startling thoughts on the childhood that shaped us

I do not remember how many places I lived in the first nine years of my life.  I do remember living in an A-frame ski lodge in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  At the tiptop was a triangle shaped loft, accessible only by ladder, my older brother's room.  Outside,  we had a log fort, complete with prison for my little brother, of course. Life was rough for number three.  In winter, the snow reached my waist and bears climbed up the stairs of our deck. The sledding was out of this world.  There was a yellow house with a creek in the back yard, where we collected moss and worms, as if they were commodities.  For a short time, we lived in a cottage on Green Lake.  I played Barbies with the neighbors up the hill and one day, I accidentally rolled a table over my third brother's toe. It was gross.  He is okay now.  When I was seven we lived in a very unforgettable house.  My room was the entire upstairs reached by a winding staircase. In this home, my parents bought me a queen sized water bed. Why a child needed one, I don't know, I didn't ask questions.  My sister was born there. Finally, we rented a tiny house with only three bedrooms for seven people, while my parents built a home where we would stay. 

Exact locations and timelines are foggy. I can not describe what kitchens looked like, but I have a decent collection of memories and a strong relationship with change.  Whether it was for a job, for a fresh start, or for space to breathe, moving never felt emotional, it was just part of the deal. 

In our new home, my mom had room for a piano and ugly floral couches she loved, where she would insist upon taking family pictures.  My dad built a dream bathroom and a large model train layout.  We climbed trees, played football, and got lost in the woods.  We found hidden ponds and built tepees.  My brothers threw knives at trees.  We built fires and dug igloos in the snow. 

All this change meant that my elementary years were a constant shuffle of private, home, and public school.  I never attended one place long enough to be find belonging, school was just school.  While we were home, the rules were simple:  if we finished our work and did it well, we were able to do what we liked.  We had a few textbooks, lots of books to read, and incredible amounts of freedom.  Whether or not this was a brilliant plan to foster independence or a mere survival strategy of a weary mother, I think it worked. 

I don't remember much about the years we did attend school.  I liked writing. I didn't like math. This was not new information. In third grade, my friend laughed at me and asked, "why don't you ever match?" The boys called me Bolivia.  The Oregon Trail computer game. And my mom was adamantly against the fluoride shots they passed out in public school.

What stands out the most, is that it was only in these classroom settings that my uniqueness was considered wrong.   In my defense, the 90's were not good for clothing, hello turtlenecks and stirrup pants, no.  In that moment, I surely felt hurt and betrayed, but I wondered why I should "match," why would I let her decide what was acceptable or not.  At age nine, I decided I could make my own rules for fashion and most of life, really. I honestly think, It's been pretty great.  Thanks, Katie.  You've made a huge impact.

We were taught at home in middle school too, my parents were sure it was evil and nothing good might come of it.   We diagrammed sentences, learned algebra, and were spared from general adolescent trauma.  I went to youth group. I babysat in the afternoons. 

I attended a public high school for all four years, the same one.  I loved it, but it still did not define me.  I had been allowed to be my own person for fourteen years, why give that away?

While this all sounds great, there were challenges at home, my parent's marriage struggled, financial decisions caused stress, growing a business required great energy, keeping five children alive, it was a large order.  It would eventually collapse, but not during my childhood. I do know that I was fortunate to not have my early life marked with that trauma. Last summer, I sat around a camp fire with my brothers and we told very different stories, filled with both pain and hope.  I wonder, though we are marked by trauma, we are shaped by the long enduring rhythm of our days. 

I could stand proudly on my soap box, shouting, "I am not a product of my childhood! You will not define me!" I could, but we all see how that's not true.  In the safety net of love, I learned about change, certainty, independence, adventure, and freedom.  Things that are fundamentally me.  Yes.

And the not so good stuff, that has shaped me too.  I learned not to spend money that I didn't have.  I am confident that hurling insults that I don't mean will solve nothing.  I am comfortable with not having all the answers and admitting fault, I can be selfish.  I know people receive and show love in different ways, this makes a huge difference. 

Fast forward to present day.  My oldest child has lived in four states.  Yesterday, two out of three wore mismatched socks to the art store. I didn't care, because I have resigned my official sock/shoe assembly duties, hallelujah.  Shortly, we'll begin our home school day.  We will do our work and read great books.  There will be lots of room for freedom.

What will our children carry from their childhoods?  We can only trust that we are doing our best, that the rhythm of our days are rich with love, encouragement, and courage in the face of adversity.  In the very face of it, roaring bravely,  so they know that what is timeless and true is not the trauma, but the voices that remain after the storm. 

We were driving home from the art store, yesterday.  It has been a particularly good day.  There was sunshine, coffee, fresh flowers, new sketchbooks, and the Hamilton soundtrack--volume high.  In the back seat of the van, my nine year old son gazed into the distance.  At the stop light he spoke,
"Mom, I just had my best day dream, the one I love the most.  Everything blurs for a minute and then the world comes alive and dances to a beautiful song."

Why do I home school? Freedom. Independence. Day dreamers.
Why is it so hard? Freedom. Independence. Day dreamers. 

"Oh, that's a good one," I answered. 

My mind danced for a moment on the tightrope and thinking, oh how silly, and how brilliant. I don't know where that first thought came from though, how brilliant indeed.  If we're given these children on purpose, then surely, the day dreamer was entrusted to us to nurture and empower (and to invite them to return to this world, on occasion, when necessary.)  My best friend's son asks her to make up math problems, for fun.  You see what I'm saying?  The course of our lives in intricate, dazzling, and complex.  Have you considered this lately?

When I was a teenager, my parents let me paint my bedroom walls.  We always had leftover paint cans in the garage from other house projects.  Once I taped off random quadrilateral shapes and swirled paint colors in the pan.  I ran the roller up and down, marbling the wall.  Another time I decided to paint stripes.  My friend helped me measure out and draw the lines, but I quickly died of drudgery and monotony and decided 1/4 of a striped wall would be just fine.  My favorite of all, was a dark, olive green color with a fuchsia palm tree.  It was my masterpiece.

Until now, I thought my first canvas was small and rectangular, painted at the kitchen table, but now I see that I was actually given one much bigger.

freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. freedom. independence. day dreams. 

More than anything, that's what I want for my children, too.