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By the time they made it to the hospital, my mother's left arm was retracted and her mouth drooped on one side.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 Mommy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mommy. 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.
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Stop! In The Name of Love--Stop!
A few years ago, I found myself super busy and super overwhelmed. I have a condition, you see, called AGH. When my AGH kicks in, I know it will be a matter of only a few short months before I begin to feel poorly. I start snapping at my family for no reason. I don't sleep well. I eat junk like it's going out of style. I don't check the oil in the old Jeep, forget to go grocery shopping, avoid my mother, let the kids eat way too many Ramen noodles, don't sift the cat box. Lovely.
My AGH is manageable, if I can manage to manage it, and could conceivably become a condition in lifetime remission. But my tendency is to deny its presence in my life, to not treat it with lifestyle changes. Like so many, I walked around for most of my life not realizing I had AGH. I didn't know the symptoms. All I knew was that I felt busier than most (or else I was a loser because I couldn't manage all my responsibilities). And from the symptoms' onset until I flipped my plate completely over and walked away from every unnecessary item on my TO DO LIST, I felt progressively worse--physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. The condition is cyclic. I volunteer, volunteer, volunteer, volunteer. And then I lose my mind. And then I flip my plate, thus, deleting every single item on my lengthy TO DO LIST. After I clear my schedule, I feel liberated and wonderful. These are typical signs of AGH, or Anti-Gravity Hand.
I raise my hand to volunteer for things on a regular basis. A couple years ago, when my son's Cub Scout den needed a den leader, my hand shot up. When our daughter and her husband needed a place to stay--oooo, stay here! When the church was short a Wednesday night teacher--I volunteered! When there weren't enough adults staying the whole week of camp--I packed my bags! And so on, until my daily TO DO LIST resembled War and Peace. At that point, I hit crisis mode and quit everything. I forsook commitments and disappointed people who counted on me.
Anti-Gravity Hand (AGH) is a very serious condition that, if left untreated, could cause damage in all areas of life. Because, when the kids ask me to play a board game, or my sister wants me to pop over for lunch, I have too much to do. I regularly forsake matters of the heart for things that don't matter, and that's terrible for a mother. So, for today, I pledge to under-commit to stuff that other people could do, and commit, instead, to the stuff only I can do.
My AGH is manageable, if I can manage to manage it, and could conceivably become a condition in lifetime remission. But my tendency is to deny its presence in my life, to not treat it with lifestyle changes. Like so many, I walked around for most of my life not realizing I had AGH. I didn't know the symptoms. All I knew was that I felt busier than most (or else I was a loser because I couldn't manage all my responsibilities). And from the symptoms' onset until I flipped my plate completely over and walked away from every unnecessary item on my TO DO LIST, I felt progressively worse--physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. The condition is cyclic. I volunteer, volunteer, volunteer, volunteer. And then I lose my mind. And then I flip my plate, thus, deleting every single item on my lengthy TO DO LIST. After I clear my schedule, I feel liberated and wonderful. These are typical signs of AGH, or Anti-Gravity Hand.
I raise my hand to volunteer for things on a regular basis. A couple years ago, when my son's Cub Scout den needed a den leader, my hand shot up. When our daughter and her husband needed a place to stay--oooo, stay here! When the church was short a Wednesday night teacher--I volunteered! When there weren't enough adults staying the whole week of camp--I packed my bags! And so on, until my daily TO DO LIST resembled War and Peace. At that point, I hit crisis mode and quit everything. I forsook commitments and disappointed people who counted on me.
Anti-Gravity Hand (AGH) is a very serious condition that, if left untreated, could cause damage in all areas of life. Because, when the kids ask me to play a board game, or my sister wants me to pop over for lunch, I have too much to do. I regularly forsake matters of the heart for things that don't matter, and that's terrible for a mother. So, for today, I pledge to under-commit to stuff that other people could do, and commit, instead, to the stuff only I can do.
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.)
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.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
It Is Time To Exhale
Child of Mine
by Paige Jansen Tighe
Child of mine,
Daughter, son,
I still feel your tiny newborn heart
Beating against my chest
As I press you into me,
Tiny legs drawn up and mouth a rosy bow.
I have one hand on your bottom,
The other protects your wobbly grapefruit
head.
Eyes closed, I nuzzle your neck
And drink in that scent which is
Distinctly and divinely and gloriously
You.
Dizzying,
Intoxicating,
You are my heart.
I often thought, back then, if I inhaled
deeply enough
I would suck you right into my soul.
Is anything more precious?
Ah, but you are big now
And cannot be sucked so easily into someone else’s soul.
Your scent is still
Distinctly and divinely and gloriously
You,
But now it mingles with
Glue smell and baby chick,
Sweat, lunch box, fresh air and sunshine.
Hairspray, cologne.
It has come time for me to exhale,
To allow your legs to lengthen,
Your mind to explore,
And yes, I must even allow
Your tender heart to break,
So that you may
Listen in the quiet,
Smell a coming storm,
Gaze long into every day,
Tread softly upon the earth.
Taste, my precious one,
See that the Lord is good,
And may laughter be your lot.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Feed Your Kids, Not Your Addiction
The title of this installment of Momma To Momma may sound a little harsh but--well, it's supposed to. Since I began my teaching career in the late 1980s, I have come across buckets of children with practicing alcoholic or drug-addicted parents. There is no excuse. I attended a parent conference--at a middle school in Baltimore--in which the child's mother was so drunk she fell out of her chair. Another boy slept in a urine-drenched bed with several of his brothers and paid the electric bill on his own at twelve--his mother was a heroin addict. A student in NJ visited my house and I refused to allow him to go home with his step-father; he smelled like a brewery. A lot of my old friends didn't give up their wild ways when they had children--some have not even survived their children's childhoods. Either way, their behaviors, left unchecked, do not just affect their children, but their grandchildren and great-grandchildren...and so on.
When we become grown-ups, we are supposed to put away childish behavior. Look around you: is your life unmanageable because of drug or alcohol use? Are your children eating warm meals at the right time of day? Do you stay in bed while they get themselves ready for school? Do you ever leave your children unattended so you can party? Do you want to stop but have absolutely no idea how?
Currently, at the Romney Goodwill next to Food Lion, there are three or four copies of Alcoholics Anonymous (affectionately known within the rooms of AA as the "Big Book"). If you decide to purchase a copy of this book, tell them you read about it on this blog and the nice Goodwill ladies will not charge you. (I've got it covered.) If your world looks hopeless because of addiction, do something. There is hope. Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are great programs filled with like-minded people who will love and support you as you work to stay clean one day at a time. I am not writing this to condemn anyone, but to offer hope. Be blessed!
When we become grown-ups, we are supposed to put away childish behavior. Look around you: is your life unmanageable because of drug or alcohol use? Are your children eating warm meals at the right time of day? Do you stay in bed while they get themselves ready for school? Do you ever leave your children unattended so you can party? Do you want to stop but have absolutely no idea how?
Currently, at the Romney Goodwill next to Food Lion, there are three or four copies of Alcoholics Anonymous (affectionately known within the rooms of AA as the "Big Book"). If you decide to purchase a copy of this book, tell them you read about it on this blog and the nice Goodwill ladies will not charge you. (I've got it covered.) If your world looks hopeless because of addiction, do something. There is hope. Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are great programs filled with like-minded people who will love and support you as you work to stay clean one day at a time. I am not writing this to condemn anyone, but to offer hope. Be blessed!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Momma-Mia Ramblings...
I've had oodles of opportunities to reflect on mothering over the last couple weeks. I have considered my own mother, my grandmothers, my mother-in-law, my daughter as a mother, my wonderful Auntie Madge and my own mothering. The mothers in my family have been strong and brave for generations behind me, and I carry not only their strength, but their stories, in my body. I am glad to know these stories and to have my life intertwined with their lives. I am proud of that heritage.
I think, because I am a person who people assume hasn't grown all the way up, I get mothered a lot. I welcome this behavior in some, and in others I find it maddening. I suspect motherly types are tipped off by my absolute inability to wear grown-up-lady shoes, or have my hair cut in a way that says ADULT. And here's the paradoxical part of this little scenario: I also mother people. Some welcome it; and some, I am sure, find it maddening.
I am also very selective about the people I allow to mother me, and I don't think it has anything to do with prideful behavior. There are women in my life who could slap me down for something I did and I would learn a lesson. And there are women I would want to slap back. Two of the women I appreciate most, Chris Thomson (my best friend's mom) and Evangelist Boone (Christ Gospel Church/Whitesboro, New Jersey) are also spiritual mothers--they have both directed me in the ways of God and corrected me when I was wrong. I love them for their correction. They are women who are submitted to God in their own lives and tend not to coddle me. I am not a person who requires coddling, just some good old-fashioned butt whuppin' once in awhile.
I think, because I am a person who people assume hasn't grown all the way up, I get mothered a lot. I welcome this behavior in some, and in others I find it maddening. I suspect motherly types are tipped off by my absolute inability to wear grown-up-lady shoes, or have my hair cut in a way that says ADULT. And here's the paradoxical part of this little scenario: I also mother people. Some welcome it; and some, I am sure, find it maddening.
I am also very selective about the people I allow to mother me, and I don't think it has anything to do with prideful behavior. There are women in my life who could slap me down for something I did and I would learn a lesson. And there are women I would want to slap back. Two of the women I appreciate most, Chris Thomson (my best friend's mom) and Evangelist Boone (Christ Gospel Church/Whitesboro, New Jersey) are also spiritual mothers--they have both directed me in the ways of God and corrected me when I was wrong. I love them for their correction. They are women who are submitted to God in their own lives and tend not to coddle me. I am not a person who requires coddling, just some good old-fashioned butt whuppin' once in awhile.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
When Children Grieve
I had the sad occasion yesterday to observe children in mourning. Our community lost a teenager; he was a friend to many, a real character, and it is to him I dedicate this blog. Many teens rode to the funeral together, visited the casket together, wept softly in each others' arms. A lot left tender mementos and notes in the coffin. Some were driven by parents, but we were not able to offer the necessary comfort. Our kids didn't need us--they needed each other, so many of us drifted to the perimeter to reflect and to grieve in our own ways. I think it was important for our children, whose boo-boos we've kissed with our magic lips, whose foes we've met head on with our teeth bared, to know we were there should they need us.
Way back when I was in college, a friend was killed by a drunk driver. Her name was Maryann and she was the oldest daughter in a family of ten. To the younger children, she was a second mother. It was the first time I had ever experienced such a senseless, such a devastating loss. Her younger sisters' grief was agonizing to witness. Their cries were high-pitched, full of something without a name, something even deeper than despair. They clung to each other; they did not seek solace in the arms of an adult.
It is important for us, as mothers, to accept that some boo-boos are not ours to kiss. I am learning through this terrible experience, to listen instead of soothe--unless soothing is requested. I am learning not to initiate because my well-meaning words could scrape open a wound beginning to heal. I am learning to walk that fine line between saying too much and not saying enough.
I stood at Kalob's coffin and longed to fix the terrible trouble--so many years were stretched out before him. But, there is no fixing. So, in honor of this one boy, I pledge to listen better and to say less, to love more and to fear less, to be who my children need me to be as they swim new waters, both dark and sweet.
Way back when I was in college, a friend was killed by a drunk driver. Her name was Maryann and she was the oldest daughter in a family of ten. To the younger children, she was a second mother. It was the first time I had ever experienced such a senseless, such a devastating loss. Her younger sisters' grief was agonizing to witness. Their cries were high-pitched, full of something without a name, something even deeper than despair. They clung to each other; they did not seek solace in the arms of an adult.
It is important for us, as mothers, to accept that some boo-boos are not ours to kiss. I am learning through this terrible experience, to listen instead of soothe--unless soothing is requested. I am learning not to initiate because my well-meaning words could scrape open a wound beginning to heal. I am learning to walk that fine line between saying too much and not saying enough.
I stood at Kalob's coffin and longed to fix the terrible trouble--so many years were stretched out before him. But, there is no fixing. So, in honor of this one boy, I pledge to listen better and to say less, to love more and to fear less, to be who my children need me to be as they swim new waters, both dark and sweet.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Stepping Into Parenting--Part I
I was married six days when I became a mother. I thought, "Cool! This will be like ultimate babysitting and I LOVE to babysit!" I smile now at my naivete. My new husband's little ones--ages 15 months and 38 months--arrived without toys, diapers or directions. Nobody could understand the three-year-old when she talked and she thought the little one was her sole property so she wouldn't let anybody touch him. She also thought his name was: My Baby. The baby of reference woke up screaming, with poopie diapers, at all hours of the night--every night--and suffered from croup and chronic ear infections. To make matters worse, I had only dated their father for four months before we got married and both of us turned up VOLATILE on a premarital personality test.
The only things we had going for us were that our mothers loved and believed in us, and our church family embraced us unconditionally. (Certain 40s-ish couples in our church even came alongside and mentored us.) The three-year-old was jealous of me from the start and the baby couldn't figure out what the heck was going on. But we became a family.
On many, many occasions I was the evil step-monster. People thought I was mean and bossy when in fact, I generally just tried to do the right thing. I was the parent who made the children eat right, put away their toys, do their homework, use good manners and brush their teeth. I was not the parent who allowed them to do as they pleased, eat junk for three days straight, grow sweaters on their teeth, carry food around the house and have romantic relationships at eleven. I refused to be any other kind of parent. Did I make mistakes? Yes. A lot of them? Yes again. I was often harsh and I have seen the worst of me reflected in my son's eyes. But--I loved and kissed these children. I told them stories and helped them through tough times at school and at play. I became an active Cub Scout mom and went on most field trips. I infused Bible verses and principles into our lives daily. I even homeschooled when the going got rough in the classroom. I fell in love with them.
It was hard and I wanted to quit a million times over but I am so glad I didn't. These two children have grown into amazing adults. They are well-mannered and smart. They both brush their teeth and know how to keep themselves clean and snappy. They are treasures and I am so proud of them both.
The only things we had going for us were that our mothers loved and believed in us, and our church family embraced us unconditionally. (Certain 40s-ish couples in our church even came alongside and mentored us.) The three-year-old was jealous of me from the start and the baby couldn't figure out what the heck was going on. But we became a family.
On many, many occasions I was the evil step-monster. People thought I was mean and bossy when in fact, I generally just tried to do the right thing. I was the parent who made the children eat right, put away their toys, do their homework, use good manners and brush their teeth. I was not the parent who allowed them to do as they pleased, eat junk for three days straight, grow sweaters on their teeth, carry food around the house and have romantic relationships at eleven. I refused to be any other kind of parent. Did I make mistakes? Yes. A lot of them? Yes again. I was often harsh and I have seen the worst of me reflected in my son's eyes. But--I loved and kissed these children. I told them stories and helped them through tough times at school and at play. I became an active Cub Scout mom and went on most field trips. I infused Bible verses and principles into our lives daily. I even homeschooled when the going got rough in the classroom. I fell in love with them.
It was hard and I wanted to quit a million times over but I am so glad I didn't. These two children have grown into amazing adults. They are well-mannered and smart. They both brush their teeth and know how to keep themselves clean and snappy. They are treasures and I am so proud of them both.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Ours By Adoption
I have a couple friends, young wives and wives-to-be, who are planning their families. Naturally, they are concerned about whether or not they will be blessed with children, if the children will be well, if they will be good mommies. Generally, things move along as planned with babies conceived and birthed in due time. Sometimes, things don't move along as planned and disappointment becomes worry becomes panic becomes depression. Options are considered. Fertility testing and drugs, in vitro fertilization, surrogate motherhood, adoption, continued childlessness. Each option comes with its own set of considerations.
I feel compelled to write this today because it is the day we celebrate the birth of my dear neice. She is twenty-one today--a bright, vibrant, wonderful young woman who oozes style and lives life with a passion all her own. She is a junior in college, a strong and beautiful dancer, a comic and a devoted follower of Jesus. Thirteen years ago, however, she was a child with little hope--orphaned, fostered, too old to be adopted by anyone looking for a baby. She is also black. My sister and her husband had nearly given up hope by the day they went to a picnic designed to showcase adoptable older children, but they went anyway, and it completely changed more futures than theirs.
My neice turned on her charm, flirted with the nice white couple (description hers) at the picnic and later, boasted to her friends that those people would be adopting her. They did indeed. They fell in love at that picnic and began the process to make this savvy little girl their own. The morning my four children met their new cousin was amazing. No ice to break. No racial barriers to hurdle. No cultural--or multicultural--awkwardness to conquer. The five became cousins the second they laid eyes on each other. We have been blessed beyond measure by my sister's willingness to become a mother by adoption, to join with her husband in creating an interracial family, and to embrace and honor a heritage that is not her own. She made a decision to love unconditionally and sacrificially; that's the first act of motherhood.
Over the next couple years, we added two more children to our number. One day I mentioned something to them about their cousin's adoption. Both jaws went slack and they stared at me, stunned. "What?" they asked incredulously. "She's adopted?"
I feel compelled to write this today because it is the day we celebrate the birth of my dear neice. She is twenty-one today--a bright, vibrant, wonderful young woman who oozes style and lives life with a passion all her own. She is a junior in college, a strong and beautiful dancer, a comic and a devoted follower of Jesus. Thirteen years ago, however, she was a child with little hope--orphaned, fostered, too old to be adopted by anyone looking for a baby. She is also black. My sister and her husband had nearly given up hope by the day they went to a picnic designed to showcase adoptable older children, but they went anyway, and it completely changed more futures than theirs.
My neice turned on her charm, flirted with the nice white couple (description hers) at the picnic and later, boasted to her friends that those people would be adopting her. They did indeed. They fell in love at that picnic and began the process to make this savvy little girl their own. The morning my four children met their new cousin was amazing. No ice to break. No racial barriers to hurdle. No cultural--or multicultural--awkwardness to conquer. The five became cousins the second they laid eyes on each other. We have been blessed beyond measure by my sister's willingness to become a mother by adoption, to join with her husband in creating an interracial family, and to embrace and honor a heritage that is not her own. She made a decision to love unconditionally and sacrificially; that's the first act of motherhood.
Over the next couple years, we added two more children to our number. One day I mentioned something to them about their cousin's adoption. Both jaws went slack and they stared at me, stunned. "What?" they asked incredulously. "She's adopted?"
Friday, April 1, 2011
It's Not A Fad (This Is How We Eat Now)--Part II
Our foray into healthful eating began when dear hubby and I took a nutrition class on the Hallelujah Diet. Our teacher, or health minister, is absolutely vegan. That means she wouldn't touch an animal or its by-product to her lips unless threat of death was involved. She is also 85% a raw foodist. Our class was wonderful and we believe we were taught the absolute truth. The problem was, we just couldn't hang--our kids begged for comfort food, we began cheating one night a week (pizza maybe), we began cheating on weekends, weekends began starting on Thursdays and lasting until Tuesdays. We liked the beliefs, the practices and the recipes. It was the impulsive trips to McDonalds that did us in.
Next we started thinking that meat (and eggs!) might be okay if you raised it yourself on healthy stuff, like grass, and didn't give it antibiotics. Then we discovered sushi. We added cooked crustaceans and bi-valved mollusks to our list of acceptable food items. Over the years since our nutrition class, we have considered ourselves (for a spell) raw foodists, vegans, vegetarians (vegans with wiggle room), semi-vegetarians, natural foodists, fruitarians (more fruit than veggies in the vegetarian diet), pescetarians (vegetarians who will eat fish), and pollotarians (vegetarians who will eat chicken). We like the Japanese version of the macrobiotic diet best--but that's food for the next post.
The bottom line is this: I am very conscious of the garbage available for our consumption. It is pretty and sparkly and delicious. Much of it is also filled with chemicals and animal by-products that could kill us. On top of that miserable fact, the marketing ploys for this stuff are aimed straight at seducing my children. Their bodies are growing and are super vulnerable to toxins. So, in light of that, I read all labels, consider all warnings even if they sound a little kooky, research new products, and try to balance my family's meals and snacks. We also eat some of this terrible stuff--knowingly and sometimes with reckless abandon--just to stay sane.
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