m skeptical.  I’ve seen that poker face before.  “No you don’t.  You just want shoes that light up.”  “Puhlease mom….”  He stomps his foot.  We both look down.  And his face lights up along with his shoe.  He is in love with this character, who turns green every time he lights up.  They look like alien shoes, and I’m not a fan.  “They are cool mom!”  I’m unconvinced and look at my sensible and darling shoes in my hand.  “You don’t like these?” and I hold them out.  Practical, stylish, preppy, but no alien lights. 

Now he gives me the fake lost puppy face.  Why, oh why, did I bring him.  I start to cave, like any good mother should, right?  Wrong!  (I’ve got to work on this in my thirties.)  He is entranced with these silly shoes.  And I look at the bright side.  Maybe the “Illuminator” will have special powers that will keep him on the right path and out of trouble.

After checking out with alien shoes in hand and a very happy six-year old, I think maybe I need my own pair of Illiminator shoes… to show me the way into my thirties.  Maybe that’s why this birthday is giving me so much to think about.  I need a character that lights up my every step and illuminates the way to go. 

At thirty, you hope that you are on the right path and taking the right journey.  You have new paths you want to try, but are they going to be the right ones?  You have more responsibility now.  You have more people to think about.  But, no one is there to tell you exactly where to go. 

Getting older might have an advantage I didn’t thing about.  My son’s shoes are the new symbol of my thirties.  Maybe, we become our own “Illuminators” and shed light on problems we couldn’t fix in our twenties.  I should buy another pair (the shelves were stocked full of the ugly things), put it in a shadow box, shine a light on it, and hang it on my wall as a reminder of how great my thirties are going to be.  Lighting up the right path is all I need, and maybe, just maybe this happens from within.      

Let the Games Begin!

After work, I try to get to the gym occasionally.  The one bright light of this ambitious endeavor is that my son loves the daycare at the gym.  So when I ask, “Tyler, do you want to go the gym?” secretly hoping he will complain and want to go home, he enthusiastically shouts, “Yeah!  The gym!”  Never fails. 

While I’m dragging myself to the front door, he is bee bopping around, half running, half skipping.  We see the large motivational signs with gold letters that declare, “Change Your Body.  Change Your Life” or “The First Step is Being Here” at the entrance. 

My son has to ask, “What does that say?”  And I mumble, “Change Your Body.  Change Your Life.”  He gets excited, “Mom, ‘life’ is one of my high frequency words at school!”  He is way more eager for this excursion that I am. 

We enter Kid’s Club, and he quickly discards his coat in the bin, surveys the play area, spots his diehard friends and states loudly to anyone who will listen, “Let the Games Begin!” 

My son could be the poster child of Gold’s Gym.  The kids yell back, “Tyler’s here!”  He is literally a hero in the world of Kid’s Club and it dawns on me why he likes it so much.  Here, he is in charge.  He makes the games, referees the games, and gets to be the star.  He embodies each of the sayings on the posters, wall, floor, bathroom stall.  (Yes, the obnoxious signs are everywhere.)  “Dream Big.  Think Big.”  “Rise to the Top” “Never Give Up.”  “Go to the Edge.”  “Push Yourself.”

I marvel at how a six year old can personify these saying naturally, when we adults need an entire building of loud music, neon signs, personal trainers, workout videos, and a membership we pay for monthly to attempt to internalize the positive sayings.  And while these signs are motivational gimmicks, my son really means it.  “Let the games begin!” 

In many ways, life can be like this gym if we let it.  It can be so filled with external stimuli that it fails to be authentic and real.  We can lose the unction to shout to our friends a rallying cry of self-confidence and perseverance.  We weigh ourselves against other’s expectations to see if we measure up.  There are scales everywhere, in fact.  We get dizzy with the numbers and goals and BMIs to reach.  We try to stuff as many mantras, rules, regulations, and measurements into our lives to become better equipped that we forget the most important equipment – drive and instinct.    

My son came fully equipped for the gym.  All he had to do was lose the extra weight in his jacket.  I sign him in and sign him out and in that 45 minutes he is king of Kid’s Club.  But, he has the confidence and direction that the other kids adore.  He lives in the moment and relies on his instinct and drive. 

Instead of dragging through life, I want to “lose the weight” and be more like my energized trailblazer.  While I may not be quite as charismatic to be “king of Kid’s Club” I could definitely stand to lose a few of the regulations and self imposed doubts that weigh me down. 

So, say it with me.  Determine to “Let the Games Begin!”  

International Working Women's Day - Happy Anniversary!

Did you know that two days ago on March 8th marked the 100th anniversary of the International Working Women's Day?  I had no idea this day even existed!!  I heard this on the radio on the way to work Tuesday and thought of all of you.  So happy anniverary! 

The movement started in 1909 when a group of garment workers in New York went on strike because of the inhumane sweatshop conditions.  In the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, five hundred women bent over sewing machines churning out tailored shirts with poor lighting, long hours, and low wages.  They were paid per garment and even the fastest seamstresses could barely bring home 4 dollars a week in a 6 or 7 day work week.  Their male bosses watched over their shoulders, timed their restroom breaks and hung up signs that read, "If you don't come in on Sunday, don't come in on Monday." 

On March 25, 1911, this factory became the catalyst for change after 146 women died tragically from a sudden fire that broke out on the top three floors.  It was an avoidable tragedy that helped raise awareness for the need for labor unions and safety regulations.  It also sealed this day in history as the beginning of the International Working Women's Day. 

Now my week doesn't seem so bad.  I was going to complain about my week and how unusually long, annoyingly cold, and uncharacteristically boring it has been, but I think I'll hold back.  Or rather, I think I would rather reflect on the extraordinary women who helped create better rights, equality, and conditions for women all over the world. 

I was also going to complain about my experience with the YMCA after school care worker.  Today, I picked up my son five minutes late.  It's a dollar a minute when you're late.  He was the only one left and I was running in heels trying to get him before the clock hit 6:06.  "Sorry I'm late, I panted as I ran into the cafeteria."  Poor Tyler was sitting their patiently and alone, waiting, and I felt like a horrible mom.  And I replied again, "Sorry, the traffic... and I had a meeting that went long." 

But the woman in charge, whom I'm not overly fond of, just handed me my late fee and smartly replied, "When you're going to be late, you could just call us to let us know..."  I wanted to retort that if she was one tenth as busy as I  was and could hold down a real job that required more of a skillset than clutching a clipboard, she could voice her opinion then.  But, I didn't.  I bit my tongue, smiled and signed the receipt.  She also gave me a YMCA comment form where we could describe our experience with the program and its needs for improvement, so sweet justice!! I'll put that comment form to good use. 

I was going to complain about this, but I think I'll hold back.  It seems oddly trivial when you backdrop it to the struggles women have had over the past one hundred years.  I'm not sweating profusely over a sewing machine with a male chovinist overbearing boss telling me when I can and cannot pee.  So, I think I should refrain from complaining about the persnickety part time worker at my son's school.

I'm proud to celebrate this anniversary with you all and want to congratulate you on being a part of a great movement.  Look how far we have come!  I had no idea just how far it actually is, and I look forward to what we can accomplish in the next one hundred years!!