More Lessons from Happy

We’ve talked about this before. I think it’s entirely possible that my kids teach me far, far more than I’ll ever teach them. But this is a good thing, because I’ve discovered that kids are inherently wise, even before they become privy to worldwide flaws.

Take, for instance, my daughter, Happy. It seems like there is always an excess of drama going on in her life. I’m not necessarily sure why, except that she tends to think and talk more like an adult than a pre-teen and other kids often take offense to that. Anyway, last month she had a birthday. And being the bad mother I am, I somehow allowed the month to fly by without making plans to host a birthday party with all her friends. The truth is, there just wasn’t a good day for one that week. So, we decided on a day a few weeks later, and Happy started talking to her friends about it.

This could be a long story, so I’ll shorten it. Another little girl decided to have a party that same weekend, and invited all the same kids. She didn’t, however, invite Happy. In fact, she made a point to discuss her party with other kids in front of Happy, and to let her know that she wasn’t invited.

Happy didn’t cry at first, because like I said, she has a tendency to think like a grownup, and because of that, internalized the hurt, then worked it out physically by going running. She did, however, ultimately decide to cancel her own party because she became convinced that none of her important friends would come due to the other party. That is how valuable she felt. And she took it better than I might have.

Until later. The evening of the other girl’s party, I went to Happy’s room to tell her goodnight and discovered her sobbing into her pillow—hoping I wouldn’t hear. She had her cell phone clutched in her hand, and after I pried it away, I scrolled through the incoming messages to discover that the other girls—the ones at the party—had been taunting her all evening by saying things like, “We’re having so much fun. Don’t you wish you were here?”

There were lots of those texts. From different girls. No wonder Happy was sobbing. I felt like sobbing too.

My first instinct was to intervene. To call parents and teachers and everyone else and fix the situation for her. I spent the rest of the night coming up with all the ways in which I had failed her, and how I could possibly make this right. But the truth is I couldn’t take away her hurt. No one could.

The next school day, I picked Happy up, waiting for an explosion of emotion. But Happy held it in. She put on a brave face, claimed her day was fine, then closed herself in her room. I let her have some time, then decided to offer something I would never before have considered. I went into her room where she’d been crying again and said, “Let’s reschedule your party. You can invite everyone except the girl who didn’t invite you.”

Yes, I realize I was being a tad vindictive. But I was angry that my baby was so hurt. However, she surprised me. She said, “Mom, I could never do something that mean. Even if I hate that girl, I would never, ever make someone else feel the way they made me feel.”

Um. Yeah. She could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Though, I don’t know why I was shocked. That’s the way Happy has always been.

She then proceeded to calmly explain her new birthday celebration plans, which included only two close friends and an amusement center. When I asked her if she was sure she didn’t want a party, or if she wanted me to call parents (you know, as a fall-back) she said, “No. I can handle this. I’m not a baby. Just because they made me cry doesn’t mean I won’t survive. Besides, I don’t want to hang out with people who don’t want to hang out with me.”

Again, shock. I know these things about her already. But Happy just turned twelve. Did I mention she has a tendency to act more like a grownup than some adults?

See, here’s the thing. Somehow, Happy and I tend to end up in similar places at similar times. I’m starting to think that these things happen to her in order to teach me how to deal with my own issues. Because her thinking and her reactions are more logical and more—well, sane—than mine. In recent months, she has taught me how to rise above adversity, how to make the best of an unhappy situation, and how to react to hurtful comments and situations with love and understanding.

Happy is a twelve-year-old grownup. And she taught me something else this time. Happy has convinced me that when something hurts, it’s okay to cry.

What Happy Taught Me

By Nichole Giles

One of the things you learn when you become a parent is how to cheer for your children in their chosen art or sport. In our family, the boys are the artists and the girls the sportswomen. This took some discovering, but over the years, my husband and I have done our best to help nurture them all in whichever way is necessary. We want to encourage them to move forward with whatever sport or art in which they have passion.

Unfortunately, whenever large groups of girls play sports together, it has the potential to become a popularity contest more than a sports competition. Sometimes, it’s a lot of both, and that’s where things get very difficult. Something like this happened this year to my eleven-year-old daughter. I’ll call her Happy in this post. (As in the dwarf, not the emotion.)

It all started with an adult. The woman is the wife of one of our church leaders, and someone Happy has looked up to in the past with a bit of awe and respect. This woman decided to put together a basketball team, using all the girls in our neighborhood and ward. After coaching girls’ basketball (city league) for several years, she’s learned how to circumvent the city’s way of dividing the teams up so they are evenly matched. This woman picked her favorite and best players, leaving out only one girl in a very large area. In fact, she went to lengths to recruit girls from other areas to fill her team, deliberately leaving that girl out—for reasons unbeknownst to anyone other than the wicked coach herself. That poor lone girl is my Happy.

There’s more to explain here, but that would make for a long story. Suffice it to say, all of Happy’s friends got on the team. Except Happy. Who is a very good basketball player and has no idea why she was ousted. Neither do her parents.

Even more unfortunate, none of Happy’s friends understood why she wasn’t on the team. They asked her about it. Repeatedly. Telling her how they were recruited and wondering why they don’t get to play together. The friends didn’t understand that they were making Happy feel even worse. Happy was heartbroken.

She cried herself to sleep for two weeks. So did her mother.

Happy was hurt. But I was angry. So angry at this wicked, awful woman (I’m trying to be G rated here) who had the nerve to hurt my child so deeply. And guilty. My DH and I became certain that it was somehow our fault—that we’ve somehow done something to make this happen. Offended someone or said the wrong thing. But it didn’t matter at this point. No degree of arguing with the city people would get her on that team. Even if she wanted it anymore. Which she didn’t. (Side note, wicked, awful coach-lady wouldn’t return our calls either. She knew what she’d done.)

I could think of no solution to help my daughter feel better other than to offer for her to not play basketball this year.

That was the wrong thing to say. How dare I even suggest it? Happy loves basketball. Always has. And she’s good at it. Very good. Why wouldn’t she play just because some stupid crazy-lady wants to create a ringer team and not invite her? Happy tells me she’ll play anyway. In whichever team the city places her. And she’ll practice hard. Very hard so that when Happy’s new team plays against the ringers, she can wipe the floor with them. All by herself if necessary.

Fast forward a few weeks. The holidays came and went, and when the season started, Happy went to her first practice and realized that her new team of strangers has a good coach and some pretty decent players. All was not lost. They won a few games. Happy felt confident. And smiled because she was happy again.

Then the day came when the two teams played each other. Happy had been preparing herself mentally, physically, and emotionally for a long time.

*Switching to commentary mode*

They tip the basketball. Happy is off. She has the ball. She’s fast. She plays hard. She is aggressive. She runs, she shoots, she scores, she rebounds. She’s…amazing. Incredible. Fantastic.

The other parents stop watching their own children because they can’t stop watching Happy. The husband of the evil-coach is heard exclaiming in amazement about Happy’s abilities. Other parents know she is my daughter and ask where she learned to play. (I have no answer. Not from me. My guess is that she’s channeling her emotions much like I do when I write.)

Happy doesn’t miss. Happy’s coach is ecstatic. Doesn’t want to take her out. She wouldn’t come out anyway.

**End commentator mode. **

In the end, Happy’s team missed a few too many baskets and lost by one point. But Happy felt good. She played hard. She showed them what she’s made of, what they missed out on. She kicked their butts to China and then brought them back on a wooden platter. She shined the floor with them. Even though the other team won.

Everyone who mattered saw. And she knew it.

This time, for her, it wasn’t about winning or losing or about who likes who more than someone else or who doesn’t like someone else or who was popular. It was about proving to herself that she has value. That she is as good as them. Better even. And that she doesn’t need her friends (even if she loves them) to make her into a good player. She is already good. And the rest doesn’t matter. She has won. And the tears were worth it.

Epilogue: Mom and dad are now thinking we have a star on our hands and wondering about putting her in a more competitive league where she can learn and grow. Where other players can give her some competition and make her even better. Can we say scholarship material? Yeah. It’s like that.

And since I’ve been experiencing a similar-type snub, I’m trying to learn from Happy’s example. I don’t need my friends to make me good. All I need is to keep going, keep pushing forward and working hard. Put my heart and soul into my work, the way she did in that game. The rest doesn’t matter. I have already won. And the tears I’ve shed will be worth it.

(*Evil coach lady couldn’t look at us in church today. Even though she teaches Happy’s class now. (Bad form, even for an evil coach.) She is embarrassed and humiliated. She should be.*) Tee hee.

Lesson of the day: Carry on and be like Happy.

Until We All Meet Again

By Nichole Giles

We prayed and prayed. And even though I wasn’t good at fasting—my body had always struggled to do without essential vitamins for more than 8 hours—we held a family fast. For the first time in 10 years, I was able to fast for a full 24 hours. But it wasn’t enough.

Carol was dying. Through all our prayers, our fasting, and many priesthood blessings, my husband Gary’s mother had survived—but after all was said and done, not one of us could deny the conviction with which we knew that the cancer would take her. She knew it too, and did her best to prepare the rest of us.

Meanwhile, life went on around her. The kids started school, my husband went to work, stores had monster sales, politicians campaigned for seats on the city council, and my two younger sisters planned weddings.

The first wedding, despite a somewhat tenuous relationship between the husband and wife-to-be, came together beautifully. My family handled all the preparations except the food, and we worked together as a team. It was perhaps one of the most beautiful settings for a wedding I had ever seen, but they didn’t get married in the temple. I listened to the finality of the bishop’s words, “For all your time on earth” and felt an undeniable sadness that my baby sister might never know the benefits of eternity.

The next wedding was different. You could feel it in everything. Again my family banded together to take care of the details, but this time, Gary and I were the only immediate family members who were able to attend the actual ceremony to see my sister sealed to her husband. I was the lucky one who escorted her through the endowment session the evening before. I held her hand, her face glowing and radiant, as she sat waiting for her true love to escort her through the veil.

I sat in the temple that day with my husband, watching my sister and her love join hands in bliss, and pondered the meaning of it all. Love and death. Here in this room, I could accept that Carol would soon be gone. Here in this room I could accept that this union I was witnessing would bring forth new life. And yet, tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks.

The next day, even though I was only twenty-eight, I sat in a chair usually reserved for the mother of the bride—a place I was more than honored to sit—while the beautiful couple was joined for eternity. I had never been so proud.

The reception was a celebration to behold, and stretched out into the night long after the newlyweds were gone. I celebrated too, danced with my husband, my father, and both of my sons. And joy of joys, my daughter made a point of telling me that she hoped someday she would get to be married in the temple. And so we celebrated life.

Early the next morning, we received a phone call from Gary’s sister, Jennifer. “Mom’s going to be leaving us soon,” she said. “She slipped into a coma in the night, and we’re afraid it’s only a matter of minutes before she’s gone.”

Gary’s parents’ house wasn’t far away—only two miles or so—and we were dressed and there in record time. Jennifer was right. Carol’s eyes looked bruised—surrounded as they were by prominent dark circles—and they were closed. Every breath she took seemed to come right back out again, never seeming to make it anywhere deeper than her throat. The cancer had spread to her lungs and liver, causing her liver to shut down completely and allow fluid to build up inside her until she looked like a balloon that would pop. Her skin was a ghastly yellow pallor.

We gathered there, in that tiny bedroom, twelve people waiting for death. But Carol held on, insisting—even as she left this world—on waiting for everyone to arrive. One by one, her children and family members came to join the bedside vigil. Those last moments were precious as we each took a moment to tell her goodbye, shedding loving tears as she took her last breath and left us to pass through the veil.

Though she wasn’t my natural mother, a part of me felt broken, missing. We wandered around like zombies, fighting off the raw ache in order to do what needed to be done. Someone called the mortuary. Someone else started a phone tree to extended family members and close friends. An obituary was written, and the children were fed.

During all this, I couldn’t help but ponder the rapid pace at which joy turned into pain. It hurt. It hurt so bad I didn’t know how to deal with the feelings welling up inside me. Carol was no longer the person in pain—that was us now. By her leaving us behind, the roles had reversed.

Several days later, my sister returned from her honeymoon and called to see how we were doing. She sounded so happy—so utterly in love and at peace. And then it clicked. That feeling I’d been searching for returned. Of course we would see Carol again. My small children would have the opportunity to know her in another life, and to impart of her love and wisdom. And though they didn’t know it now, they would someday pass her genes and her spirit on to their children—who would also get to know her. The circle of life mirrors the blessings of eternity.

Lucky for me, I had a rare, and profound opportunity to witness both in a matter of two days.

It’s been six years since Carol passed away, but we remember her every day. Sometimes I feel the nearness of her spirit, and know she’s watching over us, taking time out of her busy schedule to protect us and help lead us in the right direction to find happiness and the fulfillment of our destinies.

Also in that time, between my two sisters and my married brother, I’ve gained three nieces and two nephews. I love those kids. I even got to witness two of them being born into the world. Life continues on into eternity.

And so it goes, until we all meet again

Carefully Sincere Words

By Nichole Giles

There are a lot of words that fall off of people’s tongues with ease. Those who’ve been taught to say things like please and thank you in their youth often say it habitually, without ever needing to be reminded. It’s a good habit, as long as you remember to be sincere when you say it. I know people who have become so accustomed to ending a conversation with phrases like “love ya, bye,” that the words have become more of a closing statement than a declaration of feelings. And consequently, the phrase ends up inadvertently being used at an inappropriate time or to a person for whom the words are awkward.

I’ve noticed that adults have a tendency—just like teenagers—to latch onto certain phrases and keep them, only unlike our younger counterparts, our “sticking” words usually aren’t words like “ish” and “random.” I’ve even heard habitual “sorry’s” from people who have nothing to be sorry about. (Okay, I admit, that would be me. “I’m sorry your sister’s nephew’s cat got stuck in the chimney and ruined your great-grandmother’s carpet…”)

We get used to saying words that sometimes fly out of our mouths without thought, and in the process, the words tend to lose their meanings.

Some of the truest, most observant phrases come from children who haven’t yet had time to gather a vocabulary of sticking words. Sometimes the things our children say can be embarrassing to adults and parents because of the truthfulness behind them. But sometimes the statements made by toddlers unknowingly become an example to the adults who hear them.

Last week I went to visit my sister who lives out of state. I mainly went to spend time with her family. They have a newborn baby and I wanted desperately to meet her (and hold her, and snuggle her.) While I was there, my four-year-old nephew invited one of his little friends over to play. As they played make-believe, one super-hero (dressed-up) boy crashed into one super-girl. They hit heads and as a result, tears were shed.

My nephew, Colby, put his arms around his friend and said, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

She replied with a sniffle. “I forgive you.”

For them, it was just that simple. And then all was well, and they went back to playing dress-up. As I watched this, I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel for life, and apology or repentance to be so simple.

Except, what if it is? Or if it isn’t, what if it can be? We may not be able to control how others will react when we repent or forgive, but we can do our best to be sincere and true when we say certain important words like, “I’m sorry,” and “I forgive you.” “You’re welcome,” or “I love you.”

I wonder…if everyone around me were able to think about the words they say as they say them, how would our relationships be strengthened? Would we adults be able to hear or say the words, “I’m sorry,” and then forgive well enough to stand up, put the past behind us, and go back to whatever we were doing before?

I don’t know, but what a wonderful experiment to try. In 2009, I’m resolving to think through my own words, to listen to the ones spoken to me, and to be sincere in my important statements. Maybe if I start with me, the people around me will make that same effort. Or not. But if I hope to make a change, the best place to start is with myself.