Modeling Clay
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
I’m in the mini-van driving my oldest to her soccer game on a Saturday morning. We cut through a neighborhood I sometimes think I shouldn't cut through, given how many little kids play out front of their houses near the sidewalk. But I like this route because of the tall trees and the chartreuse door we pass on the right. Plus, even driving slow, it’s the fastest route to the fields.
In one of the yards, a man pushes his mower across his lawn. He moves with purpose and intention. He wears sneakers, a t-shirt, and ear protection suitable for work on a tarmac. “Oh how cute!” I practically gasp. My daughter looks up and I nod my head in his direction.
In the same yard, a little boy—I’d guess he is five—wears shorts, a t-shirt, and too-big rain boots. He pushes a yellow plastic mower. His face is serious, and he moves slowly, in the opposite direction of his dad. He has a lollipop in his mouth and, if it wouldn’t make me late or get me arrested, I’d pull this car over right now and squeeze him. He wears ear protection, like his dad, but his is the kind you might plug into a tablet or computer if you didn't want to hear Daniel Tiger sing again. My chest does this twisty-squeezy thing in moments like this—when what I see means more to me than just what I’m seeing. My insides warm and I think about this boy and his dad all day.
***
During what I now refer to as the low-key panic of March 2020, when rumors of schools shutting down filled the air like the sing-songy chirps of springtime birds, I purchased a tub of modeling clay. I also bought construction paper, paint, a few jump ropes, and headphones.
My intentions were simple: collect whatever supplies my kids might use should school go all online. Or, should the school system drag its feet for various reasons, we’d at least have something to do.
Over the next year, the kids cut the paper, cracked open the paint. They ran up and down sidewalks and started to get the hang of jumping rope. All the while, the modeling clay sat unopened and unused. And with all we had going on, I didn’t really care.
***
“How do I do this?” I sit on my bed and pose this question to the cancer counselor I requested to see. We meet once a week over a computer monitor. I’m preparing for a major surgery, and though I’m confident in the decision, I don’t know how to navigate my way through this uncharted path with my kids.
“What if I’m sad? What do I do if my emotions get the better of—I can’t even finish the sentence before tears start to fall, that’s how close everything I’m holding is to the surface. I’ve cried in the shower more times than I can count in the last six months. I’m saturated ground. A levee breached. One more drop of water and it’s over.
I want to be open and honest with my kids about how these months and these circumstances are affecting me. But I also don’t want to scare them. Or burden them. This is not their load to carry. But I don’t know how to manage a life-changing surgery in the middle of this life-changing pandemic. And I don’t want my trial to fire a still-soft spot in their hearts into something solid. I will sit in the kiln, not them.
“You tell them,” the counselor offers. “You show them.” I shift my weight and look out the window at the blue sky, as if I am trying to imagine what showing these emotions actually looks like. “Name your very real feelings,” she says, “—the ones they might be having too.” She tells me this is a chance to show my kids what it looks like to manage powerful emotions in a healthy way.
I hear her, and I’m grateful. But I’m not sure I’m any good at naming emotions, let alone dealing with them in a constructive way.
Kids, I feel the weight of the world, so I’m off to go cry in the shower… again. Kids, I’m nervous about my surgery, let’s eat this pan of cinnamon rolls. Kids, I’m overwhelmed with the volume of information I’m ingesting about injustice, the current government, the coronavirus, my breast cancer, but I also feel guilty if I look away for more than a few hours, so why don’t you start another movie while I make myself a margarita?
“Try this,” the counselor offers, as if giving me an impression I can fit myself into. “I feel sad right now so I’m going to go… and then just say what you’re going to do because it makes you feel better.” She asks me to try.
“I feel sad right now,” I say, as if I’m reading a script. “So, I’m going to go lay down for a few minutes because I usually feel better after I rest.”
“Good,” she says. “What else?”
What else? I make a list: I feel scared, tired, overwhelmed, frustrated. Actually, I’m not exactly sure how I’m feeling, but I’m unsettled. So I’m going to make some tea, read my book, go for a walk, call my friend, read my Bible, sit in the sun, pray, journal… because these things help me feel better, more like myself.
“What if I cry?” I ask, continuing to wipe away tears.
“What if?” she asks me back.
“I mean, won’t it scare them? To see me upset?”
“They see you happy, right?”
“Of course,” I nod my head, already seeing where she’s going with this.
“If they see you happy, why wouldn’t you want to show them how it looks to be sad?”
***
Our neighborhood pool hosts a small triathlon every summer. I don’t participate this year, but I volunteer to direct participants at the turn where the trail meets the bridge. The men and women, almost all of them dads and moms, don’t need my guidance. But I keep my post, clapping and cheering, in anticipation of those who will come next—the ones who just might mix up turn right on the trail and turn left back to the pool.
After the adults finish, there’s a lull, and I wait. Soon, kids begin to trickle towards me. I extend my left arm out and point down the trail. “This way! You can do it!” Some of these kids compete with a smile on their face. Others scuffle by with blotchy cheeks and a hint of tears in their eyes. When they return, I cheer, “You’re almost done! You’re doing a great job!” and almost all of them squeak out a thank you that catches in my throat.
One little boy, he might have been four and surely the smallest participant, runs over the bridge. His mom—his pregnant mom—jogs with lean strong legs half a stride behind him. I point to the left, just in case, but Mom (I’d guess she was around seven months) has all the energy and encouragement and directional intuition to get her little guy down the trail without any of my help.
When they return, my arm now points right. Mom paces herself in well worn shoes, black leggings, and a blue t-shirt covering up her beautifully perfect basketball bump. She hasn’t broken a sweat. Her son is quiet, but keeps going, keeps running, keeps pumping his legs. I can barely say “Great job! You’re almost done!” for the lump in my throat. Which is fine, because the boy, with his light brown hair and innocent eyes, simply continues to listen to Mom. You’re doing great, she says. I’m right here with you. You’re doing it!
***
I don’t know what my children will remember from this last year. I can’t say if any of my quiet declarations: I’m feeling sad, tired, frustrated—even grateful—left an impression on their hearts. But I hope so.
And my prayer is that someday, maybe next week, next year, or a decade from now, when life feels heavy and circumstances press in hard, they’ll remember what it looks like to name an emotion and know what they need to make it through.
***
It’s a Friday morning over the summer, nearly a year and a half since I panic-purchased virtual school supplies. The tub of modeling clay is open on the black table in our kitchen. Three of my four kids sit on their knees with a handful of the white composite. They press and pinch, mold and smooth. I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean my hip against the counter. What made them pull this out? Why this? Why today?
I busy myself with wiping counters and checking email, and after a while, the kids call me over. One child made a snowman-penguin. The figure is small and cute and has flippers and a beak instead of stick arms and a carrot nose. I think his name is Todd. Another child sculpted a flounder—you can tell, Mom, because both his eyes are on one side. And the last created a pinch pot so tiny, only a single tear could fit inside.
“Why’d you guys do this now?” I ask, grabbing my own handful of clay. They shrug—and I accept it. We don’t always know why we use what we’ve been given. We sit together, and they watch me push my thumbs down deep. I stretch and fold and shape my own little creation. Then I cradle it in my hands and present it to them, pleased.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.