Fifteen...

Our wedding picture hangs in our living room, in a semi prominent spot where people can see the picture, but not the dust.

People that have known us forever no longer notice it--the picture or the dust. They are used to both. Our children have been known to look at it and become upset that they're not in it, leading me to explain that first you get married, and then the babies come. Except that pretty soon, they will probably encounter someone who is, in fact, in their own parents' wedding photos, and they will call me out on that one. And ask me what I was talking about. And call me a liar.

But until then, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

When people who didn't know us then see the picture, they often say something like  "Awww...is that you guys?"

Well, duh.

Who else would it be?

Besides, while I realize that Jimmy may look slightly different than he did then, I'm quite sure that I look exactly the same.

Exactly.

I don't think about that picture much, though I look at it at some point during every day. When I do take the time to really look at it, I remember how hot it was that day. How my cousin Gary set the mulch on fire outside the church--or maybe he was just the one who put it out. Who can remember these details after fifteen years? I remember how, the morning of our wedding, Jimmy witnessed someone back into the flagpole at our reception hall, and how the police wanted him to go make a report, in spite of the fact that he was getting married in an hour. I remember how the air conditioning in the church was broken, and how the church sent us a fundraising letter three months later, to help with a new air conditioning unit. We didn't have any money to give them, since we had spent it all on our wedding at their incredibly hot church.

I also think of walking down the aisle, and saying those vows, and being so happy to have so many of the people we loved there in one place, and yet sad that so many others couldn't be there.

And knowing, without a doubt, that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I think of our reception, and fifteen years later, I'm still glad that we chose the cheaper hall that let us stay as late as we wanted, as opposed to the fancier one with the better view that would have made us leave after four hours.

And when I looked at that picture yesterday, I thought, Wow, I can't believe it's been fifteen years. Fifteen years, two houses, six jobs, one business, a bunch of dead goldfish, two beloved dogs, and three amazing children later.  And I know, with all certainty, that we are blessed beyond all comprehension.

And yet, no one tells you how hard its going to be sometimes.

No one tells you that, on your way to all of that, and in the midst of all of that, and even after all of that, there will be the other.  Heartbreak and miscarriages, stress and lost jobs, fear and no money, trauma and car accidents, pain and bad backs, anxiety and new businesses, uncertainty and a bad economy, grief and lost loved ones, sleep deprivation and babies who never stop crying.

Except that they do. The babies really do stop crying. And the money comes in eventually, and the bad backs get mostly better, and the economy picks up, and someday, you realize, things are somehow good again. And you will hold onto that knowledge, because there will no doubt be other times when you will need to remember that sometimes, it's all incredibly, unimaginable hard--much harder than anyone ever told you it would be--but that it won't always be that way. And you will remind yourself of that again and again, until one day, you'll realize that it was true.

I used to think that people focused way too much on the wedding, and not nearly enough on the marriage. I still tend to think that's true at times. And yet, I think they should have their wedding. They should celebrate. They should dance. They should have as many of the people they love in one room as possible. There should be toasts, and cake, and laughter, and a groom drinking champagne out of his new bride's shoe. Or maybe that doesn't actually happen at every wedding.

There should be all of these things, so that, when the first horrific argument occurs sometime during your first year of marriage, you will remember that you and/or your parents just spent a huge amount of money to help the two of you be joined together forever, and that someone is going to be really pissed if one of you demands a divorce and walks out before your first anniversary.

And so you'll stay.

Which you will be glad you did, because the next day, or the next week, or the next month, you won't remember what that stupid fight was about anyway.

I now realize that you should definitely have no shortage of flowers at your wedding, because flowers are beautiful and a reminder that this wedding--this marriage--is truly something to celebrate. But you should also have them so that, after the wedding, you can dry one and keep it in your china closet, so that you can see it as you sit up on the couch late one night a few years later, stewing that he said or did something so insensitive.

Something that, this time, you will definitely remember the next day, and the next week, and the next month. But that, eventually, you will make a choice to let go of, in part because you saw that dried flower and remembered that you made a promise.

You should have--and keep--all kinds of mementos of that special day, especially the ones that remind you of sunshine and roses-- things you were sure that your marriage would be full of. Because the marriage itself, at times, will most certainly not be sunshine and roses, and you will at some point need those pictures and mementos to remind you of the power of hope.

You won't always need reminders, of course. There will be good times. Days filled with happiness. Joyful weeks. Months of peaceful contentment. There will be good years, and really good years, and great years.

But there will also be the other times--the times people tend not to talk about as much. The sad times, the stressful times, the disconnected times, the angry times. And there will also be all of the outside stuff that tries to find its way in. Job stress. Time constraints. Other people and their expectations.  Eventually, you will decide which things can be allowed in, and which ones just need to be kept out, because your marriage, with all of its imperfections, is more important than any of those things.

And yet, in the midst of the difficult times, there will still be a million things to celebrate.

Births. Baptisms. Birthdays. Friendships. First Communions. Laughter. Private jokes. A shared history. Communication. Forgiveness. Commitment. Perseverance. Sleeping in. Again. Finally. Faith. Paying the bills without holding your breath. Hope. Family. Acceptance. Love.

Date nights once a year.

Anniversaries.

When I worked at a hospital years ago, I had a patient who would come in every month for chemo. We spent a lot of time together, and she told me about some of the trials in her marriage. It was hard. It was not perfect. In fact, it was quite far from perfect. There had been separations, and tears, and anger. And yet, there was never a divorce. Many in her shoes may have made that choice--and understandably so--but she didn't choose that path. She didn't choose it because, amidst their incredibly difficult, stressful times, there were also times of happiness, and laughter, and joy. There was a family they raised together.

They had made a promise.

Frequently, this woman told me how hard her marriage was. And then, as their 50th wedding anniversary approached, she told me about the huge party they had planned.

I was initially somewhat confused as to why anyone would have a huge celebration for a marriage that had been so far from perfect.

And then I got married.

And I realized that most marriages, at one time or another, are quite far from perfect. And yet, they should all be celebrated. In fact, maybe the ones that are the farthest from perfect are the ones that should be celebrated the most.

I'm not talking about the marriages where there is abuse, or adultery, or addiction--that's another kind of hard entirely. I'm talking about the other ones--the other kind of hard--the marriages where the day to day kind of hard surpasses "why don't you ever pick up your socks" and ventures into " I don't think I want to talk to you today. And maybe not tomorrow either. And probably not the day after that".

But that ultimately finds its way to "Good night. Let's just talk about it in the morning".

Maybe those are the ones to be celebrated the most.  Not because they're perfect. But because they're not.

And yet, they still exist.

Because two people made a choice. And every day, they make it again. Even when it's hard.

To love even when they don't feel like it.

To laugh as often as possible.

To live with gratitude, and faith, and hope.

To keep a promise.

And to know that a little dust on the picture doesn't diminish its beauty, or its value, or its truth.

The Truth, As I Know It....

I don't believe there are many hard and fast truths when it comes to parenting. In fact, I think we probably all have our own truths. Other people may share them, or they may not. They may understand them, or they may not. And really, who cares. You know what works in your house. I know what works in mine. And yes, even "works" may be a relative term. Is it all working as long as everyone is wearing clothes--anyone's clothes--and has eaten--something---three times today? Or is that just surviving, hanging in there, or muddling through? I guess it depends on who you ask.

But sometimes, it seems like the bar has been raised so high that our truths--whatever they are-- somehow aren't good enough compared to the truths we see all around us. The truths of other moms. The truths on magazine covers. On Christmas cards. On facebook posts.

I could venture to say that some of those truths may, in fact, not even be actual truths, but well, who am I to say what's real in someone else's world?

I can only tell you what's real in mine. And so, if for no other reason than to lower the bar a little for the rest of us, I will.

My truth, as I know it:

1) I hide from my children. Several times a day. Sometimes in the laundry room (hey at least I'm doing something while I'm hiding), but also in the bathroom, and the bedroom, and most recently, in the cool, quiet darkness of my family room, which just happens to be off of the laundry room, which is where they think I am. Washing, drying, folding, sorting. In reality, I am in the family room, on the couch, under a comforter. When I'm in the bathroom, they find me, and as I hear their footsteps coming closer, I also start to hear the music from Psycho in my head. At least I think it's just in my head. But since they have yet to find out about my family room hideaway, I'm a little safer there. I do answer when they call me, but I figure it's only fair that they have to call me as many times as I have to tell them to put their shoes on in the morning. So, you know, I try to answer by "Mommmmmmmy!" number seventeen.

2) Whenever possible, I drink during play dates. No, not if I am caring for someone else's children. But if their mother is here to care for them and is willing to drink with me, it's on. No, I'm not talking about getting sloshed and giggling on the kitchen floor while the kids play dress up in the play room. I try to save that for occasional Friday nights.

3) I firmly believe that appearances matter. Therefore, if you can't see it, it doesn't matter. Sometimes my kids don't have fitted sheets on their beds. Or socks under their shoes. Or clean underwear on under their shorts. Call it what you want. I call it "I don't have time to give a shit".

4) I believe in age appropriate time outs. So my four-year-old should spend no more than four minutes in his room, and my two year old shouldn't be there for more than two minutes. And yet, sometimes I need their time outs as much as they do. And I'm forty. You do the math.

5) The pizza delivery guy knows my first name. I expected this to be the norm when my youngest child was an infant. Not when he was almost three. And yet, I have no intention of our relationship changing anytime soon.

6) The lady at the McDonald's drive through should know my first name.

7) My house is a mess. Always. I once heard a mom of one child mention that a mom of five she knew "didn't really keep the house picked up". Really? A mom of five? Ya think? Obviously I only have three, but I can't manage to keep it picked up, so some days--weeks, months--I give up. If you want to come over, please call first. Give me a week's notice. And then when you do come over, wear a blindfold. See number 2 above.

8) My car is a mess, too. Always.

I am frequently reminded of the fact that I am often a complete mess. I was reminded of this just this morning when I took N to school fifteen minutes late, and had to walk her out to find her class at field day, and tell her that it was OK, and that she would figure out who she would be partners with, and apologize to her teacher for bringing her late. And I was reminded of it again later, when I went to her classroom pizza picnic and noticed, for example, that no one else's sibling was wearing a shirt with last night's ketchup on it, and that they were all, in fact, wearing socks.

And yet, I got to see N at school today. I got to play outside with her brothers. They all have (mostly) clean clothes. They have friends over, even when the house is a mess, and I don't even make them wear blindfolds. We have pizza for dinner too often, and McDonald's too often for lunch. I try to make up for it by serving lots of green stuff when I do cook. Even if none of us know exactly what it is.

If these things keep us all a little saner, I tend to think that's OK. Maybe some families can have a clean house, homemade meals every night, matching socks, clean underwear, fitted sheets, and a sane mommy. But not my family.

They get one or the other.

That's the truth.

And I'm OK with that.

Finding Your Quiet Place...

It happened yesterday afternoon as I was driving the kids home after picking up N at school. They were all talking at once--OK so maybe they weren't all talking. Some were screaming instead. We were sitting in traffic for what seemed like forever. I thought my head might explode from all the noise around me. I was trying to think of what we needed at the grocery store. And wondering how my car gets so trashed so quickly. And when I might have a chance to get the oil changed. And trying to remember to nod every few seconds so that whoever was talking would think  know I was listening. And then their voices all started to meld together, and started to take on a different sound. Like the teacher in Charlie Brown.

Waa waa...waa waa waaa...waa waa waa waaa...waa waa waa....

Suddenly, I wasn't in the car anymore. I was somewhere else. I'd like to tell you that I imagined myself in a beach chair on a tropical island, sipping a very large, very strong drink with an umbrella in it, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I saw myself sitting in a corner, my knees tucked up to my chest, rocking back and forth as I banged my head against the wall.

Rocking and banging. Banging and rocking. As the noise continued around me.

Waa waa...waa waa waaa...waa waa waa waaa...waa waa waa

Eventually the car in front of us moved, and I was forced to leave my moment in the corner. But it made me realize something, that moment.

I liked it there.

Once we got home and snacks were doled out, I retreated to the laundry room. I hate doing laundry. And yet, I love doing laundry. The laundry room is often the only place in my house where no one follows me, and that's only because there's still a baby gate at the top of the stairs which lead to the laundry room. Jimmy keeps asking why we still have that gate. He threatens to get rid of it. A few times, he has even gotten it as far as the back door. But then I see him, and I tell him that I'm worried that O will fall down the stairs. He looks at me funny, and tells me that O is almost three. 

And then I give him the look. The look that says I let you get rid of the high chair, and the pack and play, and even the adorable teddy bear mobile that I had a ridiculous emotional attachment to, but get rid of that baby gate, and one of us will be sleeping on the couch until our children are in college.

So, you know, he puts the gate back.

Even though it's broken, and if you look closely, you will see that it's usually hanging on by just one, increasingly loose eight-year-old drywall bolt. But the kids don't know this. They just know that it's a gate, and that it's hard to open. So they don't try. And the one who can open it knows that if she finds me when I'm in the laundry room, I will give her laundry to fold.

So she stays away.

Smart girl.

There is, of course, always laundry to be done, so while I may occasionally use the laundry room as an escape from something, I am really just escaping into piles of clothes, and baskets of socks, and stacks of towels. Sometimes, with all those piles, and baskets, and stacks, it seems that the laundry room isn't much of an escape at all.

Rather, it's an exercise in futility. Wash laundry. Dry laundry. Fold laundry. Wash more laundry. Dry more laundry. Fold more laundry. Wash some of the clothes that I just washed yesterday. Dry the same clothes. Fold the same clothes.

Let's not even talk about putting them away, because frequently, that just doesn't happen.

It's my retreat. And yet, it most certainly is not a retreat.

Except that it is.

Because, yesterday, as I piled more towels on top of the already ridiculously high pile of towels, it dawned on me.

 Finally, after fifteen years of marriage, and eight years of motherhood, and three children, I have discovered the secret to maternal fulfillment.

If the piles are big enough, no one can find you.

Time...

The kids birthdays are approaching. I wasn't sure I was going to write about their birthdays. I'm not really sure how to put it into words. At least, I'm not sure how to put it into words that I haven't already written. But then, last night, we went to kindergarten orientation for B.

Kindergarten.

How did that happen?

The kids and parents first meet with the principal and teachers in the gym, before the kids go off with the teachers and the parents stick around to listen to very important information, like drop off/pick up lane etiquette.

(Someday, I hope they will ask me to speak at this orientation, because in spite of the fact that they discuss it for an hour at kindergarten orientation, and send it home in newsletters, and send periodic emails throughout the year, there is always someone who does not know the drop off/pick up line etiquette. Namely, STAY IN YOUR CAR. What is so hard about this? If you stay in your car, it all runs rather smoothly. Kids get out, they close the door, they walk into the building, and you drive away, allowing those of us who have been sitting behind you to move up so that our kids can get out of the car, close the door, and walk into the building. But once you get out of your car, because your sweet child needs a kiss, or you need to walk him to the door, or you see his gym teacher and want to ask her a question, well then you have thrown the whole thing off. This doesn't work so well for those of us who thought we had a full four minutes to get our children to school on time, and now only have three. K?)

OK, so anyway.

I wasn't sure B would go off with the kindergarten teachers when it was time. But he did. Quite easily, in fact. Maybe a little too easily if you ask me. What, no separation anxiety? No nervousness? No "But I want my Mommy"? Have the last five years meant nothing to you? Thanks a lot, kid.

And in case I wasn't already thinking how rude this was of him, the guidance counselor started talking about how normal separation anxiety is. In fact, its not just normal. It's apparently a sign of a strong parent-child bond.

So clearly, we haven't bonded enough.

When the discussion about parking lot etiquette/sucky parents whose kids kids don't have separation anxiety  was over, N and O and I went to the kindergarten classrooms to find B. Well, after O ran outside into the parking lot and I dragged him back inside. (Apparently he wasn't listening, because that is definitely not acceptable parking lot etiquette). Then we went and found B.

All around us, kids were anxiously looking for their parents. Some were already reunited, clinging to the legs of parents who they clearly thought were never coming back for them. And then I saw B. Sitting in the square in the middle of the floor, seemingly unaware of the chaos all around him. I waved. I smiled. I thought he must have been wondering where we were.

He waved. Half smiled. And went back to looking at the picture he had colored while I was listening the parking lot talk.

"Um, B? You ready to go now?"

"Oh. OK"

He got up, and followed us into the hallway.

I excitedly asked him how it went. Did he have fun? Did he like the classroom? What did he think?

He stared at me for a moment. "Mom. We colored a picture and read a book."

Oh.

OK then.

As we made our way out of the school, I wondered how we got here so fast. Kindergarten? Wasn't I just starting at his sweet newborn face, marveling that he was actually here? Wasn't I just waiting for his first tooth? First words? First steps?

Wasn't I just cleaning peanut butter and syrup off the floor, and wondering if he was ever going to get out of diapers, and lamenting the fact that he was refusing to go to preschool?

And now...kindergarten?

I look at N, ahead of us, confidently leading the way. This is her school, her place more than any of ours.  I wonder when she got so tall. It hits me that she is halfway through elementary school.

"Hey mom!" she turns around to show me something, as she points. "Look! A fly! Oh, two flies! They're mating!"

Mating?

When did she learn about mating?

I smile and nod, and then I point, too.

"Wow. Look at the all the artwork on the walls. Just beautiful".

O runs ahead and I tell him to slow down.

And I mean it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then I came home and watched the news. And I thought of Oklahoma. And of children who went to school and didn't come home. And I prayed about miracles.

Thank you for ours.

Please work more. 

We need them.

Blessing My Family...One Mess at a Time

I can't remember when I was first reminded that, as moms, everything we do for our families is a blessing to them. Everything. The mundane-ordinary-boring-monotonous-disgusting-all-of- it. It's all for them. And it all blesses them.

Wherever it was that I first heard it, it struck a chord. Of course it is!  Those dishes need to be washed in order of my family to eat. Those clothes need to be cleaned so they have something to wear. Those teeny, tiny little pieces of ground in crayon need to be individually plucked out of the carpet so that I can lose whats left of my mind.

OK, so maybe it doesn't always feel like I'm blessing my family.

Like when I was standing in K-Mart a few days ago, getting thrown up on, while simultaneously scrubbing vomit off of my shirt, and O's shirt, and Kmart's shopping cart with a red bandana. (Thank you Taylor Swift, for your Red tour, which Aunt Cathy and I took N to the night before for her birthday. But to be honest, a Yellowish Brown tour would have been better for me).

Like the dishes that I do six times a day. The paint I've been trying to scrub off the kitchen table for three days. The toothpaste that somehow found its way to the bathroom ceiling. Sorry, but dealing with these things doesn't always feel like I'm blessing anyone.

Least of all, me.

And yet, I am. Of course I am. And I'm trying really, really hard to keep that in the forefront of my mind when, for example, I'm trying to get black magic marker off of a mattress. Or get the drinking straw out of the heating vent. Or clean up the milk that I just watched my two year old intentionally pour onto the playroom floor.

Those diapers I thought I'd certainly be done changing by now? I'm not just up to my elbows in poop. I'm blessing my family. Going through the basket of one hundred socks that never seem to have the right match? Blessing my family. The green paint that I'm scrubbing off of the toilet seat, and the tub, and the bathroom walls? Just blessing my family.

Again. And again. And again.

I suspect it will be a while before I really convince myself of any of this.

Like maybe never.

And yet, I keep trying. Because if I have to spend half of my morning folding clothes in the laundry room, and the other half pulling Barbie dolls, and scribbled on papers, and socks without matches out from under beds, it does help if I can remind myself that there is a deeper purpose to all of this.

Or at least a slightly more palatable way of thinking about it

After all, the greatest gift is being able to help someone else, isn't it?

Which causes me to wonder what my children are thinking as they make these messes.

"Better get some more paint on the walls. We want Mom to have a chance to bless us today."

"Better take off this gross diaper and throw it behind the couch. Mom really deserves to bless us today...or the day after tomorrow, when she finally finds it".

"Better pour this bowl of fresh fruit into the toilet. Mom sure does like it when she gets to bless us".

OK, so maybe they don't think any of those things. Maybe they're just being kids, doing what kids do.

Dirtying. Cluttering. Destroying.

The truth is, some days I'm not really good at blessing people in these ways.

In fact, most days I pretty much suck at it.

I would rather be blessing my children by reading to them, or taking them to the park, or by giving them the give of my sanity, which may sometimes require that I spend a few quiet hours  moments locked in the bathroom.

Alone.

Some days It's hard to see how any of these things are a blessing.

Any of them, that is, except the sweet, crazy, wild bunch who can trash this house like nobody's business.

They bless me a hundred times over, each and every day.

The least I can do is make sure they have clean underwear.

Just don't look too closely at their socks.

Pennies from Heaven

It's the day before N's First Communion, and I'm standing in the laundry room, washing, drying, folding, sorting, dropping, picking up, folding, sorting,.

Lamenting that so much of my life is spent in this room.

I think of my aunts--the nuns-- and my Aunt Catharine in particular. She would come visit and spend hours--days--in our laundry room. And it was way worse than this one to begin with, since in between her visits, no one folded or sorted anything in that room.

I remember hearing someone describe tasks like these as monk's work. I guess it was nun's work too. And mother's work.

I'm trying to get into monk mode. What is it monks think about when they do laundry?

Do they wonder how a brand new pair of pants could get so dirty so quickly?

How a shirt that fit perfectly last month is somehow already too small?

How it's probably a bad idea to keep trying to squeeze a two yr old into a shirt that no longer fits him, just because I can't accept that he's outgrown that size?

They probably don't think about these kinds of things.

But I do.

And then I think about First Communions. And about aunts who aren't here to celebrate. And grandparents who aren't either.

Evntually, I decide to think instead about all those who are here to celebrate, and make myself focus on laundry again. I start bringing it into the family room. It's easier to put it piles there. At one point, I drop a wash cloth, and go back to pick it up.

I fold it, and carry it--that single washcloth--into the family room.

A penny falls onto the floor from the bar nearby.

I stare at it, puzzled, wondering what made it fall.

Pennies from Heaven?

I think how ridiculous this thought is, and almost ignore the penny.

But then I think Well, maybe....

Maybe, if it's from the year I was born, maybe then, I'll know it's a penny from Heaven.

I start to pick it up, and then think maybe I should just not even look at the year. After all, it is certainly not going to be from the year I was born.

But then I think of other ridiculous things.

Things that couldn't be, and yet, they were.

Things that we think are impossible.

Until we see them with our very own eyes.

So I turned the penny over. Preparing to be disappointed, and laughing at myself, just a little.

Until I saw the year.

1972.

The year I was born.

We had a fabulous day.

It's Everywhere...

So.

A few weeks ago, it came to my attention that we--as in, my family-- were surrounded by dysfunction.

This is funny in a way, since quite often, we ARE the dysfunction. But lately, we have been fairly functional, which of course may be why I was suddenly aware of all of the dysfunction around us.

Everywhere I went, there seemed to be examples of people not caring for their kids. And I don't mean people giving their kids chicken nuggets for dinner four nights out of seven, or letting their four year old stay up until nine o'clock on school nights.

I definitely don't mean those people, because sometimes we are those people.

I also don't mean those people because, in general, I am a pretty firm believer that, within reason, people get to raise their kids the way they want to raise them, and that as long as everyone is loved, and fed, and safe, and usually, mostly clothed, it's all good, and its not really any of my (or anyone else's) business how they raise them.

As long as they are, in fact, raising them.

And there is the problem, because some of the dysfunction that seemed to be surrounding us was a direct result of people who were not, in fact, raising their children.

Oh, they were probably kinda sorta raising them, but not really fulfilling the whole fed-safe-usually mostly clothed aspect.

This is, of course, nothing new. We have all probably had some interaction with someone like this at some point. But I wasn't having one interaction. It was everywhere.

The lady at the mall who left her two year --two year old--...alone in the play area while she shopped. I kept seeing her peek into the crowded play area before taking off again, but my mind couldn't really wrap itself around the fact that she was peeking in because her two year old was playing there by himself, while she shopped.  That's what I thought was happening, but then my mind said things like "But people don't do that. Especially well dressed, forty something year old women with Nordstrom bags. They just don't".

Except that they do. This was confirmed for me as the two year old left the play area and started toddling through the center of the mall, toward the exit. I watched him, thinking that surely he was trying to catch up with someone ahead of him--someone who hadn't yet realized he was so far behind.

Only, instead of turning to see if he was coming, the people in front of him just kept walking. And he kept walking. Further and further. Until it was clear that he wasn't with any of those people. So I stopped him, and asked where his mommy was, and he looked at me, as if to say "I have absolutely no idea".

Which was true. He had no idea where his mother was.

Until she came out of a nearby store, looked around, and saw him standing there, in the middle of the mall, talking to a strange woman, and smiled and said "Thanks!" as if this is just something moms at the mall do for one another.

Unfortunately, she is not the only one.

Recently, we have encountered other examples of this kind of parenting.

People who don't seem to be concerned if their kids spend several hours a day, several days a week, at the home of a neighbor they've never met.

A three year old we know whose language skills are seriously lacking--in his case, at least in part because for much of the time, no one talks to him.

Yes, I realize this is all very judgmental of me. And we're not supposed to do that. Judge one another. It's not very nice. Or kind. Or accepting.

I get that. It's true. We're not supposed to judge one another. And yet, how can I not judge you when I--a complete stranger-am standing in the middle of the mall with your two year old, who you left in the play area while you shopped?

In truth, since all of these situations seemed to be happening at around the same time, I started to feel like maybe God was trying to tell me something. Why was I continually finding myself in these situations--stepping in to do the job of other parents--when they themselves weren't doing them?

Why was other people's dysfunction showing up on my doorstep--sometimes quite literally--when I obviously have quite enough of my own dysfunction to deal with, thank you very much?

I started obsessing. I started thinking about what a better place the world would be if we as parents just did our jobs. I started thinking about how kids who haven't been taught the basics...like the importance of being kind to one another, and the need to say please and thank you, and that "fricken" is not an acceptable word for a six year old to use--will grow up to be kids who get drunk at twelve, and smoke pot at thirteen, and  try to get my kids to sneak out of the house to get drunk and smoke pot with them at fourteen.

And that part, quite frankly, makes me really, really mad.

Because I have always figured that my kids would be at least sixteen before I would have to put alarm systems on their bedroom windows, and now I'm going to have to plan for that much, much sooner than I thought.

But also because, really, I just don't want to have to think about things like that yet. And because parenting is hard enough without having to contend with the potential problems that arise when other kids haven't really been parented. And because, while kids are always going to be kids and push the limits, it would all be so much easier if we, as parents, just did our jobs.

All of us.

And so I obsessed some more. And judged some more. And wondered some more why the universe seemed to be surrounding me with all of this crazy--none of which, for a change, was mine.

And then, after thinking about it some more, and obsessing some more, and wondering some more, I happened to talk about it with my older, wiser brother Jim.

He made some good points. He reminded me that I can't change other people's parenting. But I can make sure that that the impact we have on their children is a positive one.

I knew this, of course. But there's something to be said for an older, wiser voice of reason that agrees with and elaborates on the dialogue you've been having with your own younger, not-quite-as-wise voice of reason.

So I thought some more. And then it dawned on me.

Of course God was trying to tell me something.

The truth was, I'd been so focused on the dysfunction all around me, and how it could potentially impact my life and my own parenting, that I hadn't stopped to think that maybe the issue wasn't that all of this was surrounding me.

Maybe the issue was that I had been placed in the middle of it.

I've been focusing on the difficulty of the storm around me.

Instead of focusing on being the beacon of light in the midst of the storm.

And so I'll try.

And I'll probably fail.

And then I'll try again.

Happy Mothers Day...

On Mother's Day, I often find myself thinking back to the days when I first become a mother. 

Everyone told me that it would be blissful. And they were right. They told me that it would be incredible. And it was. They told me that I would love this new little person in a way that was unlike any other love in my life. And I did.

But it turned out there was so much more to this journey than that.  In addition to all of the wonderful things other women couldn't wait to tell me about motherhood, there were all the things they didn't tell me. Maybe they had forgotten what those early days and weeks were like. Maybe it was different for them. 

Maybe they didn't want to scare me.

But in addition to being blissful, and incredible, and awe inspiring in terms of how much love I felt for this new person in my life, the beginning of my experience as a mother was, at times, also incredibly, unbelievably hard.

Hard, and exhausting, and absolutely mind boggling.

Who knew that this baby--this beautiful, chubby baby girl, could sleep so little? And eat so often? And cry for two hours at a time?

Who knew that nursing could be so hard that it would require seven different lactation consultants to come to my aid, before I ultimately deiced to ignore them and go home and wing it?

Winging it was actually what ended up working. When it came to nursing and a few other things, too. 

Most things, in fact.

Once we took our daughter home, we were disheartened to discover that, in spite of all the wonderful advice we'd gotten, in spite of the books we'd read, and in spite of the classes we'd taken, we were completely, utterly clueless when it came to caring for an actual baby.

And yet, we did just fine.

Eventually.

We learned that nursing wasn't such a problem for her, as long as we followed her lead. We learned that during her nightly two hours of screaming, time outside did wonders for all of us. Eventually, we even learned that she would sleep much better if we actually laid her down, instead of holding her for six hours at time.

I won't tell you at what point we realized this, because it would be incredibly embarrassing to admit, for example, that it wasn't until she was seven months old.

The point is, we learned, and we relaxed, and eventually, we even slept.

Three years later, we had a second child. Some things were easier this time. The sleep issue, for example, was much better--mainly because this time, we had no expectation that we would actually get any sleep. 

That turned out to be a good thing.

 Some things, however, were harder. I once left the baby on a mat on the floor, and jumped into the shower, thinking my husband would be home for a few more minutes. I came out to find my three year old kneeling over her wailing, red faced brother, inches from his face, screaming, "Just Stop Crying!"

Eventually, we all dried our tears, and I made a mental note to write my shower times--or days--on the calendar for my husband's future reference.

But again, we survived, and  two years later, we had a third child.

And now there are three. Our days are a whirlwind of school, and play dates, and homework, and dishes, and laundry, and diapers. And, of course, the grocery store. Where everyone knows my name. Or, at least my moniker, which I’m pretty sure is “That lady with those screaming kids”.

That chubby baby girl has grown into a long legged seven year old with a slight lisp thanks to two missing bottom teeth. She does her homework without being asked, and writes poetry, and does perfect cartwheels, and dances everywhere she goes.

She even sleeps through the night.

Her four year old brother, whose headstrong ways kept us quite frazzled for a few years, swore that he was never going to use the potty, or go to school, or make friends.

Now he does all three. Amazingly well, in fact. More importantly, he assures me that he will, in fact, love me forever, and will never, ever want to live anywhere else.

I suspect we'll both have different feelings about that at some point in the future.

Our two year old keeps me running, and laughing, and frustrated, as he gets into the dog food, and the peanut butter, and the toothpaste. Fortunately, he also loves to hug his mommy. 

When he's not filling the bathroom sink with toilet paper.

And yet, I will cherish these moments. Not every one of them. But enough of them.  Because I know they won’t last forever.

Most people seem to agree that motherhood is not for the weak of heart, and it is certainly not for those lacking a sense of humor. But we don’t talk much about who it is for. It’s apparently for those who don’t mind not showering for days at a time, who don’t mind wearing the same sweatpants three days in a row, and who accept that some days, adequate nutrition consists of four cups of coffee, two glasses of wine, cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing over the kitchen sink, and the crust from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Not necessarily in that order.

It’s for those who know that their body is no longer their own. Who know that it’s possible for seven people to fondle your breasts in a three day period.  And not one of them is your husband. Who know that your body will not only nourish a baby through pregnancy and infancy, but that it will become a playground for a three year old who is fascinated with your “jelly belly”. 

 At least someone likes it.

It’s for those who know that with absolutely no effort on your part, you are forever emotionally connected to this other person. Their tears are your tears, and their triumphs your triumphs.  It’s also for those who know that a house you spent three hours cleaning can be trashed in under three minutes. For those who know that the dishes never end, and the laundry never ends, and the homework never ends. But the fleeting moments of childhood? They end all too soon.

It’s for those who know that you will take your first child to the doctor because she has a fever for two days (apparently 99.9 isn’t even really a fever), or because she smells like syrup (they laughed at me), or because you think she has worms (don’t ask),  but that your second child will be given Tylenol and watched for three days before the doctor is even called, and your third will be lucky to get to his well-child visits once a year.

It’s for those who know firsthand that motherhood, in all of its frustrating, mind numbing, exhausting glory, is not at all like the diaper commercials would have us believe. After all, they only show the baby after he’s been changed, with a woman who is obviously not his mother, since she has clearly had time to shower, brush her hair, apply make-up, and put on something besides her husband’s old t-shirt. (Which is probably dirty anyway, since no one has had time to do laundry in a week).

Motherhood is for those who know that some days, we still second guess ourselves.  And wonder what we have gotten ourselves into.  It’s for those who know that we’re not perfect. And that we’re just doing the best that we can. It’s for those who know that in a day, or a week, or a year, life can change in ways we never imagined, and rarely does it turn out exactly as we thought it would.  It’s for those who know that “miracle” is not the same as “perfection”.  And yet, that doesn’t make it any less of a miracle.

And it doesn’t make perfection any less of a myth.

It’s for those who now accept the peanut butter hand prints on the walls and puddles of syrup on the kitchen floor as part of the decor, in a house cluttered with broken crayons, and toys, and mismatched shoes. It’s for those who would like their house a little cleaner, their kids a little better behaved, and their bank account a little larger, but who know that none of these things will happen anytime soon.  

And that they will happen all too soon.

It’s for those who look into their children’s eyes and wonder where the time has gone, as they realize with gratitude that most of their parenting mistakes so far have somehow gone unnoticed, or at least unpunished.  And hopefully, undocumented.

Mostly, though, motherhood is for those who know that you don’t always have to know what you’re doing. You just have to keep doing it.  You don’t have to do it perfectly. Just the best you know how. You don’t have to love every moment.

You just have to find the moments that you love.

And cling to them.

National Day of Prayer

Today is the National Day of Prayer.

 I don't know if the media is talking about this. I don't usually watch the news, since I have young children, and I've decided that you just can't watch the news if you have young children. I know I haven't seen it on the headlines on my email server. I know that I did see it on the facebook page of the parochial school that I attended until sixth grade.

I know past presidents have made a point to mention the National Day of Prayer. I hope President Obama will, too. I suspect that if he does, though, he will somehow mention it carefully. That is not a statement about politics, though I'm sure some will take it that way.

That's a statement about society.

We don't want to talk about prayer much. We're too afraid we may offend someone. We don't want to be seen as pushing our values unto others. Because, you know, values are just so...passe.

Kind of like prayer.

And that is exactly why we so desperately need this day.

We used to watch the news and think how fortunate we were to live in this country, and not those other countries. The ones that were dealing with hatred, and wars, and atrocities.

And yet, people are killing people every day in this country. Over tennis shoes. Over drugs. Over absolutely nothing at all.

People are hating each other every day. On the internet. On the highways. In their homes.

Atrocities? I'd say we have our share.

Rapists who are practically celebrated by the media. Soldiers sharing their Christian beliefs being threatened by the military. People who seek--and find--shelter and safety in this country, so that they can ultimately build a bomb and murder innocent people.

A National Day of Prayer?

Yeah, I think we could use that.

In fact, we could use it every day.