I can feel it in the air.
Can you?
Change is a-coming.
Tonight, one of my daughters wondered aloud how it could be so dark when it was “only 7 o’clock.”
It seems like yesterday that it was light at nine.
And yet, here we are.
The constant we can always rely on:
Change.
Just as we adjust.
As soon as we settle in.
Change comes in like a thief and reminds us that if there were ever a thing to depend on it was her all along.
Change.
I can feel it in the air.
Can you?
Her name was Linda Houghten but I called her “Linda Hoe” because I hated her with a passion.
My mom was inherently a saver. As a child, we lived on bare minimums so that my mom could put enough away for a better future. She was the CEO of a software company- a black sheep in a male-dominated industry. She was inspirational. A badass. When business was struggling, she and my step-dad went without paychecks to keep the company afloat but her savings stayed put.
Her scrimping paid off- the business became extremely successful and so was she- a sought-after keynote speaker across the country. So, when she finally had saved enough to redecorate our 80K house, she hired the best.
Enter Linda Houghten.
The woman who wanted to change everything.
Generally, I’m not a vindictive or hateful person. I think carrying hate is more exhausting for the bearer than the target. But if I were to see Linda in person right now, I can’t say I’d give her a hug.
And it’s all because she made our house more beautiful.
My mom’s bedroom looked like a hotel room, so did our living room.
Patterns, slip-covers, window-treatments- the whole works.
I hated it all because it was change.
I’m the kid that cried when our area code changed from 804 to 757. I’m the kid that used to tape plastic containers over the ant hills when it rained because I couldn’t bear to witness their hard word ruined in a flash.
Consistency felt safe. Change felt terrifying.
So when it came to my piano bench? I stood my ground.
She wanted to cover it with a floral material.
Hell-to-the-no.
My mom could see the hair rising on my back and knew when to fold.
No, the piano that my father had gifted me would not be touched.
And I’mmatellyallwhat-
Victory was mine.
I’d lost the rest of the house, but I’d won what deeply mattered to me:
My mom had my back.
It’s that little voice.
You know the one I’m talking about.
The one that won’t leave you alone.
That red flag.
That green light.
That nagging feeling.
That encourager.
The relentless pusher.
Lord, you are so annoyed by it sometimes.
JUST GO AWAY.
I don’t want to try something new and different!
I don’t want to leave what I’ve known!
I’m afraid.
But there it is and here you are.
That new job. That new relationship. That child. That move.
And, so long as it is in the direction of progress, it’s our job to listen.
If only we could trust . . . and listen.
I can feel it. A change is coming and just like the rain, there’s not much I can do about it.
My eldest will enter her first year of all-day public school next week, guaranteed to create a lasting domino effect in our household.
The dynamics between the inseparable two eldest will shift. My second-born will gravitate towards her younger sister in the absence of her idolized older sister. The eldest will return home, tired and yet frustrated at her replacement. The third sister will resent being dismissed as soon as school is over.
There will be sickness, spread like wildfire. Long, sleepless nights. Trips to the doctor. Boxes upon boxes of tissues.
And then there’s the worry of releasing my 6 year-old to the big, ugly world. The one where bullies exist and feelings get hurt. Out from the shelter of her mother, her home and her little private preschool, she will be vulnerable to the wolves.
I can only hope I’ve taught her well.
To be kind.
To be tough.
To be happy.
It began with that first cut of the umbilical cord. Little by little, I’ve witnessed her venture further from my womb. Becoming less of me and more of her.
We’re on a precipice and there’s no turning back. And the view, albeit daunting, is invigorating.
New Leaf Parenting 