To my children, and all children, after yet another terrorist attack:
I wish I could fix it. I wish I could fix the broken, hurting parts of this world you are growing up in. I wish I could shield you from the hatred and sadness and fear that we sometimes see. I wish I could tell you that it’s all just a bad dream and the whole entire world is perfectly perfect and peaceful, and that nothing terrible like this will ever happen again. Ever.
But I can’t. I can’t fix it. I can’t get rid of all the pain in this world. And I can’t even give you all the answers, because sometimes there are no answers to this type of hate.
But there is something I can do. And more important, there is something that you can do. When really, really bad things happen, it’s hard not to feel helpless and weak and scared. But I’m not helpless, and neither are you. We have a very important strength, and that strength is called “good.”
It may sound simple, and it is. Often the most powerful things are the simple ones.
Think of the world as a big bucket. Some people try to fill the bucket with hate. They try to hurt people, they try to bring fear and sadness. It’s so shocking and sad that sometimes the good guys just stand there overwhelmed, feeling helpless, and they lose sight of the power they have. And if good guys just ignore the bucket while those wanting to bring pain keep filling it, the bucket will be filled with bad.
Here’s the great news: there are way more people wanting to do good in this world than people who are wanting to add pain. Most people in this world are good. So if the good people, like you, start filling the bucket with good, the bucket will have more good than bad in it, and eventually it will overflow with goodness and love and kindness.
Every good person can add good to the bucket in their own way. Adding good can mean being a friend to someone who is lonely. Adding good can mean giving away a toy to someone who needs it more than you do. Adding good can mean baking cookies for a soldier or firefighter, or taking blankets and food to the homeless. Adding good can be drawing a beautiful picture for someone who isn’t feeling well, or cheering up someone who is sad with a sweet, funny note.
There are thousands of ways to add good to the bucket, and none of them is too small or insignificant. So when you feel scared or when someone tries to add hatred to the bucket, use your special strength and keep pouring more and more good in.
Every little drop of good matters. You matter. You are not helpless. You are the good this world so desperately needs.
Control can easily become obsession, and our obsession can tighten around us like a chain, preventing us from having range of motion—and emotion—to live a full life.
Similarly, I have a hard time letting go of negative emotions just because they are negative. Negativity itself isn’t motivation enough to get moving; I need something healthier to actually walk toward. Instead of just stifling the energy I give to my controlling tendencies, I have to channel those impulses and redirect that energy. I need to do something positive. I need to add good to the bucket.
As a parent, I’ve learned to make my plans in pencil, not Sharpie. Two Christmases ago was our first holiday season in a new house and I was eager to make some new memories with my family. My ex-husband was sleeping over, as has become a tradition on Christmas Eve, so that my older kids can have both their parents on Christmas morning. The tree was decorated, the presents were finally wrapped, and I had stayed up late, prepping both Nutella and cinnamon buns so all I’d have to do in the morning was take them out of the fridge and pop them in the oven. Just as I was finally ready to crawl into bed at 1:30 a.m., utterly exhausted yet completely excited for the following morning—a mix of feelings many moms I know associate with Christmas Eve—I heard my son Luka screaming in pain. I ran to his room and found him burning up with a fever and clutching the lower side of his stomach, just above his hip. I woke up his dad, who was in the guest room, and we rushed to the emergency room together. After a CAT scan, we were told he immediately needed surgery to remove his appendix.
So instead of spending Christmas morning surrounded by my whole family, eating homemade cinnamon buns in my pajamas in my new home, I found myself once again, just like the day Luka was born, in a hospital with my firstborn and his dad, being reminded of how little in this life I can actually control. I watched on FaceTime as Ari and Matea and Philip opened presents while my ex-husband and I sat in our teenager’s hospital room, eating vending machine food. My amazing son cracked jokes through his pain and we made plans to hold a memorial service for his appendix, which Luka had brilliantly named “Jimi Appendrix.” On the television set in the background, Forrest Gump sat on a bench telling a stranger, “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.’” Yup, Forrest, I know exactly what you mean.
Twelve
Mind Your Own Motherhood
On the flight to meet Philip’s parents, Lou and Judy, for the first time, I informed Philip that sometime during our weeklong visit, I’d like to have a frank conversation with his mom about my relationship with her son. I was planning on waiting until we’d had a few days to get to know each other, and Philip agreed that waiting was a good idea.
But apparently, I’m not good at waiting (especially when it comes to waiting to talk). So on the same day we arrived, only a few hours after meeting Philip’s parents, we were out for dinner when I turned to Judy and said, “I want to talk to you about something important.”
Philip gave me his surprised “Really? Already?” look.
Philip is much more patient and rational than I am. He usually tries to get through the introductory small talk before delving into deep and serious soul-searching. I don’t know if it’s my blunt Croatian culture pushing through or something more individual and innate, but I’m allergic to small talk and I couldn’t resist the impulse to cut straight to the real talk and lay everything out on the table.
I dove right in. “Judy, I want to talk to you mom to mom, and I want to be completely blunt and honest with you. If my son comes to me one day and tells me that he’s met a girl he’s in love with, that she’s divorced, that she’s the single mom of two very young kids, that she’s barely making it financially and has dealt with a lot of depression and stress in the past few years, I would have some major, major concerns, to say the least. And to be honest, that type of girl would probably not be my ideal dream for my son, not exactly what I would hope for him. So, if you have any concerns about me, about your son dating me, I completely understand. I get it! And if you have any questions for me, I want to be as open with you as possible, so please know that there is absolutely nothing you can ask me or say to me that would be out of line.”
Philip’s mom looked at me and, echoing the same passion and sincerity with which I had just spoken, responded, “And I want you to know that I have never seen my son this happy. I have had many honest conversations with him since the two of you started dating, and I have no concerns. And I also want you to know that if someday you marry my son, and I hope you do, those kids of yours will be my grandchildren, and I will treat them as such and love them just as much as I love my own blood.”