12% of a moment

Nobody reads my blog. This is not self disparagement or pity, it's fact. Well, three people may be reading my blog. I know this because I only shared it with three people. The fear that someone might disagree with or dislike my writing usually prevents me from sharing more than 140 characters at a time. Sending the link to those three people was almost physically painful for me. I did so solely to test my theory: that knowing readers anticipated more would motivate me to continue lest this be chalked up to another project enthusiastically begun then carelessly tossed aside. Sometimes the fear of inadequacy actually works for me. I am at the keyboard for the second time in as many days. So even if you never opened the link, I am grateful to you three potential readers for providing me an audience. Someday I will be willing to share my writing more openly, but for now I remain within my safe little circle; three is the magic number.

Recently I found myself in an uncomfortably familiar situation. I've been helping my son create a blog, and last night we celebrated its launch. My genuine happiness for him was laced with jealousy. This was something I wanted to do. There is safety in supporting someone else who takes risks. Attempting while accepting the lack of control over results has never come easily to me. Yet I deeply regret depriving myself of the intoxicating sense of accomplishment that comes merely from the endeavor. I preach to my children incessantly this powerful philosophy: trying is succeeding, succumbing to fear is failing, actual results are somewhat interesting afterthoughts. I am a hypocrite. At least I was. All of that changed when Matt and I made the decision to uproot our four kids, sell our house in a down market, bid farewell to both sides of the family + a lifetime worth of friends and move to San Francisco.

Turns out risk taking is slightly addictive. Fortunately I am no longer interested in the types of risk frequently accompanied by mug shots or STDs. Still, there is a certain adrenaline rush that comes with that first step into new territory. Moving was terrifying yet incredibly empowering. My husband chose a house for us and I signed on, sight unseen. There are no neighborhood schools in SF, and we had missed the much discussed, often maligned lottery process by which families are assigned to them. I spent a few stressful weeks at the SFUSD office, overflowing with angry, depressed people all waiting waiting waiting; some people openly wept in this waiting room where hope goes to die. Somehow both boys were assigned to the same school, a few blocks from our new house. That the school was rated 1 on the scale of 10 = amazing and 1 = abysmal, I cared not. I have committed, I am invigorated, I will make this work! The 3 year old twins would be attending "the mom school," as the odds of finding two spots in a place I liked and could afford at the end of July were only slightly better than those of hitting a straight superfecta. The reality of our new life was unfamiliar and somewhat inconvenient. I was the largely unsupported transition facilitator for four kids and a husband in a new job, all of whom seem violently allergic to change.

Why, people asked us, did you move into the city when Matt's company is in a safe family community on the peninsula? Why would you move into SF with four kids and a commitment to public education at the time when most families abandon ship to head for the suburbs? Why would you leave your family + friends to live in a place where you have no community while your children are so young? To all of these questions and more we answered: it felt like the right thing to do, and the right time to do it. More importantly, I am acutely aware that what I do will impress my children in a stronger, more lasting way than what I say. I want my children to take chances in life, to attempt things they fear they cannot do. Hopefully, they will explore new places and perspectives, approach life with open minds and be teachable. But if I do not model this, it is unlikely to happen. Faced with a choice between more of the same or a horizon widening adventure, Matt and I chose the latter. And this has made all the difference.

In a little over two years, I have felt my own perspective shift in interesting ways. When people tell me their 'gifted' children are not challenged by their school's curriculum I find that my priorities are different now. My children need to learn to work cooperatively with other people, including those who may possess life experiences, resources and ways of communicating that are unlike their own. The importance (and, frankly, challenge) of grammar pales in comparison. I've also pushed myself to take more risks. When my son began to sing, I discovered an inner musician never fulfilled by weekly childhood piano lessons in the musty house of a tone deaf, though occasionally kind old lady. I took up the banjo, an instrument far too impractical by the norms I'd internalized: beige walls go with everything and nice girls do not wear red pants.

Raising children has provided an incredible, and sometimes painful tour through my own paradigms and their origins.  Reassessing, discarding and replacing old beliefs is powerfully transformative. The lesson of Jackson's blog is that the moment I realize I am cheering from the sidelines instead of playing the game, I am compelled to take action. The cheering is not, in itself a lesser endeavor, but I finally know better than to think I will be content if I don't play.