Never Mind Neverland

When Senya and Juniper were tiny, and thus I was in the all-consuming phase of raising two kids under 5, wistful and nostalgic parents who were past their child-raising years would stop me in the grocery store or at the playground to admonish me to “Savor every moment. It goes by SO fast.” I never felt offended by this, but I also felt similarly to how I feel when people here and now tell me that my aura is blue or that their spirit guide revealed to them that they have telepathic powers. Just sorta like, “yeah, okay! That’s not really my take on reality, but if that belief is working for you, great!

But now, we are in the dawn of the era of high school and middle school. Those days of playgrounds, diaper bags, and morning shows are long gone. When I hear a theme song from one of the little kids shows they’d watch way back then (in the mornings so I could have a few solo minutes to keep up my basic personal hygiene) my heart tightens and my throat gets a lump as I viscerally go back to the feeling tone of that era. 

Yet, I would still say that it did not go fast while I was in it. I loved that era, as much as it was exhausting and all consuming. Not everyone, even amazing parents who love their kids, love the little kid era, and there’s certainly no judgment from me in that. We all have our target audience and demographic where we feel the most fulfilled or alive. I had extremely smart and conversational kids, so I attribute a lot of my fulfillment in parenting as a testament to their extraordinary qualities. 

By the time Senya was 2 years old, we were having pretty deep philosophical conversations enabled by their exceptional verbal and conceptual skills. When Juniper came on the scene, she had quite the joyful spirit and used her outlying intelligence quotient to bring a great sense of humor into the mix. The two of them kept me hopping between deep thoughts and goofy antics. I was never bored. There was no time for existential crises or questioning if what I was doing with my life mattered. I don’t think I ever felt so well-suited to any type of work until life made us an entourage. I felt like I was made for those days. And those days were exhausting. Both statements are true. 

So, while those days didn’t go quickly, I will say that the abruptness with which one realizes that era is over is sobering. It’s hard to articulate the “parenting trance” (as my friend calls it) because the changes happen somewhat seamlessly, yet relentlessly. And then one day you look back and those little kid days—and the versions of those tiny humans you so dearly and intimately loved and knew—are so far in the past that your heart feels a little tricked. And somehow you never realized when the last time was. When was the last time I carried Juniper around on my hip? When was the last time they both wore footie pajamas unironically? When was the last time Senya said “zuit case” instead of “suit case” (they got so few words wrong as a kid that we just let that one slide for as long as possible). When did Juniper stop having her tongue out all the time?

And while you know, cognitively, that these moments and phases will end, your heart is sometimes the last to get the message. It’s like you sign the emotional liability waiver with the Universe when you enter into the sacred bond of parenthood, but you just kinda skim it in your enthusiasm to just get to it (doesn’t everyone read the fine print that way? Or is that just my presumed ADHD talking here?).

The past two years have been another round of this processing in my heart. The last time we lived in Topanga (pre-Vermont) it used to be that whatever I was doing, my kids wouldn’t question coming along. They’d wear their Heelys through Costco and help me grocery shop. We’d spend hours in an empty parking lot biking, practicing our spelling in sidewalk chalk, or roller skating. We’d spend hours reading aloud in natural preserves and at the beach. We’d make flower crowns in the spring and I’d read books aloud about gnomes and fairies. 

When we moved back here post-Vermont, the difference was stark. No one was up for a Costco trip. No one wanted to bike around in circles in a parking lot. They were in a different phase of life, and their interests, musical taste, clothing expression, and hobbies all reflected that. Juniper was more interested in hanging with her friends than spending one on one time with me. Senya had traded books about gnomes for books written by Noam Chomsky.

I suddenly realized it had been quite a while since I had little, chubby-handed pals who were finding cool rocks or pretty flowers and giving them to me all day long. Gone were the days when I had people drawing me pictures upon pictures with the constant thematic purpose being to explicitly express in chunky handwriting across the page: “I love mama.” No one wanted to do whatever I was doing with me, side by side, just because I was doing it. People were fully clothed. And they were, of their own volition, taking showers. I started to realize that I was not their primary referent anymore; or at least, even if I was holding my own in the category of importance to their lives, their friends were giving me a run for my money in the influence department. 

Now, I’m sure that most parents go through this adjustment of their kids growing up. But, I’ll say, for those of us who have parented with our hearts and souls, it comes with some challenges. And it could be that this is part of why I moved back here to California. There may have been a part of my Peter Pan heart that believes Los Angeles is the closest Earth comes to having found Neverland. And because we were moving back specifically to homeschool again, I think I thought I could make time stand still or even rewind a bit. Like I wrote in another post, I was trying to move back to an era and I mistook that for being locatable on a geographical map. 

There was a lot of grief for me when I realized that the phase in which I found myself when we arrived back in California was vastly and permanently different from the phase we were in a year beforehand when we were just living our Vermont mountain life. Not even my version of Neverland could reverse the incessant march of time, forcing my kids to grow up. The cross-country move took up so much energy and focus that I didn’t realize how much they were changing. But that’s always how it feels in hindsight; after all, as Allen Saunders said long ago and John Lennon made famous: “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

So, I had to grieve that. And I suppose that’s an ongoing process. Because life with them will continue to evolve, eras will end, and new chapters will begin before I’m ready. So, after allowing myself to indulge in a good cry anytime I am alone and want to (which—bringing it full circle—means usually when I’m going to Costco), I am also dedicated to staying present and also celebrating what we have now. 

And now—when I appreciate this phase of life for what it is rather than grieve what it is not— is pretty great. 

For example, they still both love doing Friday family movie and homemade pizza nights. Total win. And, I’ll admit, the caliber of movies is a lot better than it was 10 years ago. 

Also, they still get psyched for family vacation. The destinations are also a lot of fun because we can plan around cultural features (like going to San Francisco, the epicenter of all things Pride) or hitting up a music festival where artists we all like are performing. We can also plan around natural features and everyone is a lot more physically capable for bigger hikes (willingness is a different issue).

They aren’t driving, so we are still very involved in their social lives by necessity if not choice. Also, they’re usually in bed and asleep long before I am, so when I go to bed I can still check on them one more time before I retire. 

They aren’t in serious romantic relationships or having the complexity of navigating sexual relationships or the intensity of being in love, so that makes life feel comparatively simple. Though I am very excited to welcome and love whoever they bring home whenever those days begin.

But for now, they are still totally willing to hang out with us, and they even enjoy it. Sure, maybe it can’t be doing just any old thing anymore (especially for Juni, she’s invested in the activity not just the company), but as long as you make it fun, Juni is on board with hanging out (which is why Collin was dizzy for days after going to Magic Mountain and riding extreme roller coasters, and I had goggle marks on my eyes for days after repeatedly diving down to the bottom of the deep end at the public pool). Senya, truth be told, is still down for doing just about anything together because they’re in it for the company and the good conversation. This is one stellar example of where the gnome to Noam upgrade really shines. 

Getting to know who they each are as they differentiate and self express more has been a rewarding joy. That is some of my favorite magic of now. 

SO, some of you reading are not parents. Or even if you are, maybe parenting isn’t your main or most defining gig. And I get that. But we are all humans, and we all experience this phenomenon of time passing. And we all have those moments when the finitude of life kicks us right in the heart crotch (not my most poetic turn of phrase, but it gets the point across, I think).  We all experience aging and the sense that once the door to an era closes, you can only look through the window of memories. Even specific events can feel this way. Some moments are like shooting stars streaking across the sky, and we are witnessing both their beginning and their end all in one brilliant, breathtaking experience.

And what is it that hovers around all this experience of life—especially once you yourself leave childhood? It’s that nostalgia that comes with truly understanding impermanence, finitude, essentially the death at the individual level. Holding in our consciousness our individuated finitude and the impermanence of all that is material can be a sobering and poignant experience. But it also lends itself to our thoughts to remind us that the moments we have right now are fleeting and poetic, though not perfect. 

So, I guess the point of this post is to say that if you’re too busy looking backward into the past or forward into the future, you may miss out on the magic of now. And yet, I am not great at the power of now, so I have to think of being present as something different from a “today is the only day” sort of approach. I view being present as more of an integration of the past, future, and present.

Embracing the past, I have an understanding that where I am today is a continuation of a path I’ve been traveling for quite some time (some would say my ancestors even started this journey and I’m just taking up my part on the trek). As I honor the past, I allow myself to grieve all that has changed. The loved ones who have died (the death that still looms largest in my heart is that of my first beloved dog, Zuri). The relationships that have ended or grown estranged. My own youth. My kids’ childhood. All that is obsolete (including rotary wall phones with curly chords and all those sugary gum flavors made by Bubble Yum, Hubba Bubba, Bubblicious). 

For the future, I hold a reverence for the relentless nature of time marching forth. I acknowledge, simultaneously, that our lifetime is finite and passing and that the bigger story of life itself (of which we are a part) is moving ever onward.

And with those two in mind, in the present, I try to hold with reverence and appreciation what is now. What makes life precious is that it won’t always be. What makes life poignant is the interconnectedness of our one, small part in the story with the great story arc. What makes life sacred is the love we create and share. And if we live well and henceforth love well, that love will go on long after we are gone. 

So, sure, parenting is a weird gig. You sign the emotional liability waiver a little too enthusiastically and only remember the deal you made when you feel that ache in your heart as you realize it’s a one way ticket to their launch into this world without you. But isn’t that a quality of love itself? Whether it’s your partner, your dog, your cat, your kid, your parent, your grandparent, your soul mate, best friend, or any one of the people whose name you have indelibly etched on your heart and soul. You sign the waiver, acknowledge the risks, and you give yourself wholly and with abandon to loving them. As for me, I want to spend my life loving until I’ve spent it all—all my energy up to my very last breath, the last beat of my heart. When I close my eyes that final time, never to see the sun, our great yet temporary star, shine its light on me again, I will think of all the love I’ve had in my life. And really, is there anything more worthy than that? In the end, isn’t that the closest our souls brush with the infinite? 

On that note, I will leave you with some selected excerpts from James Badwin’s article, “Nothing Personal.”

“Four AM can be a devastating hour. The day, no matter what kind of day it was is indisputably over; almost instantaneously, a new day begins: and how will one bear it? Probably no better than one bore the day that is ending, possibly not as well. Moreover, a day is coming one will not recall, the last day of one’s life, and on that day one will oneself become as irrecoverable as all the days that have passed.

It is a fearful speculation — or, rather, a fearful knowledge — that, one day one’s eyes will no longer look out on the world. One will no longer be present at the universal morning roll call. The light will rise for others, but not for you.

Sometimes, at four AM, this knowledge is almost enough to force a reconciliation between oneself and all one’s pain and error. Since, anyway, it will end one day, why not try it — life — one more time?…”

“For, perhaps — perhaps — between now and the last day, something wonderful will happen, a miracle, a miracle of coherence and release. And the miracle on which one’s unsteady attention is focused is always the same, however it may be stated, or however it may remain unstated. It is the miracle of love, love strong enough to guide or drive one into the great estate of maturity, or, to put it another way, into the apprehension and acceptance of one’s own identity. For some deep and ineradicable instinct — I believe — causes us to know that it is only this passionate achievement which can outlast death, which can cause life to spring from death.”