Galumphing About

ga·lumph

/ɡəˈləmf/

verb: INFORMAL

To move in a clumsy, ponderous, or noisy manner.

"She galumphed along beside him."

---Oxford English Dictionary

 The other day someone used this word to describe me (and they are not wrong) and while I thought it was a made-up word, Oxford says it’s real. It’s hard to argue with the big book of the mother tongue, so galumph it is. Seriously, my family doesn’t call me Grace because I look like that other famous Kelly girl, who was in the movies. They call me that because, more often than not, I galumph about, bashing into walls and dropping things. It’s been that way my whole life, and while it’s occasionally mortifying, it’s my normal.

When actress Jennifer Lawrence tripped up the stairs on the way to getting her Oscar in 2013, everyone thought she was delightful. It was a well-executed move; honestly, there aren’t a lot of people who can rock an evening gown, stilettos, and a face-plant, but she managed it. Twice, actually. When she arrived at the 2014 Oscars, she biffed it on the red carpet. America’s sweetheart, take two. Somehow it never works that way for me. My random gravity checks seem to happen most often in my kitchen, reaching for a can of frosting…I mean, an apple, and winding up Lulu’s over teakettle onto the floor. I did complete a glamour fall once, wearing a prom dress, and it was epic, but that was before E! and TMZ were around. Also, no red carpet, just a pesky sidewalk curb. It was also pre-social media, thankfully.

 

It’s not just my bones that get bumped around; there’s a real cost to my housewares budget. While paper plates and plastic reduce some risk, you know the real reason we can’t have nice things? Sure, there’s a snorty, hyperactive pug at my house, but she’s innocent. It’s me; it’s all me. Waterford crystal is a favorite of mine, but the few pieces I have are located up on high shelves, and not handled by me. It’s really a bit sad; it’s Irish, beautifully made, and when the sun hits the facets cut into the triangle of my New Year’s Eve Times Square crystal ball ornament, it’s really gorgeous and yet, untouchable.

Still, it’s no use crying over spilled milk, right? A good friend recently nailed it when she said, “You’re a glass half full kind of girl, until you break it, that is.” Spot on, Rickey. It’s become about safety more than grace at this point. When you galumph, rather than glide, there’s often a trail of destruction that follows. Ceramics, glass, sharp objects, and precious knick-knacks are best kept out of my reach. Also, open flames. You know how instead of cursing the darkness, we are told to light a single candle? 

That’s for everyone but me. You can all glow in the flickering light of beeswax; I’ll be the one with the flashlight, likely cursing because the batteries are gone from when I dropped it and broke the cover. You start one small kitchen fire and it’s all, “Can someone check the smoke detectors? Brenda’s making dinner.” In my defense, how could I be expected to know that a glass cooktop stays hot for nearly twenty minutes after you shut it off, so while I didn’t burn the cookies in the oven, they were pretty crispy after sitting on top of the stove…on parchment paper. Pro tip: parchment paper is flammable outside of an oven. Somehow that was never covered in my high school physics and chemistry classes, or Home Ec for that matter.

Actual photo of untouchable Waterford, right next to where I started a fire

So far, there haven’t been any major injuries, if you don’t count a concussion from a run in with a mop and a tile floor, which, truthfully, could happen to anyone. The upside is I am now exempt from mop duty, which is a win if you ask me. As time goes by however, safety has to be a priority. Perhaps wearing my bike helmet in the shower might be a good idea? I’m a big fan of firefighters, but it’s probably wise to just buy a cheeky calendar instead of having them show up at my door because “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” That’s just not a good look for me. In the meantime, flat shoes (but still red) are probably best, along with staying away from stairs, breakables, slippery surfaces, and heavy objects that are easily dropped. Here’s to staying upright:::lifts paper cup in a toast::::

Finding Grace In Failure

“The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and grace, making the best of circumstances.”

---Aristotle

Who among us has not failed? Whether large or small, we have all, at least once, experienced some sort of failure. I failed early and often in math class and still do. Essential addition and subtraction happen easily enough, and maybe even a little multiplication and fractions. When letters are added to mathematical equations, I am lost at C. Perhaps there is a point to algebra, calculus, and trig, but it has been my long-held belief that letters, the very building blocks of poetry and literature, should never be assigned values as crass and one-dimensional as numbers. Words have depth beyond an ocean and breadth beyond mountains. Words can paint a picture; all numbers will do is tell you is how many pages it will take.

Numbers are not the only area in which failure is my constant companion. I have two black thumbs and have managed to kill every plant that’s ever come my way. A cactus, a gift from a friend who traveled to Death Valley, keeled over barely a week after being placed on my kitchen windowsill. Cacti can survive extreme temperatures and a lack of water but put it next to sink that was mostly full of dirty dishes, and it’s game over. So be it, I can always wander over to my neighbor’s garden and snip a few lilacs and munch on a few heirloom tomatoes.

These kinds of failures are small, however, compared to the more significant parts of our lives where failure, with a capital “F,” can be devastating. I’ve raised three children and while it’s been somewhat of a success since none of them have written a tell-all book about what an awful mother I am, watching them reach for what they want, and sometimes fall short of their goals is excruciating. Whether it’s tryouts for a team, looking for a better job, the demands of college academics or other pursuits, failure has come to each of them. As a parent, all you can do is be there, as a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen and someone who can make the Lipton envelope soup and garlic bread when that’s all they want.

A recent article about some high school cheer team that took on kids that didn’t make the cut, but are now on the roster because of parent complaints got me thinking. Failure stinks. It’s hard, it’s demoralizing, and kids don’t always understand why. It’s also an excellent lesson, and it’s the way of the world. We all fail, in small ways and sometimes massive ways. While we might like to “snowplow” ahead of our kids and make sure their path is always smooth, that isn’t the best choice either. There will come a day, after college or whatever, when your kid has their first job. You can’t call them out sick to their boss. You can’t write a note saying that the weekly TPS report isn't done because Jack got back late from a lacrosse game. These children will be adults, and they have to figure it out eventually. So, is failure while they are still in the safe bubble of home a good thing? At some point, it changes from making a complaint to the coach or the teacher to, “This one is on you.” Can you ever stand back and watch them go down? At some point, we all have to say, “You’re screwed, and you better figure it out.” Finding that point is hard though.

I sound like a colossal crank, I know. So many parents would do anything to avoid their kid going down in flames (or getting a B on a test, which, in some homes, is the same thing) and launching the helicopter might work once or twice, but trust me, it’s not a solution. So, then what? Here’s what I think works. You give them every resource you’re able to provide. You give them good advice and support. You make sure they know you love them, no matter what. You tell them what they are good at, and then with a velvet-gloved iron fist, where they need to improve. If, after all that, they bonk? Oh well. Life is tough, and it’s almost never fair. Get used to it.  If they’ve had every opportunity possible, if they knew you were there for them, and yet something still didn’t work out? You look them in the eye and say, “Well, that sucks. Now what?” And then you step the heck away and let them figure it out.

Grace is often found in failure. Hope, renewal, and victory all come after something has gone wrong. Full disclosure, I think my children are amazing. Andy, George, and Devin are three of the best people I know, however, at some point, they have all failed. Personally, I think they are better for it, as am I.