I don’t know if I have an answer to that question.  Yet.

But, I have a written personal essay that discusses my thoughts on the matter. The essay was recently published at Mutha Magazine, and I’d like to share it with my readers.  

Here’s the link:  http://muthamagazine.com/2016/05/can-acknowledging-my-weakness-actually-be-a-sign-of-strength-asks-wendy-kennar/

 

Dear Readers,

This week, I’m pleased to share that Mamalode.com has published one of my essays for this month’s theme, “Cherish.”

But I need your help.  Mamalode compensates writers based on how many unique views a post receives.  Minimum payment requires 500 views within 30 days, but of course, the more the better!

Please use the link below to view my essay on all your devices! And please, share the link with others and ask them to do the same.

Thank you so much for your support!

http://mamalode.com/story/detail/dear-ryan-you-are-the-best-of-me

 

When I was in my early years of elementary school, I thought I might grow up and write “stories.” 

But, turns out stories are hard to write.  As a writer, you have to create these whole worlds and fill them with people who do stuff, who live in certain places, eat favorite foods, and have jobs and relationships and problems. 

And I’ve found that the stuff that happens in real life turns out to be much more interesting, much more funny, much more off-the-wall than anything I could have created.

So instead of “stories,” I write non-fiction.  I write personal essays that sometimes make their way into publications.  (Check out my “Published Work” link to learn more).  I write informational pieces for MomsLA.com.  And I write to try and figure things out for myself.

But, it turns out that there’s still a lot I haven’t figured out.  I haven’t figured out how to live with a chronic medical condition without letting it completely define me but while also acknowledging the limitations it imposes on my life.  I haven’t figured out the differences between jelly and jam and marmalade.  And I still haven’t figured out how to whistle.

Maybe I won’t ever figure some things out.  After all, I’m forty now and the whistling thing just isn’t happening. 

But I’ll keep trying to make sense of life in the only way I know how — one word at a time.  I’ll keep writing.

One of my favorite moments from Mother’s Day happened during breakfast.  While we were all enjoying our treats from Coffee Bean, my husband asked our eight-year-old son:  “What’s one of the things you really like that Mommy does?  What’s one of the special things Mommy does for you?”

I didn’t know what Ryan would answer.  After all, I give him a nightly rub down.  I pack love notes in his lunch box each day.  I always have chocolate in the house.  He can watch part of a DVD every day after school.      

Ryan surprised me with his answer.  He said, “She reads me an extra story at night.”

Part of our night-time routine is a bedtime story of Ryan’s choosing.  Depending on the length of the book, we may only read one book or one chapter.  But generally, when Ryan asks for another story, I have a hard time saying no.  I check the clock to see that we’re closer to 8:15 than 8:30, and read one more story.  After all, there are nights I don’t even get to read any more.  There are nights when I’m merely the book-holder and page-turner, and my son reads to us.  So I’ve got to grab these moments while I can.

And it made my heart swell to know that these moments mean as much to Ryan, too.

On my desk, I have two pictures of my son.  One is his second-grade class photo.  His smile shows a missing front tooth.  He wears a blue polo shirt, his glasses, and he’s in front of a backdrop of autumn trees that he selected.  (The photo was taken in October).

The other photo is from the invitation for my son’s first birthday party.  I look at that face, and I just see everything.  I see all the love, I see all the hope, I see all the promise of a new life.  Everything was still so new — for Ryan and for me. 

We took that photo as he sat on the floor of his bedroom.  He smiled right at the camera as he held a soft little book.  He wore a special “My 1st Birthday Onesie” and jeans.  And his eyes — large, dark Hershey’s Kisses eyes.

Ryan’s second grade picture is the picture of a boy.  A boy who knows how to pose for a photo.  A boy who needs glasses so he can see the board clearly.  A boy who can still enchant me with his dark chocolate eyes.

This week, days before Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of this journey my son and I have been on.  I’m thinking of the journey we’re still on.  I’m learning that it doesn’t necessarily ever get easier.  It gets different. 

One picture shows me where we’ve been.  One picture shows me where we’re at.  And, though I don’t necessarily know exactly where we’re going, I know we’ll be getting there together.

(To my mommy readers, have a wonderful Mother’s Day!  And for my readers who may be looking for a Mother’s Day gift idea, check out this post I wrote for MomsLA.com about easy Mother’s Day crafts kids can make.)

This week, I’m inspired by two different things — a quote by Natalie Goldberg, and a writing exercise I completed in my Advanced Non-fiction course I’m taking through UCLA Extension.

Here’s the quote:

“So let’s pick up the pen, and kick some ass.  Write down who you were, who you are, and what you remember.”    – Natalie Goldberg

And the exercise was prompted by the phrase “Don’t ask, Don’t Tell.”  Here’s what I came up with:

Don’t ask me how I feel and then keep walking by.

Don’t tell me you’re busy.  We all are.

Don’t ask me what my son took to school in his lunchbox.

Don’t tell me what you packed in your son’s lunch.

Don’t ask me how much money we make.

Don’t tell me how much money you earn.

Don’t ask me why I’m not on Facebook.

Don’t tell me to join.

Don’t ask me if the bananas are organic.

Don’t tell me you can taste the difference.

Don’t ask me if we rent.

Don’t tell me to buy.

Don’t ask me what social media I’m on.

Don’t tell me I need to do it.

Don’t ask me why my cell phone is turned off.

Don’t tell me to turn it on.

Don’t ask me if I watched the show last night.

Don’t tell me I need to get cable.

Don’t ask me not to worry.

Don’t tell me to relax.

I didn’t read the quote the same day I completed the exercise, but they seem to go hand-in-hand pretty well.  And as I get older, I am finding that my writing is my way of “kicking some ass.”

My longest-lasting friendship is with a woman who lives in another time zone.  In another country.  On another continent.

Aya and I became pen pals during the fall of my senior year of high school.  Which means that this September will mark the twenty-third anniversary of our friendship.

We began writing letters back and forth.  We wrote about school, our hobbies and interests, our families, boys we dated.  Over the years, the topics of our letters have changed.  We’re each married now, each the mother of a child.  (Aya’s daughter is now 16).

But as much as is possible, we’ve been there for each other.  I remember sitting on the floor of my apartment, speaking into a tape recorder, recording a message of good wishes and congratulations that Aya would play at her wedding.  I remember coming home from Laguna Beach to find a message on our answering machine from Aya’s husband — Aya had the baby!  And I remember Paul emailing Aya with the news of our son’s birth.

When people find out I have a pen pal they’re usually surprised by two things.  The fact that we’ve been writing for as long as we have.  And the fact that we primarily correspond through letters.  There is the occasional email, but for the most part, we send letters and photos back and forth across the ocean.

Luckily, we have met several times.  Aya has traveled much more than I have, and her travels have taken her to Los Angeles on more than one occasion.  She saw me pregnant with Ryan, and she met Ryan a few years later.

And I take it as a sign that we share some important similarities — we were both teachers (Aya continues to teach).  Our birthdays are each on the 7th (of different months).  And our children’s names both start with the letter “R” (Ryan and Reina).

Tomorrow is Aya’s birthday.  And along with the gift that I have mailed out, I offer this blog.  My way of saying, “Thank you for replying to my first letter, and every letter after that.  Thank you for always caring.  Thank you for your friendship.”

  

I have to gush.  Today is my son’s eighth birthday and my mom’s seventy-first birthday!

And this week, my son is the Star of the Week in his second grade class.  Being Star of the Week comes with certain perks (like standing at the front of the line this week).  And, parents get to participate too.  Tomorrow, my son is bringing a sealed envelope to class containing a letter that my husband and I have written.  My son’s teacher will read the letter to him, in front of the whole class.

It was easy to write this letter, and it wasn’t.  How much did we want to share?  How much should we keep private?  In the end, though, we decided our letter should really just give Ryan’s classmates a peek at who he is at home.

And because he influences so much of my writing, I’d like to share the letter with my readers:

Dear Ryan,

This is a special week for you!  You are the Star of the Week, and you just turned 8 years old!  

You’re really a special boy.  All you have to do is take a look around your bedroom.  It says so much about you.

Your room is always so neat and organized.  You take very good care of your things.  You’ve got your golf clubs, your LEGOs, your easel, and your toys.

And your walls are full of pictures and posters of things that you’re interested in and curious about.  You’ve got postcards from LACMA showing art work by Diego Rivera, David Hockney, Monet, and other artists.  You’ve got posters about the solar system and the structure of the Earth. You’ve got an awesome photo of Blake Griffin dunking.  There’s a poster showing many of Michael Jackson’s albums.  You’ve got Mario and Luigi on the wall where we used to have the letters of the alphabet.  And you’ve got your signed pictures and letter from President Obama.

You’ve got a full bookcase, and one of our favorite things to do is read with you before bedtime.  We never know what book you’ll pick — a book written by Buzz Aldrin, a Fly Guy book, a book about sharks, a Diary of a Wimpy Kid book, or something else.  And after you’re asleep, we peek on you.  You don’t like to sleep with any blankets so it’s easy for us to see how big you’ve gotten!  You only need to grow 12 inches (one more Subway-footlong) to be as tall as Grandma! 

We are so very proud of you!  Being your Mommy and Daddy is our greatest joy and greatest honor.

We love you a hundred, thousand, million, billion, trillion, gazillion every minute of every day!

Love always,

Mommy and Daddy