My sister called my cell last Friday morning while I was sitting in Berkeley Springs at a baseball game. "Mommy collapsed. I am taking her to the hospital."
Our mother is 88. She had just come out of a pretty difficult water aerobics class--yes, you read that right--and grabbed some groceries at Food Lion. Upon reaching my sister's vehicle, she went straight down. First miracle: Straight down. Not forward on her face, nor backward on her head. She didn't break or bruise a thing. A couple men were standing by and rushed to my mother's aid. Another man stopped his car and helped them get her up and into my sister's car. She was weak and listless. My sister tore back to my mother's house and grabbed her medicine, the things she takes daily, because she knew she would be asked. She put our mother's cold stuff in the fridge. People have questioned that. I would have done the same thing. It's the parent-child relationship. I don't know exactly what's wrong but Mommy will want her food put away. There was a sweetness to the action, and not a foolishness. Because even though we're grown women who have raised (and are raising) our own children, we are still daughters, and within that relationship we still retain some of the thoughts and feelings of little girls toward their mommies. So, the cold stuff got put away.
As they flew to the hospital, my sister did all the stroke tricks and our mother did not pass. Along the way, my sister asked a zillion questions, even one particular question that, considering the circumstances, was necessary--but it certainly took a lot of courage to ask: "Mom, do you want to be cremated like Daddy?" Second Miracle: They didn't wreck or get pulled over. One of the sweetest songs ringing in my heart right now is that while my mother was continuing in her stroke, God ministered to her in a precious way. He tells us in John 14:26 that He will recall His Word to our remembrance. She recited Psalm 23 in the midst of her situation. And He caused her to be able to. I was wondering about calling that fact the Third Miracle, but her ability to recite scripture in the midst of her uncertainty was not a miracle, rather a promise. I have a mother whose every breath is a thankful one, whose every hope is in the Lord Jesus.
By the time they made it to the hospital, my mother's left arm was retracted and her mouth drooped on one side. The amazing folks in the ER whisked her into the back, evaluated her and sped her off for a CAT Scan. (BTW--thanks for that! You saved our sweet Mama's life!) By the time I reached the consultation room, the Scan was in progress and we were about to meet the neurologist. His team finished the Scan and he confirmed our fears. Until that point, I nearly had myself convinced she had forgotten to take her blood pressure meds, that this wasn't actually a stroke, that she simply needed to get back on track with her pills. The neurologist was kind and encouraging. She had been given a clot-busting drug and was responding well. As Mommy was transferred to ICU, we updated our sibs, spouses, kids and other family members.
Miracle Three: I remained strong and without tears. The next day a whole bunch of us gathered in the ICU waiting room and wore out the double doors into the unit--two at a time. The strangest thing occurred. Our mother remembered every second of the previous day. She recalled her water aerobics class, her grocery trip, the exact sensation as she collapsed (complete weakness), the men picking her up and placing her into the passenger seat of my sister's car, the ride to the hospital. She seemed great.
And then, the next day she seemed less great, and today less so. She is fragile, yet still, even within the weakness of her body, she is encouraging and sweet, and funny. The nurse asked her today if she knew where she was. When she said she did know, her nurse continued: "Where are you?" ISRAEL. Israel? My heart dropped. And then I saw my sly Mommy wink at my youngest daughter.
I don't know what our tomorrow will bring, but there is One who does, and it's on Him that I have to cast this one. That became crystal clear tonight when I sobbed my eyeballs out because I feel so terribly lost when I think of, perhaps, losing my mother.
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Children. Show all posts
Monday, April 21, 2014
Friday, April 11, 2014
Praise the Lord and Pass the Potatoes: I'm Back!
And so it's April of 2014. The last time I even visited Momma to Momma was nine months ago. My excuse? I can only say that some things take awhile to come back.
I had a friend once, a Cub Scout mom and a huge crafter. My friend lost her baby boy. She never returned to Scouting or crafting. In the first months after my dear one's accident, life regained its busy pace--everybody went to a camp or two; I studied Appalachian culture at a local university; we got the dogs and a cat fixed; the bills rolled in and money flew out; we bought groceries; we planned a wedding; we deposited our girl in college; we fought off the wolves howling at the door; we sat around campfire after campfire and grinned at each other because we still had the right amount of kids. God had graciously allowed us to keep our daughter. Anyone peeping in would think our lives were exactly the same as they had been before her accident, that while we had nearly unraveled last May, we were all wound into a perfectly together ball of family again. We even thought so.
Sometime last Fall, it hit me that I had not written a poem in a long time. I had not flipped on the karaoke that's always set up in the kitchen. I had not slept a whole night through. I had not attempted even one tiny piece of art. I had not watched a movie without nodding off. I had not finished a novel, jumped on the trampoline, napped, surprised my husband, or journaled anything (not my Bible studying, my feelings nor my project ideas). I was distracted by what ifs. Hyper-vigilance set in. I needed to know where every one of the children was at all times. I asked them to call me when they went someplace, answer the phone if I rang it, and call me the second they got where they were going. I stayed awake nights until I could place each child on the proper shelf. I tried to reason the law of averages but to no avail. Sometimes tragedies are visited upon the same people multiple times. That law does not really apply to situations involving horrible, life-altering events. If I thought about our daughter's accident, my brain followed an ever-deepening groove back to the moment my cell rang and all I could hear was her friend screaming on the other end of the line.
It has taken months of baby steps to allow my adult children to live their own lives without reporting to me constantly. I still need to hear their beautiful voices every day or two. Each time I push through a potentially dangerous time without calling or cautioning, I move a wee bit closer to being better than I was before. Some might say I should seek counseling. I am seeking God. Mighty Counselor. And it's working, because here I am.
In the past couple months I have written two poems, slept through the night, made several tiny pieces of art, watched a movie without nodding off, finished a novel, napped and journaled. I have also started a graduate program in Geography.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go flip on the karaoke--gonna spend my evening as Janis, Patsy, and so many of my musical heroes in between. Busted flat in Baton Rouge...
I had a friend once, a Cub Scout mom and a huge crafter. My friend lost her baby boy. She never returned to Scouting or crafting. In the first months after my dear one's accident, life regained its busy pace--everybody went to a camp or two; I studied Appalachian culture at a local university; we got the dogs and a cat fixed; the bills rolled in and money flew out; we bought groceries; we planned a wedding; we deposited our girl in college; we fought off the wolves howling at the door; we sat around campfire after campfire and grinned at each other because we still had the right amount of kids. God had graciously allowed us to keep our daughter. Anyone peeping in would think our lives were exactly the same as they had been before her accident, that while we had nearly unraveled last May, we were all wound into a perfectly together ball of family again. We even thought so.
Sometime last Fall, it hit me that I had not written a poem in a long time. I had not flipped on the karaoke that's always set up in the kitchen. I had not slept a whole night through. I had not attempted even one tiny piece of art. I had not watched a movie without nodding off. I had not finished a novel, jumped on the trampoline, napped, surprised my husband, or journaled anything (not my Bible studying, my feelings nor my project ideas). I was distracted by what ifs. Hyper-vigilance set in. I needed to know where every one of the children was at all times. I asked them to call me when they went someplace, answer the phone if I rang it, and call me the second they got where they were going. I stayed awake nights until I could place each child on the proper shelf. I tried to reason the law of averages but to no avail. Sometimes tragedies are visited upon the same people multiple times. That law does not really apply to situations involving horrible, life-altering events. If I thought about our daughter's accident, my brain followed an ever-deepening groove back to the moment my cell rang and all I could hear was her friend screaming on the other end of the line.
It has taken months of baby steps to allow my adult children to live their own lives without reporting to me constantly. I still need to hear their beautiful voices every day or two. Each time I push through a potentially dangerous time without calling or cautioning, I move a wee bit closer to being better than I was before. Some might say I should seek counseling. I am seeking God. Mighty Counselor. And it's working, because here I am.
In the past couple months I have written two poems, slept through the night, made several tiny pieces of art, watched a movie without nodding off, finished a novel, napped and journaled. I have also started a graduate program in Geography.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go flip on the karaoke--gonna spend my evening as Janis, Patsy, and so many of my musical heroes in between. Busted flat in Baton Rouge...
Monday, July 1, 2013
Big God/Little Me
Around 2:30 on May 15 I texted my daughter, and texted her. She is 18 and we always connect in the afternoon to see what the rest of the day's plans will look like. And texted. Alone in my elementary classroom, I worried, but not desperately. Sometimes service is sketchy at the high school. A few minutes later, the approaching whine of an emergency vehicle, and I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I knew in a way that only a mother can, that something bad had just crashed into my life. Against all logic, I began to pray for my daughter. It was the first day she had driven to school, and my head kept telling me she was in Mr. M.'s class, certainly not out driving around. My heart screamed something completely different at me.
When my cell phone rang a minute later, I understood that my heart had informed me accurately. My daughter had been in a very bad accident, but she was talking. That helped. The story that began to play out in our lives at that point is filled with grit and strength on my daughter's part; she has become my hero. But even bigger, is the story of lavish miracles and boundless grace--events that could never be coincidence. God is so crazy big. Every time I consider His provisions, His answers to prayer, I am nearly brought to my knees. My dearest love is healing. She is being restored moment by moment, by the hand of the Great Physician.
As a mother, I have come under much fire for being overprotective, strict. It's been a hard label, as I have always wanted to be fun. I believe my fears were planted in my heart at an early age by my own family. I was the baby sister; my sisters were 11 and 14 when I was born. My sense of the world was defined early on by my mother's mantra: "Be careful! Watch the baby! Don't let anything happen to the baby!" When I became a mother at 27, I was initially fun and hip--right up until a young boy from our community was snatched and never returned. Every repressed worry surfaced and began to define my parenting. (If my kids didn't have a daredevil for a father they would have been sunk.). An inner vow took hold and chained me to caution: "Be careful! Watch the baby! Don't let anything happen to the baby!" Over time, I began to believe that my vigilance kept my children safe.
Not so. I had no idea my daughter was not in school at 2:30 on May 15. I thought she was tucked safely into Mr. M.'s class retaking a final. And if I had known, I could not have kept her safe. It is not within my power, nor my control, to hold back the crushing force of a vehicle collapsing in on itself. It is not within my power to place a barrier between a soft, warm body and three solid, rigid trees. I could not have kept anything from happening to the baby. I wasn't there.
But Someone so much more able was there, and continues to be. He is healing the child, and freeing the mother. Hallelujah.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Sweet Sweet Journey
Last weekend, several of us had a good chuckle over our 20-year-old's tub of stuff. This is the stuff I collected over the years and stuffed into a tub with his name on the lid.
Here's the question: Was I collecting for him, or for me? Because I really believe that Me Then knew somehow that Me Now would desperately need to experience my very little boy again. There was something so dreamy and so baby-powder sweet about going through this tub with my big, grown puppy. As we drew sock after block after rattle after blanket (ginky) from the place it had been so tenderly laid many years ago, my heart hummed with a happiness only these sorts of sweet memories can call forth. He was brand new, and four, and seven, and twelve--all at the same time.
Briefly, I believe it was the same for him. He has only ever experienced himself in a linear way, in chronological fashion, where one event leads to another as the first vanishes behind. Like a car trip that seems to go on forever, but doesn't really. I believe my grown boy sensed, during our sweet journey, what I have been trying to tell him for years. I have told him again and again, "While you experience your own life in a line, to me your life is on a canvas stretched out in front of me. Everything is happening at once for me, yet the same events for you are coming along one at a time."
I wonder if this is why emotions run so high when things go on with our children. When he hurts, I still want to comfort the little boy. When he soars, I want to run along the beach holding his hand, chasing seagulls. When he skins his knee, I want to kiss it better. When a policeman pulls him over for doing 50 in a 35, I want to give that cop a piece of my mind.
It's good for me, I think, to keep tubs of stuff, and to go through them once in awhile. It keeps my perspective where it belongs, and helps me resist every urge to call the time my grown boy spends with his friends a play date. It helps me allow all of them to grow and stretch and leave.
I can't decide if I'm pathetic, or if all mom's are like this...
Here's the question: Was I collecting for him, or for me? Because I really believe that Me Then knew somehow that Me Now would desperately need to experience my very little boy again. There was something so dreamy and so baby-powder sweet about going through this tub with my big, grown puppy. As we drew sock after block after rattle after blanket (ginky) from the place it had been so tenderly laid many years ago, my heart hummed with a happiness only these sorts of sweet memories can call forth. He was brand new, and four, and seven, and twelve--all at the same time.
Briefly, I believe it was the same for him. He has only ever experienced himself in a linear way, in chronological fashion, where one event leads to another as the first vanishes behind. Like a car trip that seems to go on forever, but doesn't really. I believe my grown boy sensed, during our sweet journey, what I have been trying to tell him for years. I have told him again and again, "While you experience your own life in a line, to me your life is on a canvas stretched out in front of me. Everything is happening at once for me, yet the same events for you are coming along one at a time."
I wonder if this is why emotions run so high when things go on with our children. When he hurts, I still want to comfort the little boy. When he soars, I want to run along the beach holding his hand, chasing seagulls. When he skins his knee, I want to kiss it better. When a policeman pulls him over for doing 50 in a 35, I want to give that cop a piece of my mind.
It's good for me, I think, to keep tubs of stuff, and to go through them once in awhile. It keeps my perspective where it belongs, and helps me resist every urge to call the time my grown boy spends with his friends a play date. It helps me allow all of them to grow and stretch and leave.
I can't decide if I'm pathetic, or if all mom's are like this...
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Show Me Your Friends
Any one of my kids, and any of the kids in our youth group at church, are able to complete this sentence when my husband says the first part: "Show me your friends--".
"and I'll show you your future."
Sounds like a blanket assessment, doesn't it? All of the young people in our lives, both past and present, have tried every which way from sideways to prove that statement false. Here's the problem: they can't. If you hang around with people long enough to call them FRIENDS, their behavior becomes the norm for the group and for the individual within the group.
My wise husband offered these examples: if all the people in your group of friends uses four-letter words, using four-letter words becomes the norm. No one thinks anything of it because everybody does it. If all the people in your group of friends inject heroin into their veins, shooting up drugs becomes the norm. Likewise, if all of your friends commit to purity, it is the norm to stay pure. And if the norm in your group of friends is to abstain from alcohol, you will probably not all get together and tie one on.
There are certainly good reasons for parents to keep a watchful eye on their kids' friends. Most parents are not passing judgment on the families of the children their kids are drawn into relationship with. It is simply wise to know where your dearest loves are going, who they will be spending time with, the conditions at the home where they will be sleeping over, and the adults who will be supervising them.
Believing this way does not make me one bit popular with my kids or their friends, and sometimes I question our need to know important answers before our kids leave for a friend's house, but our caution has not cost our children. And we know several sets of parents whose lack of it has cost their children dearly.
"and I'll show you your future."
Sounds like a blanket assessment, doesn't it? All of the young people in our lives, both past and present, have tried every which way from sideways to prove that statement false. Here's the problem: they can't. If you hang around with people long enough to call them FRIENDS, their behavior becomes the norm for the group and for the individual within the group.
My wise husband offered these examples: if all the people in your group of friends uses four-letter words, using four-letter words becomes the norm. No one thinks anything of it because everybody does it. If all the people in your group of friends inject heroin into their veins, shooting up drugs becomes the norm. Likewise, if all of your friends commit to purity, it is the norm to stay pure. And if the norm in your group of friends is to abstain from alcohol, you will probably not all get together and tie one on.
There are certainly good reasons for parents to keep a watchful eye on their kids' friends. Most parents are not passing judgment on the families of the children their kids are drawn into relationship with. It is simply wise to know where your dearest loves are going, who they will be spending time with, the conditions at the home where they will be sleeping over, and the adults who will be supervising them.
Believing this way does not make me one bit popular with my kids or their friends, and sometimes I question our need to know important answers before our kids leave for a friend's house, but our caution has not cost our children. And we know several sets of parents whose lack of it has cost their children dearly.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
All You Need Is...
It seems fitting to write on L-O-V-E this week. For a couple of reasons.
First, the obvious consideration for writing about LOVE is because we are right in the middle of February, and so is something else: VALENTINE'S DAY! Hearts are everywhere in all of their beautiful pink and red and white glory. I would ask anyone reading this to cast off the glittery trappings of an over-commercialized date in the middle of this month, and instead, just LOVE. Walk around for the next few days treating the people in your world as if you love them.
This brings me to the second reason I am writing about LOVE this week. Our pastor bestowed on us a challenge last Sunday morning: choose one person in your sphere of influence (circle of friends and acquaintances), and for the next year, simply LOVE that person. To be devoted to loving a person means to be devoted to selflessness and purity in that relationship, no matter what. As we consider the people who have traipsed into our lives, who have been born into, or married into, or were thrust into our lives, we are challenged to do this thing that is actually pretty foreign to our thinking. (What a terrible thing to say! I am outraged at myself for suggesting that LOVE is foreign to my thinking.)
I love my husband and my children (and perfect grandboys!). I love my mother and my siblings and their families. I love my friends and I love people, in general. I wonder--do I love any of them selflessly, or in purity? I mean to. But in thinking about what it means to truly, truly love a person, I wonder if I don't attach a few strings (even teeny, tiny, wee strings) to the people I believe I love. For me, to love someone is to allow him (or her) to be, to be exactly who God designed him to be; to not manipulate or influence him in any way that would benefit me; to discipline with my eye and my heart trained on godly wisdom; to give selflessly, to hold tirelessly, to listen endlessly, to defend boldly, to pray for radically, to honor constantly.
What a tall order! Does anyone really love like that? I believe my pastor's challenge, which seemed sweet and fluffy to me at first, is perhaps the hardest thing I have ever considered doing. But in the immortal words of one of our dearest superheroes, Yoda: "Do or do not. There is no try." So, in closing, and with much, much more to say but not nearly enough time and space to say it: Today, I will LOVE. (There is no try.)
First, the obvious consideration for writing about LOVE is because we are right in the middle of February, and so is something else: VALENTINE'S DAY! Hearts are everywhere in all of their beautiful pink and red and white glory. I would ask anyone reading this to cast off the glittery trappings of an over-commercialized date in the middle of this month, and instead, just LOVE. Walk around for the next few days treating the people in your world as if you love them.
This brings me to the second reason I am writing about LOVE this week. Our pastor bestowed on us a challenge last Sunday morning: choose one person in your sphere of influence (circle of friends and acquaintances), and for the next year, simply LOVE that person. To be devoted to loving a person means to be devoted to selflessness and purity in that relationship, no matter what. As we consider the people who have traipsed into our lives, who have been born into, or married into, or were thrust into our lives, we are challenged to do this thing that is actually pretty foreign to our thinking. (What a terrible thing to say! I am outraged at myself for suggesting that LOVE is foreign to my thinking.)
I love my husband and my children (and perfect grandboys!). I love my mother and my siblings and their families. I love my friends and I love people, in general. I wonder--do I love any of them selflessly, or in purity? I mean to. But in thinking about what it means to truly, truly love a person, I wonder if I don't attach a few strings (even teeny, tiny, wee strings) to the people I believe I love. For me, to love someone is to allow him (or her) to be, to be exactly who God designed him to be; to not manipulate or influence him in any way that would benefit me; to discipline with my eye and my heart trained on godly wisdom; to give selflessly, to hold tirelessly, to listen endlessly, to defend boldly, to pray for radically, to honor constantly.
What a tall order! Does anyone really love like that? I believe my pastor's challenge, which seemed sweet and fluffy to me at first, is perhaps the hardest thing I have ever considered doing. But in the immortal words of one of our dearest superheroes, Yoda: "Do or do not. There is no try." So, in closing, and with much, much more to say but not nearly enough time and space to say it: Today, I will LOVE. (There is no try.)
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
When the Party's Over
First, let me say that our holiday season was a bumpy one.
Whoever said that parents are busier and their hearts--and wallets--are stretched more when there's a slew of ankle biters running around the house lied. And should be spanked. Either that or said person didn't stick around until the kids became adults and almost-adults.
I know alotta things. I know what to do with a fever, a sore throat, a twisted ankle, an earache, a mean teacher, a fresh mouth, and sibling rivalry. I can serve up the Brat Diet, Nature's Penicillin, Magic Mouthwash and the best whipped cream icing ever. I am resourceful beyond words, can stretch a buck as if it was rubber, and can make a gourmet souffle out of cardboard.
But, for the life of me, I do not understand the college student.
The big boys finished up their semester finals in mid-December and graced us with their precious presence for the entire holiday season. I was able to spend hours talking at them while they texted and stopped up their ears with something called ear buds. I learned that I am stupid and that they are smart because they attend college. At first, they spoke to me gently, as if I was a small child who did not understand. By Christmas, they had become a little testy in their constant reminders. By New Year's Eve, one of them had bugged out in favor of laying up at a friend's house, and the other was barely speaking to me.
May I just say here that my heart hurt more than I imagined it could have? I used my best reasoning skills and purposed with everything I had in me not to incite them to wrath. But they were still wrathful.
And the girls, my beautiful teen princesses, who play sports at opposite ends of the county, informed me that if their coaches called practices, I would certainly be driving them to these practices. I stammered: "But what about Christmas? What about family time? What about caroling, and tree lighting and visits with family? What about those things, huh?" Again, even the kids who still live under our roof, spoke to me as if I just didn't get it--slowly, and with small words.
And maybe I don't get it. I have always despised injustice, yet have come to reside under its cruel authority. I imagine a fantasy family in which the children come home from high school and college without their own agendas, with no more trouble attached to them than a sackful of laundry sporting stubborn stains. They tell me I just need to go with the flow. What? Turn a blind eye to bad manners and a deaf ear to potty mouth? Turn a clogged nose to the showerless and smoke-filled? Not a chance, I say! Oh, where are the diapers and drool cloths, the playpens and playgrounds? Where have my ankle biters gone?
Whoever said that parents are busier and their hearts--and wallets--are stretched more when there's a slew of ankle biters running around the house lied. And should be spanked. Either that or said person didn't stick around until the kids became adults and almost-adults.
I know alotta things. I know what to do with a fever, a sore throat, a twisted ankle, an earache, a mean teacher, a fresh mouth, and sibling rivalry. I can serve up the Brat Diet, Nature's Penicillin, Magic Mouthwash and the best whipped cream icing ever. I am resourceful beyond words, can stretch a buck as if it was rubber, and can make a gourmet souffle out of cardboard.
But, for the life of me, I do not understand the college student.
The big boys finished up their semester finals in mid-December and graced us with their precious presence for the entire holiday season. I was able to spend hours talking at them while they texted and stopped up their ears with something called ear buds. I learned that I am stupid and that they are smart because they attend college. At first, they spoke to me gently, as if I was a small child who did not understand. By Christmas, they had become a little testy in their constant reminders. By New Year's Eve, one of them had bugged out in favor of laying up at a friend's house, and the other was barely speaking to me.
May I just say here that my heart hurt more than I imagined it could have? I used my best reasoning skills and purposed with everything I had in me not to incite them to wrath. But they were still wrathful.
And the girls, my beautiful teen princesses, who play sports at opposite ends of the county, informed me that if their coaches called practices, I would certainly be driving them to these practices. I stammered: "But what about Christmas? What about family time? What about caroling, and tree lighting and visits with family? What about those things, huh?" Again, even the kids who still live under our roof, spoke to me as if I just didn't get it--slowly, and with small words.
And maybe I don't get it. I have always despised injustice, yet have come to reside under its cruel authority. I imagine a fantasy family in which the children come home from high school and college without their own agendas, with no more trouble attached to them than a sackful of laundry sporting stubborn stains. They tell me I just need to go with the flow. What? Turn a blind eye to bad manners and a deaf ear to potty mouth? Turn a clogged nose to the showerless and smoke-filled? Not a chance, I say! Oh, where are the diapers and drool cloths, the playpens and playgrounds? Where have my ankle biters gone?
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
A Celestial Birth Announcement
A Celestial Birth Announcement
“Exalt the Lamb,”
Speaks the Father
To a sun, to a star, to
His Star,
And joyful light bursts, expands,
explodes,
Announces, declares and glorifies
From within—
To without,
Floods tiny Bethlehem,
Ancient promise of the coming Redeemer
Fulfilled in supernova,
Fresh and unusual stranger
To the night sky,
Created to announce
The birth of one tiny Baby,
Jesus.
~Paige Tighe
Christmas, 2012
_______________________________________
A joyous Christmas to all--and may the God of Peace bring you contentment and abiding knowledge of His awesome Presence this year and forevermore.
~PT
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
A Charming Puzzle
One of my dearest loves has just been crowned Miss Hampshire High 2013. I am proud of her drive and am utterly struck by her beauty and charm. In fact, I have always felt this way. When she was only 13-months-old, her dad and I were caught in a smooth and sun-drenched moment, a moment in which all things vanished from our world except this tiny, teeny, brown-eyed girl. We stood, dumbstruck, entranced. I don't remember the circumstances, and I do not think they're important. I remember the moment; and I remember my words to her dad: "Could she possibly know how charming she is?" In some toddler way, I am sure she did.
I flash forward and ask myself the same question--could she possibly know? When I was seventeen, I was funny and smart and adorable and very able to engage and manipulate the people in my world. (I am not necessarily proud of this.) But I was not charming. At least, not this charming. I have puzzled over my daughter's presence, over her character and the dazzle in her eye. Over her confidence and her innate sense of social parameters. Since I have never (EVER!) had a clear understanding of social parameters, and my husband's seem way too restricting to me, how did our child come to this place? I guess she observed both of us and unwittingly embraced, combined, sorted, and tossed, and became herself.
In considering the outcome, and the other people we have raised, I can also say with confidence that you get out what you put in--a huge component. Our children have never been our idols, but we do enjoy and include them. We spend time with them and try to support them in reasonable endeavors. We are not their pals, but we are also not the police. We try and try and try and try. We totally mess up in much of the trying, but have succeeded, I feel, pouring into each one the certainty of our love.
Perhaps that's where the confidence behind our daughter's charm comes in. She knows that we love her and that her mother would stomp anyone who would treat her unjustly. In closing, may we all learn to walk that oft' hazy line between building confidence in our dearest loves, and turning them into monsters.
I flash forward and ask myself the same question--could she possibly know? When I was seventeen, I was funny and smart and adorable and very able to engage and manipulate the people in my world. (I am not necessarily proud of this.) But I was not charming. At least, not this charming. I have puzzled over my daughter's presence, over her character and the dazzle in her eye. Over her confidence and her innate sense of social parameters. Since I have never (EVER!) had a clear understanding of social parameters, and my husband's seem way too restricting to me, how did our child come to this place? I guess she observed both of us and unwittingly embraced, combined, sorted, and tossed, and became herself.
In considering the outcome, and the other people we have raised, I can also say with confidence that you get out what you put in--a huge component. Our children have never been our idols, but we do enjoy and include them. We spend time with them and try to support them in reasonable endeavors. We are not their pals, but we are also not the police. We try and try and try and try. We totally mess up in much of the trying, but have succeeded, I feel, pouring into each one the certainty of our love.
Perhaps that's where the confidence behind our daughter's charm comes in. She knows that we love her and that her mother would stomp anyone who would treat her unjustly. In closing, may we all learn to walk that oft' hazy line between building confidence in our dearest loves, and turning them into monsters.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
A Whirlwind of Hooligans (Part II)
When a three-year-old cups my face in his sticky little hands and whispers, most confidentially, "I am riding to church in your car because you...are...my...Nanny," I lose all sense of anything but his dreamy eyes. When a two-year-old wakes in the night with boogies streaming out of his nose and cheeks as red as apples and wants only to lie across his Nonna (translation: Nanny), I don't care what miserable toddler disease I catch; I only want to comfort him. When I've been out of the house from moon-to-moon, and crawl in from another long day of teaching and chauffeuring, and a wee baby tears his toothless mouth wide because he's delighted to see me, I am energized.
It is pure foolishness to place two families under the same roof and expect an atmosphere of enduring peace. Especially two passionate, hard-headed families with children spanning from tots to teens, a couple big dogs, a bunch of temperamental cats (some indoor/some indoor-outdoor) and one hermit crab. We have very little peace under our roof, but much joy. And our joy arrives in snippets, not streams. In bottles, not barrels. But here's what we do have: LOVE. We have discovered that we love enough to forgive minor transgressions. We love enough to stay relational in the face of anger and self-centeredness. We love enough to keep our tongues when it would feel much more satisfying to loose them.
A Chinese friend told me many years ago that the Chinese symbol for "too much trouble" (pronounced: mah-fwong) is the image of two women under the same roof. Time and experience have proven this again and again in my life--not, however, in this time or in this experience. I am discovering that I can anticipate my adult daughter's responses because she is so much like me. We parent similarly. And we come up with the same kookie stuff for dinners. She is a resourceful homemaker and understands how the house needs to look and feel when I drag myself in the door in the evenings. She rarely snaps back when I am grouchy. She knows what brings me snippets and bottles of peace. I appreciate this child so much, and learn from her compassion toward me and her many kindnesses toward the whole mob of us. Hats off to you, Cheryl--yours is not an easy path, but your grace and diligence make us all want to do better! Big love to you!
It is pure foolishness to place two families under the same roof and expect an atmosphere of enduring peace. Especially two passionate, hard-headed families with children spanning from tots to teens, a couple big dogs, a bunch of temperamental cats (some indoor/some indoor-outdoor) and one hermit crab. We have very little peace under our roof, but much joy. And our joy arrives in snippets, not streams. In bottles, not barrels. But here's what we do have: LOVE. We have discovered that we love enough to forgive minor transgressions. We love enough to stay relational in the face of anger and self-centeredness. We love enough to keep our tongues when it would feel much more satisfying to loose them.
A Chinese friend told me many years ago that the Chinese symbol for "too much trouble" (pronounced: mah-fwong) is the image of two women under the same roof. Time and experience have proven this again and again in my life--not, however, in this time or in this experience. I am discovering that I can anticipate my adult daughter's responses because she is so much like me. We parent similarly. And we come up with the same kookie stuff for dinners. She is a resourceful homemaker and understands how the house needs to look and feel when I drag myself in the door in the evenings. She rarely snaps back when I am grouchy. She knows what brings me snippets and bottles of peace. I appreciate this child so much, and learn from her compassion toward me and her many kindnesses toward the whole mob of us. Hats off to you, Cheryl--yours is not an easy path, but your grace and diligence make us all want to do better! Big love to you!
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A Whirlwind of Hooligans (Part I)
Our children were lengthening their bones and leaving us at an
alarming rate. They were pursuing relationships and bachelor's degrees,
they were buying cars and marrying. They were raising families. Our number had shrunk from eight to five. I found myself crying over our lack
of sippy cups in the cabinet and Matchbox cars wedged under the couch. Our
vacuum cleaner never smoked from sucking up Polly Pockets and no Barbie hair
clogged the bathroom drain. Our youngest child was almost twelve, and no
longer needed his hot dogs sliced down the middle, and our oldest spent most
evenings sequestered in her room.
Our house had become quiet, and to a mother used to hustle and
flurry, the quiet was nearly unendurable. How many times did I search the
heavens for free-falling babies? How much did I fuss and coo over babies
in stores? How many knowing smiles did I bestow on frazzled strangers at
Walmart, frazzled female strangers with toddlers spilling from their grocery
carts? The answer: too many and too much to be considered sane or,
at the very least, polite.
Guilty. Me.
When the phone rang one early August evening and the flat, angry tone
in our daughter's voice came through the wires from far, far away, I reached
back through them with comfort. "Come to us," I told her.
"Pack up your three babies and your husband and make your home here
until you figure things out." I was dizzy with excitement; our home
would be full of babies again. We would grow to ten; and we would make it work. Concerns, stifled, went unspoken.
Convincing
the current oldest child was a different story--she had only just last year
made her way into the Circle of Trust and Favor. As Number Four, she had arrived at oldest and
was loathe to relinquish the title. Plus, as we considered the logistics, we did not anticipate the living situation with great hope. While we longed to squeeze our long lost and dearest loves, reality and experience dictate that the honeymoon wears off in time and that grown children really shouldn't move back home. But there was a need, and it was our job to meet it.
We have been pleasantly surprised.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Never A Dull Moment
To say that we run around like chickens with our heads cut off would be a gross understatement. To say we fall into bed each night exhausted from a busy day at work and play would be one, as well. It's more like we have been forced into an obligatory life-imposed Attention Deficit. What happened to the lazy hazy days of summer we spent the colder months dreaming of? I don't think they exist for any of us. When I was a child, one glorious summer day blended with the next, and the next, and the next. We got up early, ate breakfast, arrived at the beach before the lifeguards, left the beach long after the lifeguards, ate supper, played at the playground and went to bed. Sprinkled in the middle were odd chores like walking Stormy (the favored pooch), playing with Matt (the favored baby brother) and gathering kindling for regular campfires. For a child, life really doesn't get much better.
Sadly, my children have never experienced summer life in that way. They pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, and so on. For most of the summer. They have very, very few days to lie around and do nothing. I feel bad for them. For instance, our 17-year-old daughter went to Girls State (week-long mock government activities--so awesome!--sponsored by the American Legion) two days after we returned from our crazy little vacation in Williamsburg, VA, with another family (see previous blog). After Girls State, we both spent a super intense week preparing for the Miss West Virginia's Outstanding Teen pageant to be held in Morgantown, WV. She hit the pike for the pageant and I finished up the particulars. A friend and four of her five children stayed with us and then we all headed for Morgantown. Once home from the pageant, where our dear daughter made the top eight, she took a nap, re-packed and headed out to Bible camp in Pennsylvania for a week. Hubby picked her up Friday evening and Saturday morning she and her younger sister went to a Pirates' game and concert with friends. Yesterday, the girls unpacked from the game and concert, re-packed and joined two of their brothers and lots of others for a local week-long mission trip in Capon Bridge WV (sponsored by our church). She is planning to attend another youth activity in Cumberland, MD, over the weekend.
While our daughter is running with her choke out, her parents and siblings are neither twiddling their thumbs nor lazing around. Rather, we are working here at home and out in the cut-throat world of business, packing and unpacking for other camps, preparing for and performing at various storytelling events, harvesting vegetables, killing fleas (on the pets and in the house), teaching Boy Scout Merit Badges (okay, just one so far, but it's time-consuming), having babies (congrats on John Patrick's healthy birth, Cheryl and Bill!), holding an Eagle Scout ceremony, completing long-neglected writing projects, and trying to find a dependable cheap/free car. There are lots of other things on all of our plates but there is really no need to continue. Everybody's busy--cold, but true.
So, what do we do to reclaim the summer? Well, as far as I can see, we finish up the last camp experience (Boy Scout Camp) and guard August jealously. Unfortunately, our college student returns for R.A. training on August 8 and our daughter's Trojanette activities begin around the same time. Grrr--to what do we say, "NO?!" I wonder if you can imagine how happy I was when the power went out last week and did not return completely for five days. The phone and Internet lines were damaged and stayed that way for eight days, and I wasn't one bit sorry.
A complete collapse of technology in our world? Bring it on, at least until we get tired of having nothing to do.
Sadly, my children have never experienced summer life in that way. They pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, pack for camp, go to camp, get picked up from camp, and so on. For most of the summer. They have very, very few days to lie around and do nothing. I feel bad for them. For instance, our 17-year-old daughter went to Girls State (week-long mock government activities--so awesome!--sponsored by the American Legion) two days after we returned from our crazy little vacation in Williamsburg, VA, with another family (see previous blog). After Girls State, we both spent a super intense week preparing for the Miss West Virginia's Outstanding Teen pageant to be held in Morgantown, WV. She hit the pike for the pageant and I finished up the particulars. A friend and four of her five children stayed with us and then we all headed for Morgantown. Once home from the pageant, where our dear daughter made the top eight, she took a nap, re-packed and headed out to Bible camp in Pennsylvania for a week. Hubby picked her up Friday evening and Saturday morning she and her younger sister went to a Pirates' game and concert with friends. Yesterday, the girls unpacked from the game and concert, re-packed and joined two of their brothers and lots of others for a local week-long mission trip in Capon Bridge WV (sponsored by our church). She is planning to attend another youth activity in Cumberland, MD, over the weekend.
While our daughter is running with her choke out, her parents and siblings are neither twiddling their thumbs nor lazing around. Rather, we are working here at home and out in the cut-throat world of business, packing and unpacking for other camps, preparing for and performing at various storytelling events, harvesting vegetables, killing fleas (on the pets and in the house), teaching Boy Scout Merit Badges (okay, just one so far, but it's time-consuming), having babies (congrats on John Patrick's healthy birth, Cheryl and Bill!), holding an Eagle Scout ceremony, completing long-neglected writing projects, and trying to find a dependable cheap/free car. There are lots of other things on all of our plates but there is really no need to continue. Everybody's busy--cold, but true.
So, what do we do to reclaim the summer? Well, as far as I can see, we finish up the last camp experience (Boy Scout Camp) and guard August jealously. Unfortunately, our college student returns for R.A. training on August 8 and our daughter's Trojanette activities begin around the same time. Grrr--to what do we say, "NO?!" I wonder if you can imagine how happy I was when the power went out last week and did not return completely for five days. The phone and Internet lines were damaged and stayed that way for eight days, and I wasn't one bit sorry.
A complete collapse of technology in our world? Bring it on, at least until we get tired of having nothing to do.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Sweet William-sburg!
When my dear Wendy was offered a suite at a resort in Williamsburg, VA, at a crazily low price, she decided to command me to join her...and five of her kids...with three of mine. The dates fit perfectly within our very tight early summer schedule. The price was certainly right. The boss said I could go. Win-win. All the way around. We were all really excited.
Our departure date crept up and bit us in the butt. But, always champs in a crunch, we got ourselves together and made it out the door in time to catch the bus (i.e., Wendy's Suburban). We made it to Williamsburg with only one pit stop at Walmart for a potty break, and already knew what we were making for supper. We checked in without a hitch, chose our bedrooms without a fight, cooked and ate without so much as a spill. Yessss. We planned our meals, found both a Walmart and a Martin's close-by, shopped, and (finally!) hit the sack.
Our week progressed in very much the same pleasant and orderly way. But, after parenting eight children together for six days, we discovered that our households are quite different, as are our parenting styles. While our children have all been raised to love and serve God, and while we take part in some of the same family-related church and social activities, and while we are roughly the same age, we are so different in the ways we approach certain behaviors in our kids. I won't go into detail since Vegas rules apply in this situation, yet, suffice it to say, it was a week full of eye-opening wonders within our friendship. Even though our youngest children are far from being babies, and our oldest children have flown the coop, I feel that Wendy and I have both taught and learned a few things in our sweet little suite in Williamsburg. I believe it is a credit to our relationship both before God and before each other that we didn't take offense at being shown other ways of doing things. I don't believe we are ready to jump into another vacation right this second, but none of us came home vowing "never to go on vacation with those people again."
Our last night together, Wendy and I laughed until nearly 3:30 in the morning--I was really surprised one of us didn't have an attack of some kind. That's how hard we laughed.
All things considered, our vacation together was a wonderful time with wonderful friends. We swam, rented a movie, got ferocious sunburns, went to the beach, made craft dough, saw a magic show, and bothered the front desk people relentlessly. Most importantly, we put our busy lives on hold and simply went with the flow. We do sometimes need to stop and smell the roses as we toddle through life, or, in this case, the magnolia blossoms. Hats off to you, Princess Wendolyn!
Our departure date crept up and bit us in the butt. But, always champs in a crunch, we got ourselves together and made it out the door in time to catch the bus (i.e., Wendy's Suburban). We made it to Williamsburg with only one pit stop at Walmart for a potty break, and already knew what we were making for supper. We checked in without a hitch, chose our bedrooms without a fight, cooked and ate without so much as a spill. Yessss. We planned our meals, found both a Walmart and a Martin's close-by, shopped, and (finally!) hit the sack.
Our week progressed in very much the same pleasant and orderly way. But, after parenting eight children together for six days, we discovered that our households are quite different, as are our parenting styles. While our children have all been raised to love and serve God, and while we take part in some of the same family-related church and social activities, and while we are roughly the same age, we are so different in the ways we approach certain behaviors in our kids. I won't go into detail since Vegas rules apply in this situation, yet, suffice it to say, it was a week full of eye-opening wonders within our friendship. Even though our youngest children are far from being babies, and our oldest children have flown the coop, I feel that Wendy and I have both taught and learned a few things in our sweet little suite in Williamsburg. I believe it is a credit to our relationship both before God and before each other that we didn't take offense at being shown other ways of doing things. I don't believe we are ready to jump into another vacation right this second, but none of us came home vowing "never to go on vacation with those people again."
Our last night together, Wendy and I laughed until nearly 3:30 in the morning--I was really surprised one of us didn't have an attack of some kind. That's how hard we laughed.
All things considered, our vacation together was a wonderful time with wonderful friends. We swam, rented a movie, got ferocious sunburns, went to the beach, made craft dough, saw a magic show, and bothered the front desk people relentlessly. Most importantly, we put our busy lives on hold and simply went with the flow. We do sometimes need to stop and smell the roses as we toddle through life, or, in this case, the magnolia blossoms. Hats off to you, Princess Wendolyn!
Thursday, May 24, 2012
How Far Is Too Far? How Much Is Too Much?
Boogers and poop. That is what so many of our dinnertime conversations degenerate into. It doesn't go straight from, "pass the potatoes," to "boogers and poop." No! It's usually a downward spiral starting about the time we have all shoveled at least three forks full of whatever's on the menu into the pie hole. It begins innocently enough--someone (a kid) steps three whole feet away from the table and grins. Whether we have heard anything or not, the best guess is always that there was some small attempt made at the mannerly relief of gas. Me? I personally think they should go outside and down the road a ways if we are all sitting around the dinner table, but that doesn't seem to be anyone else's conviction. Sometimes, the offender mumbles the 2012 phrase for, "Excuse me." My bad. Next thing you know, it's fifteen minutes later, the kitchen is filled with raucous laughter, loud guffaws, people falling out of their chairs, and completely atrocious manners.
It is at this point that my dear hubby and I look at each other helplessly and say, with sad resolve, "Yes, dear, we have, indeed, become Dan and Roseanne . But is it all bad? Some of you would curl a lip in disgust, not even giving me the benefit of your correction.
I had this conversation with a fella after we were pulled up about singing a TRADITIONAL camp song at a Cub Scout event. My husband and I were both den leaders and the song, "The Bear Went Over the Mountain," is adorable. It involves a little bear going over the mountain, seeing a bunch of Girl Scouts, eating up the Girl Scouts, taking Alka-Seltzer, and then barfing up the Girl Scouts. The Girl Scouts tell his mommy and she "spanks his little bottom." You know why it was inappropriate? It was not honoring to women. In this conversation with the dad who was appalled by our choice of songs, I said: "C'mon, [insert name], you have sons. Can you honestly tell me most of your dinnertime conversations don't degenerate into boogers and poop?" Ummm--his lip, indeed, curled in disgust.
"No," he whispered in a deep and slow and scary way. "That is not appropriate dinnertime conversation."
Here's me: "My bad." (That means excuse me in today's vernacular.)
Sometimes things get out of hand--like if we have stiff company (which is not often) or we are at a restaurant. Our kids don't seem to make the distinction between HOME and OUT all the time. Sometimes, we don't--I'll admit it. One afternoon, we were at an Old Country Buffet with another family (also given to fun dinners), and there was a small incident. Several of the kids took some of the littler ones to the bathroom. They were gone kinda long but we didn't notice--we were enjoying adult conversation for once. Then a manager approached us. His face was purple. He looked frantic, angry: "Where are the responsible adults?" he demanded.
We all four stopped in mid-conversation and looked at him blankly for a little longer than is polite. Then, as if on cue, we all looked to one another and shrugged. He said something about kids and the bathroom and stomped away. We fell out of out chairs laughing. Then, of course, the moms high-tailed it to the bathroom to correct our mannerless children. (Our bad.)
It is at this point that my dear hubby and I look at each other helplessly and say, with sad resolve, "Yes, dear, we have, indeed, become Dan and Roseanne . But is it all bad? Some of you would curl a lip in disgust, not even giving me the benefit of your correction.
I had this conversation with a fella after we were pulled up about singing a TRADITIONAL camp song at a Cub Scout event. My husband and I were both den leaders and the song, "The Bear Went Over the Mountain," is adorable. It involves a little bear going over the mountain, seeing a bunch of Girl Scouts, eating up the Girl Scouts, taking Alka-Seltzer, and then barfing up the Girl Scouts. The Girl Scouts tell his mommy and she "spanks his little bottom." You know why it was inappropriate? It was not honoring to women. In this conversation with the dad who was appalled by our choice of songs, I said: "C'mon, [insert name], you have sons. Can you honestly tell me most of your dinnertime conversations don't degenerate into boogers and poop?" Ummm--his lip, indeed, curled in disgust.
"No," he whispered in a deep and slow and scary way. "That is not appropriate dinnertime conversation."
Here's me: "My bad." (That means excuse me in today's vernacular.)
Sometimes things get out of hand--like if we have stiff company (which is not often) or we are at a restaurant. Our kids don't seem to make the distinction between HOME and OUT all the time. Sometimes, we don't--I'll admit it. One afternoon, we were at an Old Country Buffet with another family (also given to fun dinners), and there was a small incident. Several of the kids took some of the littler ones to the bathroom. They were gone kinda long but we didn't notice--we were enjoying adult conversation for once. Then a manager approached us. His face was purple. He looked frantic, angry: "Where are the responsible adults?" he demanded.
We all four stopped in mid-conversation and looked at him blankly for a little longer than is polite. Then, as if on cue, we all looked to one another and shrugged. He said something about kids and the bathroom and stomped away. We fell out of out chairs laughing. Then, of course, the moms high-tailed it to the bathroom to correct our mannerless children. (Our bad.)
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
A Career In Modeling
Parenthood--that's why I titled this entry the way I did--is a career in modeling. From the time they pop out of the womb, our children's eyes watch us. They embrace our behaviors, our beliefs, our tastes, our prejudices. They imitate our words and our actions, tweak them a little, and make them their own. I will remember forever the day our oldest daughter spotted something on the floor across the room and asked, casually: "What the hell is that?" She was three. Of course, our jaws hit the floor. We were incredulous. Where, in the world, did she learn to talk like that? And, just as the words were on my lips to speak correction, my mind's ear recalled those very same words with those very same inflections--coming straight out of her father's mouth. (Not mine! Perish the thought!)
Most parents have similar stories. This is the reason we cringed every single time Pastor Rudy asked questions after a children's message and shoved a microphone in our kids' faces. We never knew what might roll off their tongues. Still don't. It was way back when the our little girl said the H-E-double hockey sticks thing that we realized we'd better watch our own potty mouth. Remember the show a million years ago with Brandon Cruz and Bill Bixby--The Courtship of Eddie's Father? Throughout the series, the little boy (Eddie) schemes to get his widower father to remarry. They spend a lot of time together and Eddie imitates everything his father does.
One word: Beware. We have to be wise as we bring up our children. Adults come with habits, beliefs, practices, prejudices. Children don't. Before we make ethnic jokes, bad-mouth the neighbors, ridicule the educated (or uneducated), espouse the evils of law enforcement, pronounce doom upon the future, lose our minds over a spider on the ceiling (It happens.), cuss a blue streak or trash our our spouses, we must ask ourselves what we want our kids to grow up believing about the world.
The bottom line is: We Have All Power. That's a lot of responsibility. How can we tell them it's wrong to steal when our stack of post-it notes were stolen from Daddy's work? Too many thoughts conflict in their little minds and they have trouble sorting them out at first. Eventually, they embrace and justify. Wouldn't it be better for them to see us bring back the unpaid-for item that was forgotten in the cart at check-out? Yes--far better than it is for them to hear us congratulate ourselves in our good fortune at getting a freebie. It is so much more profitable for them to see us facing life on life's terms, taking responsibility for our mistakes, giving grace where it doesn't seem warranted, and continually working to better ourselves.
Model good behavior. Extended out, we are bettering generations, hundreds of future people, when we better ourselves.
Most parents have similar stories. This is the reason we cringed every single time Pastor Rudy asked questions after a children's message and shoved a microphone in our kids' faces. We never knew what might roll off their tongues. Still don't. It was way back when the our little girl said the H-E-double hockey sticks thing that we realized we'd better watch our own potty mouth. Remember the show a million years ago with Brandon Cruz and Bill Bixby--The Courtship of Eddie's Father? Throughout the series, the little boy (Eddie) schemes to get his widower father to remarry. They spend a lot of time together and Eddie imitates everything his father does.
One word: Beware. We have to be wise as we bring up our children. Adults come with habits, beliefs, practices, prejudices. Children don't. Before we make ethnic jokes, bad-mouth the neighbors, ridicule the educated (or uneducated), espouse the evils of law enforcement, pronounce doom upon the future, lose our minds over a spider on the ceiling (It happens.), cuss a blue streak or trash our our spouses, we must ask ourselves what we want our kids to grow up believing about the world.
The bottom line is: We Have All Power. That's a lot of responsibility. How can we tell them it's wrong to steal when our stack of post-it notes were stolen from Daddy's work? Too many thoughts conflict in their little minds and they have trouble sorting them out at first. Eventually, they embrace and justify. Wouldn't it be better for them to see us bring back the unpaid-for item that was forgotten in the cart at check-out? Yes--far better than it is for them to hear us congratulate ourselves in our good fortune at getting a freebie. It is so much more profitable for them to see us facing life on life's terms, taking responsibility for our mistakes, giving grace where it doesn't seem warranted, and continually working to better ourselves.
Model good behavior. Extended out, we are bettering generations, hundreds of future people, when we better ourselves.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Battles: Choose Them Wisely
We have six kids. Our kids are between eleven and almost twenty-five (Yikes!). They came in boy-girl pairs (two years in between) with the pairs occurring four years apart. We are a blended family, but as I have mentioned before, it is often hard to remember who's blended and who's not.
Like our children, we have gone through many stages in these last two-plus decades. I feel really sad for the older ones so, if you two are reading this: "I am so sorry we fought every battle. We didn't realize how absolutely necessary it was to win the war." I think they spent a lot of time thinking I was ridiculous, and if the truth be known, so did I. I just had no sense of the big picture.
Scripture was very helpful. When I first read Proverbs 18:2, I knew it was written directly for me, several thousand years prior: "A fool does not delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind." (NAS) God had actually seen my very articulate self telling these poor kids the same thing again and again, every which way but sideways. I honestly watched their beautiful blue eyes glaze over on dozens of occasions. And yet--I did not stop. I heard the words of the proverb repeating through my brain like a broken record (a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind-a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind-a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind). I knew exactly what I was doing as I was doing it. And yet--I did not stop. I guess I felt I was compensating for what my husband wasn't saying.
When attention turned to the next two children, I think I did a little better. I didn't wax as philosophic, but instead, I embraced and gave voice to my inner twins, Nag and Threaten. Even though I wasn't as clever and articulate of speech, the result was almost the same. I nagged and their eyes glazed over (a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind). So, I threatened. My mouth, at least, wasn't running until my head turned blue. Before long, though, I gave up. I'd say things like, "A gnat--that's what I am. An annoying little gnat flying around your head." Then I'd huff away. I think they spent a lot of time thinking I was ridiculous, and if the truth be known, so did I. By God's infinite mercy, they have turned out well.
And now for the last two. I don't explain a whole lot, don't nag until their eyes glaze over, but I admit it--I threaten. I try not to threaten crazy, over-the-top restrictions like I did with the middle children. I often lack follow-through. The Bible admonishes me again: "He who spares his rod hates his son, but he who loves him disciplines him promptly." (Proverbs 13:24/NKJV) Our kids are a little old to spank, but I feel we are beginning to parent like grandparents. They have begun to count on our forgetfulness. And it's past time to reign them in, because we do not hate them. We love them, and therefore, must discipline them.
So, I guess my point is that there needs to be balance. Consistent parenting which forces children to take responsibility for their actions is the best kind. Reasonable parenting which doesn't make gigantic mountains out of little, tiny molehills is the best kind. We are engaged in a war for our children's hearts and their futures, for their spouses and their children. That is the actual war. By comparison, the messy bedrooms and incomplete math assignments, the failure to do the dishes or take the trash out--those are merely battles. They can't be ignored because they add up, but to put it in my dad's words, "everything is not a tragedy." We need to choose our battles wisely, or we will lose the war.
Like our children, we have gone through many stages in these last two-plus decades. I feel really sad for the older ones so, if you two are reading this: "I am so sorry we fought every battle. We didn't realize how absolutely necessary it was to win the war." I think they spent a lot of time thinking I was ridiculous, and if the truth be known, so did I. I just had no sense of the big picture.
Scripture was very helpful. When I first read Proverbs 18:2, I knew it was written directly for me, several thousand years prior: "A fool does not delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind." (NAS) God had actually seen my very articulate self telling these poor kids the same thing again and again, every which way but sideways. I honestly watched their beautiful blue eyes glaze over on dozens of occasions. And yet--I did not stop. I heard the words of the proverb repeating through my brain like a broken record (a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind-a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind-a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind). I knew exactly what I was doing as I was doing it. And yet--I did not stop. I guess I felt I was compensating for what my husband wasn't saying.
When attention turned to the next two children, I think I did a little better. I didn't wax as philosophic, but instead, I embraced and gave voice to my inner twins, Nag and Threaten. Even though I wasn't as clever and articulate of speech, the result was almost the same. I nagged and their eyes glazed over (a-fool-delights-in-revealing-his-own-mind). So, I threatened. My mouth, at least, wasn't running until my head turned blue. Before long, though, I gave up. I'd say things like, "A gnat--that's what I am. An annoying little gnat flying around your head." Then I'd huff away. I think they spent a lot of time thinking I was ridiculous, and if the truth be known, so did I. By God's infinite mercy, they have turned out well.
And now for the last two. I don't explain a whole lot, don't nag until their eyes glaze over, but I admit it--I threaten. I try not to threaten crazy, over-the-top restrictions like I did with the middle children. I often lack follow-through. The Bible admonishes me again: "He who spares his rod hates his son, but he who loves him disciplines him promptly." (Proverbs 13:24/NKJV) Our kids are a little old to spank, but I feel we are beginning to parent like grandparents. They have begun to count on our forgetfulness. And it's past time to reign them in, because we do not hate them. We love them, and therefore, must discipline them.
So, I guess my point is that there needs to be balance. Consistent parenting which forces children to take responsibility for their actions is the best kind. Reasonable parenting which doesn't make gigantic mountains out of little, tiny molehills is the best kind. We are engaged in a war for our children's hearts and their futures, for their spouses and their children. That is the actual war. By comparison, the messy bedrooms and incomplete math assignments, the failure to do the dishes or take the trash out--those are merely battles. They can't be ignored because they add up, but to put it in my dad's words, "everything is not a tragedy." We need to choose our battles wisely, or we will lose the war.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
What's in a Word?
INTEGRITY. I was substitute teaching in a high school English classroom last week when a student asked me the meaning of integrity. The dictionary discusses adherence to moral and ethical principles. That's nice. It also mentions honesty, virtue and the soundness of moral character. I don't believe those definitions hit the mark. They describe attributes of the person of integrity. I believe the answer I gave when asked is better (How's that for arrogance?): "Integrity is doing the right thing even when nobody's looking."
Wouldn't it be nice if that was everybody's standard? Sadly, it's not. We have become such a sly people, such a sneaky lot. I hate to be the one (of a zillion) harping on television, but I do feel tv is a culprit. As far back as the eighties, television has seen young characters emerge who are smarter than their parents, get over on adults, and justify their actions because they are, after all, dealing with the less hip. At first, the parents are clueless, then they figure out they've been duped. At that point, many of us would put our kids in their place (i.e., take the iPod, ground them from the phone, make them write sentences, whatever). The tv parents, instead, listen intently as their children explain to them just what's wrong with their archaic thinking. The closing credits scroll past before a backdrop of sappy, smiling parents sitting on a couch cuddling and talking about how wise and wonderful their children are. But the children who were influenced by those early sit-coms are not the same ones who are children today. No! They are the parents and grandparents who grew up thinking children need to be given equal voice in decision making.
What has happened is that our children have become empowered. They are raised to believe they are smarter than (or, at the very least, equal to) the parents and teachers in their lives. The arrogance that reared its ugly head between 18 and 22, now shows up in elementary school for some children. This behavior is wrong. Parents are not supposed to abdicate authority. It ruins the kids. They never have to become wise because what they feel is always right. THEREFORE, there is no need for integrity because there is no such thing as the right thing. Everything is relative to their desires. How do we instill integrity in a system that does not acknowledge moral absolutes?
Projected out, this gets ugly. We need to wise up and start reigning our kids in. All of us--me included.
Wouldn't it be nice if that was everybody's standard? Sadly, it's not. We have become such a sly people, such a sneaky lot. I hate to be the one (of a zillion) harping on television, but I do feel tv is a culprit. As far back as the eighties, television has seen young characters emerge who are smarter than their parents, get over on adults, and justify their actions because they are, after all, dealing with the less hip. At first, the parents are clueless, then they figure out they've been duped. At that point, many of us would put our kids in their place (i.e., take the iPod, ground them from the phone, make them write sentences, whatever). The tv parents, instead, listen intently as their children explain to them just what's wrong with their archaic thinking. The closing credits scroll past before a backdrop of sappy, smiling parents sitting on a couch cuddling and talking about how wise and wonderful their children are. But the children who were influenced by those early sit-coms are not the same ones who are children today. No! They are the parents and grandparents who grew up thinking children need to be given equal voice in decision making.
What has happened is that our children have become empowered. They are raised to believe they are smarter than (or, at the very least, equal to) the parents and teachers in their lives. The arrogance that reared its ugly head between 18 and 22, now shows up in elementary school for some children. This behavior is wrong. Parents are not supposed to abdicate authority. It ruins the kids. They never have to become wise because what they feel is always right. THEREFORE, there is no need for integrity because there is no such thing as the right thing. Everything is relative to their desires. How do we instill integrity in a system that does not acknowledge moral absolutes?
Projected out, this gets ugly. We need to wise up and start reigning our kids in. All of us--me included.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Belly Woes
Last week, several of us dropped like flies--victims of the most recent (and relatively wide-spread) belly thing sweeping this part of the country. It's nasty; it's violent. It's fast and furious--and quite contagious. Having already heard of this bug's reputation for brevity, I wasn't thrilled when my dear friend's eight-year-old turned inside out, but I didn't start filling all my kids' bedrooms with trashcans and ginger ale, either. I have to admit, though, my heart sank when she called to tell me her little guy was sick--my kids were at her house at the time. Three days later, my daughter threw up out of her nose and tear ducts (NO LIE!). I was able to skate through a Boy Scout camping trip but didn't manage to make it the whole way home. In retrospect, Route 9 between Berkeley Springs and Paw Paw might not have been my wisest travel option.
If you have been exposed to this nasty virus, take heart. The typical 7-10 days of gross symptoms do not seem to be associated with this strain. I'm not sure how long sufferers are contagious, but relief is only a few miserable hours away from onset. I made sure we all had big bottles of stuff to replace our electrolytes (whatever they are), and lots of time to sleep for the next 24 hours. After the initial explosions, the feeling is that of being pulled through a knot-hole, but the weariness lifts after a day or so. I have read two books in the past few days and slowed down enough to enjoy my gang. Those alone make the whole miserable experience worth it.
So, as with all ailments that cause dehydration, mommies need to be on the alert for symptoms that could lead to real trouble. It's okay to be overly cautious if your baby or toddler is throwing up or having diarrhea. It is far better to be safe than sorry. In other words, who really cares if you annoy your pediatrician? Call anyway. He will ask you how often your child is urinating, so remember to keep track. But little guys are not the only ones who can rapidly become dehydrated--older children, adults and, especially, the elderly are at risk. Know the symptoms, monitor your sweethearts and hunker down. This, too, shall pass. (No pun intended. Okay, well--maybe.)
If you have been exposed to this nasty virus, take heart. The typical 7-10 days of gross symptoms do not seem to be associated with this strain. I'm not sure how long sufferers are contagious, but relief is only a few miserable hours away from onset. I made sure we all had big bottles of stuff to replace our electrolytes (whatever they are), and lots of time to sleep for the next 24 hours. After the initial explosions, the feeling is that of being pulled through a knot-hole, but the weariness lifts after a day or so. I have read two books in the past few days and slowed down enough to enjoy my gang. Those alone make the whole miserable experience worth it.
So, as with all ailments that cause dehydration, mommies need to be on the alert for symptoms that could lead to real trouble. It's okay to be overly cautious if your baby or toddler is throwing up or having diarrhea. It is far better to be safe than sorry. In other words, who really cares if you annoy your pediatrician? Call anyway. He will ask you how often your child is urinating, so remember to keep track. But little guys are not the only ones who can rapidly become dehydrated--older children, adults and, especially, the elderly are at risk. Know the symptoms, monitor your sweethearts and hunker down. This, too, shall pass. (No pun intended. Okay, well--maybe.)
Monday, October 24, 2011
Homeschoolers: The Educated Unsocialized. WHAT????
Homeschooling parents can tell you, without hesitation, the very first words they hear from opponents of home education: "But what about socialization?" That's so odd to me. Who sends their kids to school to socialize?
I do understand that we moved our cherubs from the sun and fun of Cape May County, NJ, to the Middle-of-Nowhere, WV, and that they need to see people other than us. I am a social person. But, I also assert that they do not consider each student they have run into in public school a potential friend. I think people are naturally selective in their relationships. I told both kids going into this wild and woolly venture that they could invite friends over any time they wanted. They don't do alot of inviting. They have established friendships with other homeschoolers in the area and spend a fair amount of time with them. We also take part in Fun Friday (term coined by a hokey, local, homeschooling mom) activities. We have visited the Frontier Culture Museum and Marker Miller Orchards. We are headed to Mount Vernon (George Washington's homeplace) next month. We also get together sometimes just to--dare I say it?--PLAY.
I created a Facebook page called Homebodies and encourage both parents and children to join conversations going on there. As a group (and sometimes with others), we ground-picked a truckload of apples, made 24 gallons of applesauce, studied the Constitution and its creation, enjoyed a small, intimate dinner and sharing time with two international workers who currently serve in Indonesia, and made s'mores over a fire built and maintained by two homeschoolers. So, you see, we are quite a social bunch.
We eat, we pray, we love. We laugh, we learn, we socialize. Plus, our kids' teacher loves them better than anyone else on earth and knows them inside and out. She understands when they are frustrated and never chides them for not catching on to something right away. She doesn't excuse bad behavior by blaming it on their classmates, and she never EVER has to shed her pajamas because she was called to school for a parent-teacher conference. She has the time and energy to collect and grade each assignment, not just the first three to pull the week's grade out of a stack of papers. She believes her students' time is valuable. Who could ask for more?
I do understand that we moved our cherubs from the sun and fun of Cape May County, NJ, to the Middle-of-Nowhere, WV, and that they need to see people other than us. I am a social person. But, I also assert that they do not consider each student they have run into in public school a potential friend. I think people are naturally selective in their relationships. I told both kids going into this wild and woolly venture that they could invite friends over any time they wanted. They don't do alot of inviting. They have established friendships with other homeschoolers in the area and spend a fair amount of time with them. We also take part in Fun Friday (term coined by a hokey, local, homeschooling mom) activities. We have visited the Frontier Culture Museum and Marker Miller Orchards. We are headed to Mount Vernon (George Washington's homeplace) next month. We also get together sometimes just to--dare I say it?--PLAY.
I created a Facebook page called Homebodies and encourage both parents and children to join conversations going on there. As a group (and sometimes with others), we ground-picked a truckload of apples, made 24 gallons of applesauce, studied the Constitution and its creation, enjoyed a small, intimate dinner and sharing time with two international workers who currently serve in Indonesia, and made s'mores over a fire built and maintained by two homeschoolers. So, you see, we are quite a social bunch.
We eat, we pray, we love. We laugh, we learn, we socialize. Plus, our kids' teacher loves them better than anyone else on earth and knows them inside and out. She understands when they are frustrated and never chides them for not catching on to something right away. She doesn't excuse bad behavior by blaming it on their classmates, and she never EVER has to shed her pajamas because she was called to school for a parent-teacher conference. She has the time and energy to collect and grade each assignment, not just the first three to pull the week's grade out of a stack of papers. She believes her students' time is valuable. Who could ask for more?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
To School, or Not To School?
For the second or third time since becoming the mother of a school-aged-child in 1991, we have opted to homeschool. The very first time, our dear oldest daughter was trying out public school after several years in a private Christian school. Her third grade year was fine--she knew a lot going in. Fourth grade brought myriad problems as our daughter's hip, young teacher was very quick to tell her Jesus was a religious figure and ABSOLUTELY NOT a historical figure. We fixed that. Then I caught the teacher screaming (literally, and name-calling) at our daughter in the nurse's office--she had no idea the phone on the nurse's desk was off the cradle and I was on the other end of it. After a very direct meeting the next morning with the teacher and her boss, we fixed that one, too. But fifth grade was another story. We were no longer dealing with religious issues--these people were making our daughter dumb. And it was only the second week of school!
Somewhere along the way, our local elementary school convinced our daughter that quantity was better than quality. The teacher reported happily that our girl was smart as a whip and completed all her work, and then some. One day, while sifting through her Friday folder, a social studies test caught my eye. I was thinking it was one for the refrigerator since it had a great big 100% at the top. And then I looked closely: Our daughter believed Pennsylvania was the capital of Philadelphia and so did her teacher. (The converse isn't even true--it's Harrisburg!) There were several other--five in all--equally ridiculous answers marked correct. I ordered a fifth-grade curriculum over the weekend and she never went back to that school. At some point, she went back to her former private school.
The next time we attempted homeschooling--about a year later--was a disaster and some of the children are still in therapy. The baby was in the playpen; the preschooler was learning her letters; the first grader DESPISED reading; the fourth grader kept feeding his pencils to the dog; and the sixth grader (dear oldest daughter) was just trying to do the right thing. And then I turned up pregnant. The poor kids didn't know which way was up! Half the time I was Mary Poppins and the other half I was Cruella de Ville. Then, one day, my precious husband walked in early from work and after looking at his children's tragic expressions, said the most beautiful words: "Call Cape Christian and see if they'll take all of them on Monday." They did.
I am no longer Mary Poppins or Cruella de Ville, 11 years have flown by since then, and there's no way on earth I'm turning up pregnant again. This brings us to our current homeschool experience, a story that will come in just a short day or so.
Somewhere along the way, our local elementary school convinced our daughter that quantity was better than quality. The teacher reported happily that our girl was smart as a whip and completed all her work, and then some. One day, while sifting through her Friday folder, a social studies test caught my eye. I was thinking it was one for the refrigerator since it had a great big 100% at the top. And then I looked closely: Our daughter believed Pennsylvania was the capital of Philadelphia and so did her teacher. (The converse isn't even true--it's Harrisburg!) There were several other--five in all--equally ridiculous answers marked correct. I ordered a fifth-grade curriculum over the weekend and she never went back to that school. At some point, she went back to her former private school.
The next time we attempted homeschooling--about a year later--was a disaster and some of the children are still in therapy. The baby was in the playpen; the preschooler was learning her letters; the first grader DESPISED reading; the fourth grader kept feeding his pencils to the dog; and the sixth grader (dear oldest daughter) was just trying to do the right thing. And then I turned up pregnant. The poor kids didn't know which way was up! Half the time I was Mary Poppins and the other half I was Cruella de Ville. Then, one day, my precious husband walked in early from work and after looking at his children's tragic expressions, said the most beautiful words: "Call Cape Christian and see if they'll take all of them on Monday." They did.
I am no longer Mary Poppins or Cruella de Ville, 11 years have flown by since then, and there's no way on earth I'm turning up pregnant again. This brings us to our current homeschool experience, a story that will come in just a short day or so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)