A Letter

Dear Hadley and Harper,

I like to take an aerobics class that is particularly hard for me to keep up with.  The issue isn’t a matter of endurance, it is that the footwork is difficult.  Just when I think I have the steps down, the instructor moves to the next part of the routine, or adds a few steps in between beats, thus making it a bit of a whirlwind for me to keep up.

The rest of the class knows what they’re doing.  These people don’t mess around. One woman throws in moves before the instructor even calls them.  Her feet move so fast, her kicks are so high, her punches probably deadly.  She is a ball of energy.  I like to stand next to her when I’m in class.

Sometimes I have to stop and watch to see the steps so I can try again.  Or sometimes, during a water break, I will do a part of the routine slowly to try and figure out the breakdown in the steps.  At times, I will get the routine.  More often then not, though, I fumble my way through it.

Once during a class, I fell.  I misjudged where the step was and tripped over it.  A couple of people came over to see if I was OK. I nodded, got back up, fixed my step, and kept going.  I wasn’t hurt.  I felt a little stupid, but I was having too much fun to stop.  I wanted to get back into it – sweating and stepping with a group of people I was trying to keep up with.

I want you to know about my aerobics class because even though I may not be good at it, even though it’s hard, even though I fall, these things aren’t enough to make me stop.  I love the feeling of my muscles warming up, of my breath starting to shorten.  I love the pulse of the music – the louder the better – and I love moving my body to its beat.

This blog documents our days together, and I am told it’s a nice thing for me to do for you so you can see it when you get older.  However, I have a confession to make: I started this blog because I want to write.  Writing for me is a lot like working out – it’s scary and extremely hard.  I feel stupid most of the time and a little nauseous, but I love to tell stories.  I love pushing my pen across the paper trying to understand what it is I’m trying to say.  I love that I have had a scar on my left finger since first grade from gripping my pen or pencil.  The feelings that I’m not good enough,  that I can’t write,  or I that don’t know what I’m talking about, are not enough to make me stop trying.

That doesn’t mean I don’t get scared to try.  You probably won’t remember this, but last Friday as you and I stood in line at the Post Office, I was scared.  So scared that I was unable to seal an envelope that held several pages of my words in it.  As we inched our way to the counter, I handed the envelope to you, Harper, so you could seal it.  And Hadley, I gave the envelope to you so you could hand it to the lady behind the counter. I’m quite certain that packet would not have been mailed if you two weren’t there to help me mail it.  Suddenly I decided what I wrote was not good enough and this dream of mine to be a student again was ridiculous.

Hadley, you told me one day in a fit of frustration that you wished whistling was never invented.  When I asked you why, you said, “Because I can’t do it.  And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do it.  So I wish it weren’t alive.”

I wasn’t sure what to say then, but I want to tell you this now: You may never be able to whistle, but you can still try to do it.  And if you find that you can’t in fact whistle, perhaps you can stand next to someone who can.  Perhaps you will find that while that person whistles, you will dance along.  Perhaps you will sing.  Maybe you’ll come up with words to the tune your friend is whistling.

My sweet girls, in your life, you will fail.  In your life, you will find that there are things you cannot do.  That doesn’t mean you have to stop enjoying them.  That doesn’t mean you have to stop trying to do these things.  And when you fail, you can be sad.  You can cry.  You can take yourself out for chocolate milk and ice-cream, or whatever your favorite treat is at the time.

 

Then after you’ve cried, I want you to try to whistle again.

Love,

Mama