Post 44 | Grief Is a Swear Word

"but I got a girl in the war, paul, the only thing i know to do 
s turn up the music, and pray that she makes it through"
josh ritter -- girl in the war

Grieving a significant loss is a platypus of a creature: a weird, nasty, vicious little animal who "delivers a venom capable of causing severe pain."  The confusion is exhausting and the indefinite lack of normal is haunting.  Or, wait.  Realizing this is the new normal is haunting.  For example, I am the sort of person who bcomes extremely distant when I feel pressured.  I'm not a people-pleaser, and I am not organized.  I'm not naturally administrative or great at following-up with people.  So when I get e-mails or texts that require me to respond -- especially if the same person texts a few times because I didn't answer -- I feel pressure, and like I'm a failure, and like I want to ignore everything.  Now, I'm literally talking about normal texts from my best friends.  Or incredibly sweet e-mails from dear people who are voicing their support and care.  That's what is confusing about grief.  I don't know why I feel stress, but I do.  It makes me nervous and I'm not (in my old-normal world, at least) like that.  

But on the flip, if I don't hear from people?  If I go a few days without any communication, "I'm thinking about you!," "Praying for you!," "You are loved!" messages, I feel depressingly alone.  People are forgetting already.  It's only been three months.  It hasn't even been three months!  Their lives have moved on.  That is the exhausting part.  Two complete opposite reactions.  It's a lose-lose.  Anxiety or loneliness?  Pick your poison, Kristen.  Life is a constant state of feeling green.  Not eco-friendly but ill.  

It's the small things that snap you in the butt.  Rowdy laughing so hard at his toes.  Wiggling them, 'chasing' them down, grabbing them like he just caught a jack-rabbit: hysterical laughter.  Immediate thought: I have to show mom.  Pulls out phone to take a video. Can't show mom. This sucks. Crying. Don't even take video since I can't show mom.  Continue on.  Regret not getting a video of my son.  Guilty for being a dumb mom.  Frustrated with myself.  Really just want to call mom.

One day as I happily packing up the bikes for a day in the sun my phone rings once, twice, a text "Kristen, I really need to talk to you," a third time.  I answer my weeping brother on the other line.  Through moans he cries, nearly screams, "I can't do this anymore! I hate this!"  "I'm so sorry.  Where are you?"  "At baseball! We're warming up.  I have to play in a game.  I can't do this!"  "I'm so sorry.  I hate this too."  "I can't stand to hit one more ball and not hear her up there." [In the last year when she was too tired or sick to get all the way down the hill to the field mom would park up top and watch.  When he would make a great play or score she'd honk-honk-honk the horn.  It was pretty awesome.]  "It's the worst.  I wish she was there."  "WHY did this have to happen?  WHY is SHE gone?  I'm SO angry.  I just want to… I'm… I'm SO angry.  I miss her, Kristen.  It's only getting worse.  WHY isn't she here?  WHY would God do this?"  "I honestly don't know.  I can't answer 'why' questions."  "Well what can you answer!" Apparently not much.  I understand the belief that God takes the ashes and turns them into gems.  I understand that we all have to die.  No one escapes it.  It's the curse of our land: frightened citizens scramble when the oppressive army rages the streets, guns in hand, out to kill.  They'll find you.  No one gets to hide.  Death knows the trap doors, the secret bookcase rooms, the sewage pipes, the ditches.  A bullet is coming for you and you're going to die and that's that.  I understand that pain is hot on our tails, and will be for the rest of this life.  And I understand that there will be a day when pain loses and happiness wins; when pain gets imprisoned and happiness prances through the streets like a firework-fairy dousing us in wonderful golden joy.  I understand God moves in mysterious ways, that the answers to "why" will come, that there is a bird with feathers named "Hope."  

But why did God take a mother from her seven children?  Because it's good for us?  Or because it will be good for us someday?  Or because He is a plan?  I don't know.  I, again, understand those things are true but I sometimes wish we could be more real about the audacity of pain.  And how much God hates it, too.  Let's be clear: God hates death.  He hates the separation of a child and a parent.  That's why He came to trample it.  That's why He is on the move and soon, very soon, death will be no more.  God will never let anyone die ever again because death is horrible.  It's hell.  It's wicked.  It's not of God.  God is not death, He is life.  

So while my little sister texts me the scores to her soccer games, I hate death all the more.  I hate that mother's fuss to each other and to their internet crowd about the kid's schedules, and being a taxi cab, and being sick-and-tired of never getting a break.  "My god, you're with them, though.  You pull up and they jump in your minivan or SUV or car and you drive with them.  And while you sit in humid Saturday sun, you watch, with your own eyes, as they burn calories on a lime green field.  You get to see it!  You're there!  And when they look up, they see you.  Even if they are snappy on the way home or don't thank-you for all your effort, it matters to their soul.  Your physical presence matters.  And my sister is on that same field, and she looks up to see a hole… a hole connected to her heart.  And in the 19th minute of a middle school soccer match she's grieving death.  No one is there snapping tiny iPhone pictures of her.  She won't run off the field to a cold water bottle from mom.  Tomorrow her mom won't do her laundry and clean her grass stains.  No, she'll play her heart out today, and text her sister after the game, and fall asleep scrolling through all her favorite pictures from her last vacation with her whole family.  You get to be there so, damnit, stop complaining."   It comes out of nowhere, and it's 100% everywhere.  Grief is a secret ninja and also a cloak of skin.  It's always with me and it's jumping out from the shadows yelling "Boo!"

It's there when I want so badly to write but my brain just seems broken.  It's there when I look in the mirror and see my mom's chin.  It's there while a look at the marvelous face of a 20-week-old-baby-boy and cry with my friends who say "hello" and "goodbye" at the same time.   It's there when I call and talk to my dad -- and we laugh and it's casual.  It's there as Rowdy out-grows the last size of clothes she ever bought for him.  It's there when I eat tacos. It's there when I lay in bed for hours, and it's there when I go out and watch kites in the sun.  It's there when I watch Parenthood (Kristine's crazy cancer buddy is dying), it's there when I watch Shark Tank (it was a random show I last watched with her), it's there when I see previews for The Good Wife and I don't even watch that series (it was mom and dad's show to watch together), it's there when I see tabloid covers about Juan Pablo the Bachelor (she was alive when his season started and we've never watched a season without her).  It's there when my husband tells me "your mom would love this cinnamon roll place!" and I don't even want to go inside because I know he's right.  It's there like a heartbeat, like a hunger, like a nerve.   

"You shall not lack a Rescuer when most you need Him.  The Pilot, who has conducted you across the stormy main, will not resign the government just as the vessel enters the deepest haven. The Captain, who has conquered for and conquered in you, will not leave you when on the eve of the final conflict and the certain victory. Oh no! Jesus will be with you to the last."  Octavius Winslow

Please don't be afraid to text me.  Or don't be afraid to be still and say nothing.  It's not you, it's me.  God uses the piles of messages -- even ones I never answer -- and God uses the quiet days.  I just miss my mom and am figuring out how to handle this new friend: ache.  I'm trying to write and smell eucalyptus plants on Los Olivos Street and make eye-contact more often.  I'm not pathetic but I'm also not very muscular.  I think Jesus is baby-wearing me these days.  I do most need Him and I know I'm strapped in.  I know He's there more than grief is, even if it's only a head-knowledge.  I know He's there when the phone rings, when my son laughs, when the platypus bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad.  He's there when I beg Him to help me take some of my mama's sweet nectar love and give it her babies for her.  He's there when I just need to stay up at 1 am and write a slew of crazy things down.  I know He's here because I'm writing.  It feels good.  Maybe mom asked a particular special favor of Him on my behalf.  Maybe she saw Rowdy laughing at his toes.

(Please pray, if you don't mind, that I'll be able to write.  I try hard and want to so badly.  I have so much to say, but it's a fight.  Every day.  It isn't "flowing," if you will.  I want to do this -- I will do this.  And I need help <3  Hashtag: vulnerable)

Part 43 | A Rare Achievement

"when you're up, you'll be up
you'll have love, you'll have luck,
and when it goes,
you won't see it coming."
josh ritter -- wild goose

There are events I witnessed in the final days of mom's life that were so intense, shocking and sacred that I don't know if I'll ever share them publicly -- perhaps not even privately aside from my husband (for we are one).  Among the multiple life-changing lessons learned of this time was this one:  death does not wait until you are ready.  It doesn't ask your permission.  It doesn't make sure you got to do and say everything you wanted to.  It says "Come. Now.  Let's go." with no questions asked, compassion, patience or final wishes.  I feel blessed to have had as much time to prepare for good-bye as we did.  Dozens and dozens of memories made and conversations had that so many others don't get.  We are grateful.  And yet… we thought we had a few weeks, not a few days.  When you're losing someone for the rest of this life the difference between 'weeks' and 'days' is much.  We had a few more plans.  We had a few more ideas.  We had a few more memories we wanted to make.  And were told "No.  It's the end."

It's a sincerely good lesson.  I don't want to learn it twice.  I don't want to presume upon finances "in five years," or "more time together after the next raise," or "once the kids are older."  Once we own a house, after we have X-much saved, when we're done having kids, after we finish this or that, once I'm done nursing, someday.  I don't want to bank my being-alive on presumptions I, quite frankly, don't have.  I'm fully (fully) aware that there is an important role for Responsibility, Money To Pay The Bills, A Nest Egg, Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, and Long Term Goals + Vision.  In fact, I think those things and "living in the moment" go hand in hand.  They aren't as contradictory as we might believe sometimes.

This isn't a call to stop having dreams and plans, it's a call to start acting on them. It's writing for the heart of a woman who wanted to meet more grandbabies, attend more graduations, visit Hawaii at least one more time, heck, make just another meal for her kids.  There are some things we simply can't speed up (an eleven-year-old just can't graduate from college, you can't order a baby to be delivered overnight) but there are decisions we can stop waiting on.  Life we can act on now.  Drastic lifestyle changes we can make that we would not regret on our death beds.  

I want an old, gray, toothless, saggy lifetime with my husband, but if I don't get that -- like my dad -- I want to know we lived as full a life together we possibly could have.  That there was more doing - even against odds, logic and resources - than "someday-ing."  

So.  We've rented a home in Southern California for a month.  All of April will be spent doing something we've dreamed of for a few years now; together -- husband, wife + son.  We're going to walk and ride bicycles to-and-fro.  He's going to play music on the street.  We're going to live off the cash he makes.   We're going to buy local farmer's market produce, cook together, make breakfast together, eat meals together.  And not rush out the door to work.  While Caleb and Roo explore the beach or the park or the backyard, I'm going to write.  I'm attempting to return to Maryland with a full rough-draft manuscript.  I'd like to publish a real, touchable book.  I'll share more about said book in the future, but it's inspired by mom.  We'd like to get tan -- we're so happy and alive in the sun.

There are a few reasons this trip isn't "best" right now:  winter is the slow season for both of our businesses, we're trying to save to finish our Oklahoma home, we've had unexpected expenses recently, we don't like taking Rowdy away from family, and more.  But, then again, there is no better time because it's time that is real and time we do have now, which is the best time of all. 

"Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement.  In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as 'the good life,' a person happy doing his own work is considered an eccentric if not subversive.  Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success.  

Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake.  A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential.  As if a job title and salary are the measure of human worth.  You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing.  There are a million ways to sell yourself out and I guarantee you'll hear about them.  To invent your own life's meaning is not east, but it's still allowed and I think you'll be happier for your trouble."  Bill Watterson, author and creator of Calvin & Hobbes

To end, I want to dramatically and emotionally thank you.  A large part of the motivation, clarity and eagerness for this trip and the next steps in our life are a result of you.  You who acted on buying plane tickets, with money out of your own wallets,  to stand with us at the memorial.  Well over a dozen of you did so -- that's thousands of spontaneously spent dollars.  You who drove hours from out-of-state; who made the trip when it would have been so easy not to.  You who gave to the Mama Bear Fund -- we'll be able to give the kids a few more memories Mama wanted to give them herself because of your kindness.  You who sent flowers, care packages, snack boxes, handwritten notes, texts, e-mails, full meals and other gifts.  You who specifically took time to encourage me "You should write."  Each of those was a thought in your mind that required action, and you took it.  We must have received thousands of 'tokens' of love in a weeks' time.  You moved us.  You were poured out upon a dry and weary land.  You held us up when our legs were broken.

This trip is in honor of the life, legacy and lesson learned from my mother, but also in honor of the local and worldwide crowd that has carried us.  You have gone out of your way to bring us to the house, cut a hole in the roof, and lower us straight to Jesus.  We were crippled, and of course the pain remains, but you did not leave us alone to die.  Thank you.  I want to write in order to, perhaps, bless one family someday in the way you've blessed mine.  Thank you.  We'll think of you fondly while we listen to the waves.

(Ps. This is for you, mama.)

Post 42 | The Championship Painting

"every champion was once a contender who refused to give up."
rocky balboa

I've thought of Mama's life and death in many different analogies and ways.  Earth is like a womb -- we're alive, but once we come out of the womb we're REALLY alive.  Crossing a bridge.  Sailing a sea.  A chapter or two in an endless novel series.  But, currently, as our basketball team is one week from tournament play, sports themes are on my mind.  And I view Mama's last days as the Championship Memories.  

Sports has an incredible ability to engage your body, mind, heart and soul.  Big games I participated in as a player and coach come to mind almost daily.  There is no way to describe a championship season with a team you love.  You work and labor and practice and run and it seems repetitive.  And games start -- you win some, you lose some.  You try to take the good and enhance, and take the bad and change.  Each event has the big event in mind.  Every day is working toward that day.  Play-offs come.  This swear-word gets serious.  Play-offs are wars.  And if you make it through, you're a player in the finals.  It's extremely emotional.  I would dream about the game multiple times throughout multiple nights.  Every routine, every conversation, every feeling stapled to my memory.  Laying out my uniform.  Filling my water bottle.  Dressing myself.  Rehearsing plays and mantras and goals.  Arriving at the school.  Seeing my girls.  Warm-ups.  Tip-off.  We go up! We go down! How will it end!  All that time, and now it's gone by so fast! It was nervey-fun.

Mama's last few weeks were our Championship Days.  So nerve-wracking.  So intense.  So memorable.  So fun.  After a life of practicing, cheering, competing, running the end of the season was upon her.  This was it.  All she'd been living for.  Her last chance to "leave it on the court."  The wonderful news is that she did it.  She finished the game and was victorious,  The difficult news is that we missed the awards ceremony.  We miss her.  But God allowed us so much.  He gave us time He could have taken.  He gave us the chance to lay out the uniform one more time.  To warm-up together, one more time.  To walk out on the court with our loved ones cheering for us, one more time.  He gave us Holy Ground days we could never replace.  We made many memories in those end months, and we'd like to share some of them with you.  

One day in early December our family was summoned together by my mom's best girlfriend, Tracy.  A few of the kids couldn't make it, but there was a 'big surprise' she had for us.  I couldn't guess what it might be.  With a group of Mama's friends huddled around we watched an artist unveil the gift:

I photographed mom so I saw her reaction to the surprise before I saw it: the painting.  In my whole 24 years I've never seen mom burst into blessed-tears like she did that evening.  She did for good reason.  Tracy pooled money from dozens of eager friends.  They got in touch with Becca DiMiao and hired her to paint our magical masterpiece.  All of us -- all of us.  Mama, Dad, the seven kids, Caleb and Rowdy.  All of us.  Just a couple short months ago in front of Mama (and her mother's) favorite ride at her favorite place in the world.  This meticulously crafted gift is what we would grab if the house was on fire.  

There are more details that mean something to us every time we look at it.  Katie is wearing a shirt my mom bought with her mom in Hawaii when she was Katie's age.  Bacca was with us that day, I know it.  Dad is smiling.  Mom is wearing her favorite present from my dad: a diamond eternity necklace.  Kevin's hair is curly -- mom's favorite way for it to be.  She loves his curls.  Lauren is wearing a shirt my mother-in-law sent to me, and Caleb is wearing his new logo on his cap proudly.  There is a long (ridiculous) story behind the white shorts I'm wearing, but it includes my husband and mom being very patient and gracious.  Tim was with us this trip.  Rowdy happened to have his ears on.  This is the only picture we have of the eleven of us.  

After hanging the treasure on our wall, we enjoyed a feast from Copper Canyon that mom's friends brought with them.  We also read through the cards from everyone who contributed financially to the gift.  Thank you.  Every one.  We saw each name.  Mama cried through them (ps. Heather, she promised to send Alivia your love and, yes, she will definitely snuggle her up for you.)  If you gave $5, you gave us this.  This Championship Game Memory.  Next time you're at our home, please make sure you look at the painting.  Call to mind mom's beautiful response.  Thank God for good things such as these.  We're so grateful.  Thank you over and over.  And Tracy, thank you for going above and beyond the call of duty.  I know you love my mom.  Your love, ideas and presence have been God to us.  Thank you.  You hit a three to go into halftime.

Ps.  Wasn't my mom beautiful?

Post 41 | Mama, Bear

mama bear.

mama, you shall bear a son... thrice.
as well as four sugars-and-spice.

mama, bear a hand. join in! help out!  begin! step up!
go on! yes now! that's it! filled cup!

mama, bear arms -- the weapons for their defense.
your muscle, your steel, your common sense.

mama, bear fruit. it is a juicy sweet reward!
enjoy every flavor, wish and want for more.

mama, bear in mind their feelings, their questions, their fears,
their humor, their ideas, their quirks, their tears.

mama, bear with them.  with all your self, dripping and aching.

"bear usually implies the power to sustain without flinching or breaking,"
(says merriam-webster.)

"i will bear, i have made.  i will carry, i have saved."
said the holy one, through isaiah one day.

mama, bear the yoke of your youth.  bear witness to good and truth!
bear marks of christ, bear zeal, bear words, bear seals,
bear music, bear loads, bear gentleness, bear hope.

mama, you will not fail, you will not fall.
"love bears all."

mama, bear.

Post 40 | Try To Remember

remember when I was young 
and so were you?
and time stood still and love was all we knew?
alan jackson

Long division almost made me runaway from home.  I sat at our white kitchen table, atop white large kitchen tiles, in a white stucco San Diego town-home devising my plan.  The sun light reflected off the interior brightness; I could hear perfect squeals of fun and happiness from my neighbor buds playing outside in the goodnight sun air.  My brothers and sister were out there, too.  But I was stuck.  Stuck inside while mom made dinner.  Stuck staring at numbers and ruled-notebook paper.  Stuck in the dumb education system.  I thought about running away.  Boxcar Children style.  I'd live in a barn by the sea and eat buttered green peas for lunch.  I didn't understand long division.  I already hated math but long division took me to a new level of despair, stress and frustration.  I felt like an idiot.  I felt hot and flushed.  I felt anxious.  Both of my parents had been tenderly patient, and had come at it from all kinds of angles.  We'd been working on it for days.  It wasn't their fault (I went on to have about five other math teachers besides my parents, and my understanding and ability to complete 'math' only got worse.  It's just how I am.) but it wasn't fair, I felt.

"Never forget this," I told myself, "all these people say it's so easy.  It's NOT easy.  And if someday it ever is easy, don't forget how hard it used to be.  This is THE worst."  I would send myself mental e-mails.  Everything in life was now based on how hard long-division was.  Sick in bed with strep throat? Not as bad as doing long division.  Having to mop the bathroom floor? Not as bad as doing long division.  I kept my word to myself and I never forgot.

It's helped me be a mama.  For some reason I remember 'little kid struggle' awfully well.  It's the same.  Sure, long division isn't the 10 on the 1-10 hardship scale anymore, but I always had a 10.  Everyone does.  Isn't it hard to see someone move into your dream house, while you have to sell yours because money sucks?  Isn't it hard to see her nice jewelry and her cute little gym body and her expensive haircut, while you don't have enough to pay your monthly bills?  Isn't it hard to find out another one is pregnant, and you aren't... again?  Isn't it hard that he isn't in your life -- whether he is real or 'someone hoped for'?  Isn't it hard to see life-you-can't-have paraded in front of you?  Be honest! Be human.  Yeah it's hard!  Well, it's hard to be four and to walk into a grocery store and see dozens and dozens of life-you-can't-have paraded in front of you.  It's hard to be told "No. Not for you, at least not for now."  Whether that's financial stability or a pack of M&M's.

Isn't it hard to be hungry?  I get snappy, short, quiet.  Leave me alone and get me some food.  It's hard to wait an hour at a restaurant for a table to open up.  Heck, it's hard to wait for the food to arrive after the waiter takes the order!  "Goshdernit, it's been 20 MINUTES.  What on earth is taking them so long?! This is RIDICULOUS.  I'm going to talk to the manager." It's hard to be patient when your body is ready for it's basic needs.  Isn't it hard to feel miserably uncomfortable in your clothes?  Your bra has been on too long, and is too tight, and needs to stop?  Your pants have become too small after a full-meal?  You sneezed too hard and weren't prepared and now you just need to change? You spilled pasta sauce down the front of your shirt?  Your body isn't at the health and fitness level that feels 'right' and you want to hide?  You feel uncomfortable, messy, blah?  I hate wearing a maxi pad that needs to be changed, let alone a whole diaper!  It's hard! It makes me cranky too!

It's the same.  They're the same.  Their struggle is the same.  At least to them in their world it is.  They don't know any better.  Of course you know you're not going to leave them alone in a dark room forever.  But do you ever fear that you'll feel *this* lonely forever?  It's unnerving!  It's unknown!  You want someone to come be with you!  Of course you know eating vegetables is good for them.  Do you know that swallowing untasty, hard things in life is good for you?  Or do you sulk in your chair and chant for dessert and try to sneak cauliflower into your pockets so you don't have to swallow? (Tip: if you're going to try to get rid of your food by throwing it under the table, make sure it doesn't hit your mom in the shin.)  Of course, now is not a good time to do something silly like take off your clothes and explore the magic of a Sharpie.  We're late! We have to go! Why are you undressed again?! But do you ever procrastinate on silly things?  Do you ever come up with something you feel motivated and excited to do, even though you have a large to-do list of things you should 'really' do first? 

Babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, young adults, mid-lifers, the elderly want to be loved, want to be understood, want to be valued, want to be respected, want to be heard.  My husband listening to my story, enjoying my sense of humor, looking me in the eye, sharing his story of the day and communicating through tone, touch, body language, words, (whatever!) that he is delighted to be with me changes my day.  Those practices consistently can change a life.  

"Imagine yourself as your child.  Try to examine what life for him is really like.  Be honest.  Are you the kid who wants to paint more than anything in the world but your mom doesn't want the mess?  Are you the one who stands with your mom while she complains about you to strangers in line?  Do you feel lonely, left out, ignored, a burden?  Do you have reason to believe your parents aren't interested in you?  Do your parents only seem to give token hugs?" Rachel Jankovic

Parents work your imaginations, tap into their hearts, understand that they may honestly, in their naive-visioned way, be lonely, scared, sad, confused, tempted, distracted or hurt.  Perhaps if we hourly connect with their hardships we may gain their magic.  Maybe we'd get to be carefree more often.  Maybe we'd lose ourselves in a game.  Maybe we'd believe, just for a second, that the floor is made of lava.  Maybe we'd laugh harder.  Maybe our work would become sweeter.  Maybe enhancing their crazy instead of hampering it would change the attitude in their heart. Maybe we'd be able to see the good quicker.  Maybe the annoying things wouldn't pinch as aggressively.  Maybe we'd care less what 'everyone' thought.  Maybe diaper changes wouldn't be so easy to complain about.  Maybe we'd make private memories just for our household.  Maybe it would inspire us.  Maybe God would make plain His creativity, compassion, happiness through the bizarre thoughts, noises and actions of children.  Maybe they'd know.  Maybe it'd change their life.  Maybe they'd never forget.

Because, see, I never forgot mama going over long division again, and again, and again.  Patiently.  Again.  One more time. Again.  While folding socks.  Again.  While stirring pasta sauce. Again.  In bed. Again.  They'll never forget that you were there, aware, ready when their 10's came.  So enjoy the easy ones through threes, don't brush off the fours through sixes, stop everything for the sevens to nines... and then you'll have the discernment, care and heart for the tens.  For the really bad diaper rash. For teething.  For temper tantrums.  For wanting to be barefoot.  For long division.  For shot-gunning the window seat.  For not making the team.  For being the weird one in class.  For final exams.  For disappointing report cards.  For moving away to college. For the first real heart breaks.  They have to face these things.  They have to feel them and go through them.  Understanding their struggle doesn't mean you hide them from any negative experience.  It doesn't mean that you don't discipline, set boundaries, and tell them "No, not now" at the grocery store.  But it means you remember and that you have their back; and remembering them and supporting them means you care.

“Because I was once a child, I am always a child. Because I was once a searching adolescent, given to moods and ecstasies, these are still part of me, and always will be... This does not mean that I ought to be trapped or enclosed in any of these ages...the delayed adolescent, the childish adult, but that they are in me to be drawn on; to forget is a form of suicide.

Far too many people misunderstand what *putting away childish things* means, and think that forgetting what it is like to think and feel and touch and smell and taste and see and hear like a three-year-old or a thirteen-year-old or a twenty-three-year-old means being grown-up. When I'm with these people I, like the kids, feel that if this is what it means to be a grown-up, then I don't ever want to be one. Instead of which, if I can retain a child's awareness and joy, and *be* fifty-one, then I will really learn what it means to be grownup.”  Madeleine L'Engle