Sweeping Down the Plain

Last week, a work crew from the city was patching some asphalt on our street when I was returning home from work. As I got out of my car, one of the crewman approached me, asking if he could take a picture of the sycamore tree in our backyard, claiming he'd never seen such a specimen.

The sycamore tree sits close to our house, just outside the living room window. Its trunk is so massive it would take three men standing around it touching fingertips to mimic its circumference. The tree is so tall it shoots out and over the top of our two-story home, nearly 50 feet above the tallest peak of the roof. The branches jet out in all directions, with limbs that are the size of most average trees, and the leaves that cloak it are larger than an adult human face.

This tree was one of the major selling features of the home. When we first pulled up to the house with our realtor and saw the massive tree brilliantly shading the sweet home below it, we gasped. "I know," our realtor beamed. "I know."

Having moved in just last spring, we've now officially seen the tree through every Oklahoma season. In the heat of the summer, we benefited greatly from the behemoth and all its wide spread and lustrous foliage. The shade kept the back yard cool, the grass alive and green, and our cooling bill low.

As we rolled into autumn, we were impressed, if not amused at how many leaves fell from our great tree. Leaf after leaf after leaf piling up and blocking our front door, covering our driveway and clogging our gutters. The leaves became so overwhelming we had to call in professionals. When they pulled up, they burst out laughing in amazement when they saw the foot-deep pile of face-sized leaves that covered every inch of our lawn. They worked hours to gather, mulch and haul off the leaves. And not ten minutes after they had driven off, their trailer weighted down by our yard debris, another fresh blanket had fallen.

After a month or so, the leaves were all gone and we saw our beautiful sycamore naked for the first time. With the tree bare, its healthy, robust and gothic outline was breathtaking against the clear blue sky. When we endured our first snow and ice storm with the tree, we were awakened in the middle of the night by enormous, iced branches snapping and hitting the roof.

Fast approaching our first official year in this home, we've watched the tree grow and change with the seasons. Provide us shelter, shade, atmosphere and beauty. We've watched passersby stop in the middle of the street and let their eyes search to find the top of the mammoth, mouths agape. We spend a few minutes each day picking up branches that have fallen or seeds that have gathered. We've had skilled arborists assess the tree's health and trim its mighty branches. I have truly fallen in love with our home and our neighbors. But the tree? The tree is overwhelming, high maintenance and intimidating. And of all things about our new place, it's my greatest point of pride.

But despite my pride and confidence in the gorgeous, giant creature that frames our home, I'm not without my doubts.

A few days ago, with my husband in Singapore on business, I was home alone with my two-and-half-year-old daughter in the middle of a wind storm. Now, most people across the country may not think a wind storm sounds like much of a concern. Tornados and hurricanes, sure. Those are storms in which wind is destructive and unforgiving. But Oklahomans understand that wind, even if not structured in the confines of a tornado, can be extremely dangerous.

I heard the wind begin to howl as I was making my way upstairs to bed. I turned on the TV to see if this was a storm that should have me fleeing to our basement for shelter. The meteorologist explained that it was an arctic blast moving down from the north and to expect violent and destructive winds until morning.

I heard a thump against the house. I peered outside to see our trash can swirling around in the air, beating against the side of the house and slamming into the fence. I ran upstairs; the wind sounded as if it were getting stronger with every step I took. I threw open the curtains in my sleeping child's room to see trees in our neighbors' yard leaning into the forceful winds. I looked up to see the sycamore branches reaching out over the roof line like giant skeleton hands . And in that moment, I was terrified of our big, beautiful tree.

Without reservation, I reached for my child, ran down two flights of stairs and into our basement. My child curled up next to me, foggy with sleep. We laid together on the couch, wrapped tightly. I held her close, studying her beautiful sleeping face as I heard what sounded like more objects in our backyard being hoisted up and thrown about. I tried to decipher what each noise was. Glass breaking? Patio furniture catapulting? Shingles ripping from the roof? But as I laid there, embracing my precious child, I was truly only worried about one thing: our sycamore tree. I feared that it would be uprooted and would come crashing down on our house. Never in my life, not ever so much as that moment, did I feel more like a mother.

My parenting is extremely purposeful, sometimes trying and based mostly on gut feelings. And while I've read numerous articles on the care of sycamore trees, I don't turn to parenting books. In fact, I've become so beaten down by articles people write or links friends share on Facebook--which support their parenting choices by hard science (a mother in Michigan) and validated studies (Huffington Post)--that I've had to stop reading most everything.

I take such pride in my mighty child--her skills, personality and twinkly eyes. For the most part, I've used her as the only yard stick to measure how good of a mother I am. She's incredibly bonded to me, loving, happy, healthy and smart. And so, rightly or wrongly, I've taken her thriving as a sign I must be doing something right.

But a couple of weeks ago a good friend of mine and I had a very intense debate about where we were planning on sending our children to school. (Honestly, the public/private school debate is as irritating and pointless as the breastfeeding/formula debate, but I've resigned myself to the fact that there must be a debate at every stage.)

My friend--whom I consider an incredibly wonderful mother--and I became entangled in a heated conversation about the benefits of private school versus public school and her assertion that if she were to make the wrong choice in choosing a school, her children would suffer and forever be at a disadvantage.

I posited that while choosing a school is an incredibly personal and difficult choice, it will not necessarily ruin a child's life or be anywhere near the only decision that will set them up for failure or success. And that while choosing a school is very important and I, too, struggle with the decision, I believe a child's education comes from many sources.

After our debate, I found myself upset for reasons I couldn't comprehend. She and I had engaged in lively debates a hundred times over without so much as a blink. After days of stewing over my unexplained emotions, I realized that what was truly bothering me was that I feared my friend didn't think I was a good mother. Perhaps she took my more relaxed approach about choosing a school as a sign I wasn't invested in my child's future. Or that the choice I was planning to make (public) wasn't a good one, as it wasn't sacrificing enough (financially) to ensure my child's success. Or that she, or any of my friends, could measure up my ability as a mother only by the sides I take with every debate. And for the first time, despite the confidence I've always had in myself and my parenting, I felt the winds of doubt blowing through the cracks.

But amidst the sounds of angry wind, as I laid there trembling in fear, with my child tucked safely under my arm, mentally going over every possible scenario of the storm, I had a revelation about motherhood. As if being without my husband, and being pregnant and being consumed with fear, led me to realize how strong and capable and competent I am. Because in that instant, I wasn't making a decision from a two-sided choice. I was simply in the moment with my child, and grateful for it. If the polarizing decisions are removed from parenthood, if the ridiculous articles friends share to back up their side and the debate surrounding every single parenting choice stops, then there is really only one way to measure how good a mother truly is: the love she has for her children.

The next morning we crawled out of our basement and opened the front door to assess the damage. I was surprised to find that everything was in its place, with the exception of the trashcan which had landed in the far corner of the yard. The patio furniture hadn't even moved an inch. I must have imagined the sound of glass breaking. Only a handful of broken limbs littered our yard.

And as I stepped outside and peered up at the sycamore towering above our house, I was relieved to see it was still standing, tall and strong as ever.

Having defiantly survived the storm.

Walk A Mile

My daughter feels things very deeply.

She's a vibrant character who laughs with her body and cries from deep within her heart. Her tantrums, while often overwhelming and annoying, are truly a remarkable display of a young person's ability to own and voice her opinions. She's agreeable and easy to reassure, but before calming down and cooperating with you, you must first listen to her demands and feelings on the matter at hand.

Now, we've been together long enough for me to understand what triggers her displays of intense emotions. She has numerous opinions on the voices you use while reading her books. She is incredibly scared of our seven pound dog. She adamantly insists that she get to buckle herself in her car seat. And she is very particular about which dolls and stuffed animals are with her when she goes to bed. But remarkably, her biggest hot button issue is shoes.

In many ways, my child cares more about shoes than anything else.

Every morning she wakes up with a declaration of what pair she wants to wear that day. Often, the type of shoes (Keen sandals) don't correspond well with the weather (ice storm). Or, what I intend for her to wear (track suit) won't go with the shoes she's insisting upon (cowboy boots). We spend much of our mornings together arguing over shoes. The hardest days are those in which we can only find one shoe of a pair she's not leaving the house without.

Her obsession with shoes isn't limited to just those of her own. She's often walking around the house in either her father's house shoes or my high heels. When her friends come to play she convinces them to trade shoes. And most days when I pick her up from school, she's wearing a classmate's shoes and much time is spent trying to convince her to give them back.

I like to think this is a phase. That my child will one day care about issues bigger than foot wear. That she'll march for civil rights, or immerse herself in a challenging career, or perhaps even try to save a few whales. I try to ignore the fact that a shoe fetish seems like such a gender-specific cliche. I try not to worry that shoes are a terribly vain and shallow item about which to care deeply. And I hope that one day she and I will argue about politics in the morning, rather than footwear.

But I know better.

She can't help it.

It's in her genes.

Last month my mother underwent foot surgery to correct for a genetic (and remarkably unsexy) malformation known most commonly as a bunion. When my mother would tell others she was having this surgery, their faces would twist in pain as they recounted the story of a relative, or a friend they knew, who had that same surgery and how it was extremely painful and very hard to recover from and so not worth it.

But my mother had her reasons for wanting this surgery. Shoes, mostly. My mother's closet looks more like a shoe department, with various colors and numerous styles twinkling beautifully on display. And like a department store, even more pairs are shoved in boxes and kept in the back. My child thinks of my mother's closet as greater than any playground on earth.

Over the years my mother has found it difficult and painful to wear some of her lovelier shoes. And her purchases recently have had to accommodate the protruding bone in her foot, which has limited her sartorial ambitions. So, despite hearing all the horror stories surrounding this surgery, and despite knowing how long the recovery would be, my mother had her sights set on a new mountain of shoes--strappy, pointy and tight.

While my mother's mind was on summer sandals, she forgot to consider the boredom that comes with being told you have to sit on your ass for six weeks. Or the humiliation of needing your loved ones to help you pee. Which means the next shoe my mother is anticipating is a walking boot. This post-operative shoe will allow her to walk around the house, get up and down the stairs and get to the bathroom by herself, while still allowing her foot to heal. And this boot is what will lead to the pair of rhinestone-covered pumps my mother has been dreaming about since she was wheeled into the operating room.

And when it comes to massive surgeries, a pair of shoes is as good an excuse as any to motivate the healing process.

When I was younger, a couple of months before my 16th birthday, I had a major hip surgery to correct for some injuries I sustained in a car accident many years earlier. Much like my mother's surgery, mine was necessary due to pain and limitations. And also like my mother's surgery, I had my own shoe-related visions: I wanted to be able to tie them. Due to the nature of my injuries, I was unable to bend down in a way that would allow me to tie my own shoes. So I spent numerous years forced to wear slip ons. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen to an adolescent in a decade when Doc Martens reigned.

Like my mother's surgery, I was told to sit still for six weeks while my body healed. I was relegated to my father's lumpy recliner and a portable potty chair my parents had set up in front of our bookshelves. That was the summer I formed the irreversible habit of reading while on the toilet.

So for six weeks I just sat there. I read nearly every magazine and book in our house, talked on the phone endlessly, watched the Star Wars trilogy three times and wrote a handful of somber poems. But much of the time I stared at my feet, itching for the moment I could bend down and tie a pair of trendy, 15-pound boots around them.

But eventually the six weeks passed and I was able to stand. Attempt to walk a bit. And over the course of several more months, lots of physical therapy and some awkward stretching exercises, I was able, for the first time in seven years, to lace up my boots.

This was perhaps the most remarkable milestone of my formative years. Passing my driver's test, which I did while wearing my lace up boots, wasn't nearly as life-altering as realizing I could literally wear any type of shoe I wanted. And when you are no longer limited to clogs and flip flops, the world seems pretty much a beautiful swirling pool of limitless possibilities.

I try to keep the memory of my own recovery with me when I call my mother every day to check on her recovery. I can hear the boredom in her voice. She struggles to handle the isolation, but I try to keep her up-to-date on the latest hemlines and weather patterns. I remind her every day that soon, sooner than she thinks, her shoe options will burst wide open. And her vision of rolling around in a pile of sling backs will soon be a reality.

And in the mornings, when I awake to the sound of my child yelling "TOMS!" from her bedroom, I'll try to keep things in perspective. I'll stagger into her room, struggle to find the light switch in her closet, and reach in to touch her many shoes, trying to find her pair of black TOMS. I'll look down at them and sigh a little. I might have planned on her wearing a cute navy and cream outfit that wouldn't really go with black shoes. But before I start to argue with her, convince her another pair would work better, I'll look at her - hair a mess, eyes bright with excitement - and realize what I need to do in the moment:

Tread lightly.