HOME

I found this phrase, “girl falling into woman“, in one of my college journals.  At the time I was in between.  Not a girl-child and not ready to own the title woman. College was a comfortable place between identities.  Still a student, I hadn’t entered that thing people kept warning me about called “real life”.  I still ran to the mail looking for care packages from my granny and headed off to camp with our christian group.  But I was doing these things with a ring on my finger that told me once they gave me a piece of paper I was moving 12 hours away to be a wife and around the corner, a mother. I was a girl, wondering if the ring, my age, giving up the job of student, if one or all of these would make me a woman?  Or did the way I felt in my heart and in my skin still entitle me to be a girl?  I was in between.

A few years later I found out that a ring(which resides somewhere in a sewage system aftering getting flushed down the sink), a house, that even a husband and children didn’t stamp me like a cookie cutter into a woman.  I remember sitting with our first baby in the moments after she was born, amazed at the privilege the Lord had given to us. Then waking at home in shock when I realized I was still the same person with the same issues, skills(or lack thereof), doubts before the contractions started.   Which group did I belong to now-I was somewhere in the middle.

A decade of marriage and 3 more children and sometimes I still think I’m a paper doll trying on the outfits I think a woman should wear.  Can I layer the the funky skirt with the apron, a burpcloth, a haircut that might help me bleed past the edges that keep defining and limiting me?  Or should I alternate outfits for church, playdates, adult dates, trips to get coffee and write?

I’m still a girl falling into my own definition of a woman, although I don’t consider it such a dilemna anymore.  I’m a collage-girl, momma, daughter, mrs. darcy, artist, student, teacher, dreamer.

I’ll wear whatever I wanna wear.

I like to put my safe skin on first thing in the morning before anything can happen.  Before I shout at a child and see their hurt face, before I think about people close to me sick and whether they’ll make it, before I call a friend to get together and they disappoint me and say they’re too busy.  But my safe skin tends to get pulled and torn a bit when a sweet child runs up to give me kisses even when I’m not trying to hide my grumpiness, or when my eyes land on a toothy, 16 month old who’s feeding her baby and giraffe with a spoon.

That’s why it’s important to mend my safe skin quickly, because I know that a small gap is a great risk to get injured by something unexpected(only the expected makes it through my safe skin).

Luckily, I’ve found a few ways to toughen up my skin and keep it from ripping so easily.  As soon as I get a free moment I can eat food, particularly chocolate, to produce a dependable, thick buffer between me and any potential threats.

Reading a book that can take my mind quickly away from the present is also effective and works even better when combined with the food strategy.

Occasionally I’ll hear a voice breaking through my safe barrier, asking me to let it all down.  Working hard to focus on the book in my hands, the voice interrupts and suggests calmly (but with warmth and intensity) that if I peel back my safe skin and make contact with the disappointing and the unexpected, I’ll find a deeper joy than the shallow happiness I seem to be missing in the moment.

I eat some chocolate and think about it.

I reach for the zipper but it’s not there.  I pull and twist the skin only to find that I’ve been more successful than I thought at toughening the thing.  Now I want more than anything to get it off, to connect to those around me, to take some chances, to feel some pain and the joy that was whispered to me.  I think it’s going to take some giving up.  I think it might lead to a death or two.  I know it’s going to mean listening to that voice without a buffer.  And it’s going to take time.

One missing tooth is cause for celebration,

Two missing teeth is a record at our house,

Three missing teeth and we told her to make sure she didn’t knock out any more to get another dollar in the same week!

The background noise fell mute, her smile and easy laugh turned up, she adjusted slightly in the chair.  Putting her head down for a minute, a deep inhale and exhale, and her eyes swung toward me, the audience, “Catching Walter Cuuningham in the schoolyard gave me some pleasure…”, I watched my daughter as she began a final run through of her monologue in the warm-up room.

For the past fifteen minutes I’d watched her do some jumping jacks to get her energy up and work through her piece a few times asking for my last minute feedback.  I remained keenly aware of my words, my stance, my nervous energy that I tried to subdue so that the only vibe she absorbed from me was relaxed confidence.

But I also watched with a little awe, mixed with surprise at the gift of the moment, and the flashing images of the fun we’d had together this week.  Like the tadpole turned frog who climbs onto the rock and finds himself finally home in the air and land, she’d moved easily into the world of theater.  I remember the feeling myself, but it was something else entirely to find it in my daughter. Memorizing, talking through character, trying and discarding ideas, all of the elements she’d absorbed readily like the frog breathing air.

Now, the moment upon her, some children might show nervousness, signs of panic as other potential actresses crossed our path.  Something-whether the huge studio, the single nine year old alone in front of the two professional directors-something  should rock her.  She told me later as she focused in the last few moments before she began that she alternated between conjuring her character and repeating to herself, “Okay, I’ve got to do it, i’ve got to do it.” And she did.  Without dropping a line.  Followed by a charming and animated chat with the director.  ”It didn’t seem like a big deal, it wasn’t really hard.”

It wasn’t really hard because she was inside of her gift, her dream, her passion. It wasn’t too nerve-wracking because she’s energized by performance time. She wasn’t a flight risk because she’s worked her tail off all week to be ready.

A thought had nagged me throughout the week, Am I just tying to fulfill my unfulfilled dream through her?  Again and again the answer came back “no” because anyone could see she loved what she was doing and she was almost eerily, naturally, effortlessly, good at it.  The first words from the director to me after the audition, “It’s obvious she loves performing.”

In the warm up room that afternoon I marveled at the gift of sharing this passion.  I atleast have the skills to help her construct her wings to take flight, I thought.

But as we left the audition, another voiced joined in, I want this for her, she’s worked so hard, and I really want this for her. And I had a glimpse of how easily I might go over the edge to a place where my want for her to succeed could smother her young, joyful approach to the experience.

Then she got called back.  Called back by a professional theater on her first ever audition.  The decision to let her audition had been a whim, a “life’s never going to get less hectic and when will there be another part at a professional theater when she’s just the right age.” The whim had turned into possibility.

The second week of preparation was harder.  As we worked on her scenes, I wondered if I was working her too hard, asking her to reach a level that she wasn’t ready for, was I taking the fun away?  I couldn’t find a clear line to draw that marked Ready For Audition from Perfect Performance for Mama.

Knowing ahead of her lay a three hour call back, reading in front of other girls up for the same part, reading scenes with a professional actor, she didn’t even glance back at me as she headed in and she came out again smiling, “I loved it, that wasn’t hard. I’m hungry.”

Now we wait until monday, when casting is revealed.  But my thoughts remain turbulent.  Will I be the parent who hires an agent, signs up for every audition and workshop available, pushes my child past the point of fun as I see plenty of parents do with their own passion whether it’s a sport, academics, or an art. How will we encourage the dreams of our other 3 children while we spur on this one, and what about parts of the theater life that aren’t so innocent?

For now the question remains: How will I help fuel the dream without quenching the fire?

Well, after my post lamenting the loss of summer before it had even begun for our family, it found us.  In our own backyard.

We found the sun…

We found the land of Narnia in the leftover puddles from the sprinkler…

We found a lot of smiles...

Popsicles in the shade….

Look alike sisters….

And Mama found reading…
(I always was better at reading school books when school was over!)

And bare feet!

It seems I’m being pulled into summer still wondering how I missed Spring completely.  I’m sitting outside at the moment, the wet heat a telling sign that a new season has settled into the air and under skin.  I fussed all winter about the cold, sunless days, the thin hope that eventually a cool 60’s breeze with the new sun would lift my spirits back to their proper place.  Some family health issues pulled that shade down and I sat inside many days finishing up school with the kids, taking care of chores, wondering when I would get into that spirit lifting breeze.  I felt it on the way to the car to the hospital, and then it was summer.

The sound of the ice cream truck and the cars parked at the pool sing the song of summer, a time we like to remember from childhood as less-burdened and busy.  But I’ve lost the rhythm of summer.  Two years ago it was the early sick months of baby in utero, last summer it was the sweet baby arrived and the mama trying to expand, and this year a few things keep masking the season and holding back my heart.

With my Dad in the hospital and our family firmly stretched, I haven’t been doing much cooking.  After four years gathering the first fruits of our CSA, opening each box like it was literally Christmas in July, I haven’t brought one local, fresh green thing into my house.  Past summers brought fresh raw tomato sauce over home made pasta, fruit crisp, and grilled veggie hoboes. Still eating from the freezer, my taste buds don’t know it’s summer.

With the erratic school schedule of the past months, our work lingers into the days, my teacher brain doesn’t know it’s summer.

With my heart accepting, resisting, surrendering, asking, escaping, and again accepting the various circumstances of our life right now, my heavy heart doesn’t know it’s summer.

With my bare feet hot on the pavement and my kids at the pool with friends, I’m beginning to think I better adjust my ideas of summer, and make up a new version for our family, before we get pulled into fall, and look back for the signs that we missed.

As I wrote this blog in my head, it ended with a search for summer, the summer I think sounds the best, the one it seems many of my friends get-their only goal the pool, their biggest trial a bad sunburn.  But as I searched for photos I realized that my last two summers, albeit challenging and in my mind at the time both lonely and limiting, were also filled with joy much deeper than a summer of afternoons at the pool.  Maybe, if I open my arms(and heart) to the possibilities, I’ll realize that what God has for my family is even better than the vision that taunts me just beyond my reach.

The subject of homeschooling can really stir the hornet’s nest when it pops up in conversation.  The homeschool moms, understandably, have chosen their path for very specfic reasons and are living them out daily with a heavy dose of blessing and trial and they are going to talk about it with passion.  The public and private schools moms, their own reasons and journey firmly planted, are immediately put on defense and feel called in to defend their own very personal choice for their children, and stand up for their mama-hood. All in all, despite my usual stance of “this is what’s good for us, but it’s a choice for each family” I’ve experienced a few stings and been tempted, out of exasperation, to give a few myself.

We can talk about the hot topics-socialization, education of the teachers versus parents, moral and spiritual foundations, but I only find myself getting really worked up when I feel that homeschooling is attacked because it’s a deviation from generation upon generation of “this is how we do it”.  New=makes people uncomfortable= bad.  Most of my friends have considered and researched(much more than more myself I might add) the choices available for their child’s education.  They’ve prayed and discussed, finalized their stand, and walked forward with it.  But there is the group that seems to go with public or private because it’s what’s done.

I watched a video today that I had to bring to my blog.  Set aside the opposing teams and listen. It’s a video to make you think.  And it’s for you, the homeschool mom, to consider carefully your purpose and methods for the precious time you have with your children.  And it’s for you, public and private school mom, so that you can consider what you hope your child will gain from the 13 or so years in the school system. How are you going to fight for that education model to help your children and their friends become more of who they are supposed to be, find their passions and talents, which will carry them through life not just through the successful admission into a college.  Whether you are at home or at school, do you feel like it’s a daily fight for your child to have the freedom to be him or herself, are they not fitting into your mold or the school system’s mold?  Maybe the mold needs to be broken and refitted for each individual child.  This is not a homeschool speaker encouraging people to homeschool.  It’s a well-educated, out of the box visionary, asking all of us not to accept the “always done it that way” just because it’s easier.  A change in our education goals is necessary across all gaps.

If you have 17 minutes, grab some coffee and a seat.

Click over to this blog to find the video.

You’re welcome to share your thoughts in the comments, but please keep respect and kindness in mind.  I’m not hoping to change minds, just to engage them.

“Mommy, I’m so good at working out problems between people, maybe I should be a lawyer when I grow up.”

She’s right, she’s the official peacemaker of the siblings.

I’m thankful for the order of our children.

I’ll always remember the drive away from the hospital with our first newborn. Me sitting in the back to protect Mookie from imminent danger, reminding my husband to turn the music down(off) to protect her from going deaf permanently before we reached the interstate.  Why were all of the certifiably-expert hospital staff allowing us to leave?  We were still the same kids who came in three days ago minus the sculpted stomach and screams of pain.  We were still the same newlyweds who had been playing house for the last year and half and who had spent the last several months alternating between absolute petrification over the idea of parenthood and ignoring all of those fears and focusing on collecting the right gear and making pretty colors for the nursery.

The next two years found us in all of the expected trials-breastfeeding, sleepless nights, cry or not to cry, spank or not to spank, and daily phone calls to my at-work husband to make sure he understood what insanity was happening in my life minute by minute while his was still clocking along like it did before, no big surprises.

But, really, Mookie did exactly what the books that we clung to told us she should do.  She thrived under a perfect little schedule, slept through the night while my friends were still greeting their babies multiple times, and responded to our chosen modes of training by the textbook.  Our confidence(and pride) grew as she was the one toddler in the play group who stayed away from the stairs when told to, kept her food on the tray, and kept her fits to a minimum.  Don’t get me wrong, I had weekly and bi-weekly phone calls to my friend for advice, and I questioned what I was doing all the time and but it seemed like with enough perseverance we were good at this parenting thing.  I’ll always remember those first few years when I could  pull back my shoulders and look proudly at the pleasant and well-disciplined daughter created strictly by our hands and not related at all to her personality.  Thank goodness for the wisdom of books, I thought to myself.

I’ll also always remember how quickly all of the confidence ended, for it was only a year and half later that the Lord allowed that rug to be pulled right from under our prideful parenting shoes.

From the beginning of life with our second child, she didn’t seem to plug into the formula.  First, with four surgeries in the first year and half, our “cry yourself to sleep” and train early methods didn’t exactly fit our new scenario.  But we tried really hard, because we had a living 3 year old proof of our past success right next to her baby sister.

It was only after a few years of parenting Jellybean that we realized that, yes, our consistency with Mookie had certainly been effective, but she was also, by nature, a rule-following, parent pleasing child.  She had her share of rebellion and attitudes, but generally once she was pointed in the right direction, she followed with almost a relief at being shown the right way.

On the other hand, when Jellybean was three and I tried to talk to her about a choice she made, the common response from her was to turn from me and refuse to speak or acknowledge me-at all. Silence.  This isn’t the way it was with Mookie, I thought to myself. When she was spanked, she responded with(exact words), “When you spank me it makes me want to do more bad things.”

And by the time she was 4 or 5 she would say, “I wish good was bad and bad was good and then it would be so much easier.”

More recently she tried this one on.

And just the other day she asked, “Why do children have to respect older adults?”  She truly wanted an explanation in order to accept this expectation of her. Judging from the challenges this week, she must still be asking why.

She’s never just accepted rules, she’s wanted to understand the why.  And it took me years to realize that trying to fit her into the same mold as Mookie was not softening her heart toward me or the Lord, but having an opposite, fossilizing effect.

And when I’m not banging my head against a wall or burning all of the books that promised me guaranteed outcomes as if only one type of child existed in the world, I’m truly thankful for this curveball.

I’m encouraged by Sally Clarkson’s writings, who discourages formula parenting and encourages a true look at the individual child and suggests that constant smack downs for childish behavoir may not be the key to every child’s heart and it’s not necessarily the way God parents my own heart.   I think He overlooks a lot of foolishness on my part in order to teach me bigger, deeper heart lessons because He can see me with such a wider lens than I can.

I want to do that with my kids.  I want to parent for the long road of their life, to capture my kids hearts not to produce really impressive behavoir that gets me admiring nods from other moms, but leaves hearts untouched.  I’d rather have kids(and myself for that matter) who are open to instruction, willing to see their sin and ask the Lord for help, and understand what it means to live by God’s grace instead of put on a good outer show.

This invites a lot of mess and not as much controlled, for-convenience-sake parenting.  It also means a willingness to admit you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, and fail, while trying to find things that work.

But I’m still grateful for the birth order that let us ease into this thing!  And I don’t have regrets about our earlier, more black and white parenting, because it fit Mookie well and gave us a strong start.

She’s still a rule follower, and she’s also most similiar to me in personality.  She already has a heart for the Lord and she teaches me so much about generosity, encouragement, and service.

Jellybean, who’s got me at the drawing board scratching my head right now, will also lead me constantly back to the Lord, will help me work hard to engage her heart and mine, and will, I pray, end up with a strong heart for the Lord and whatever and whoever she cares about because when she answers the “Why” questions for herself, she’ll be able to follow them with passion.

Who knows what challenges our 3rd and 4th child will bring?!

One heart at a time, starting with mine.

Dear Reader,

I’ll be taking a break until next Monday.

If you’re an Imperfect Mama just like me, you might enjoy reading Sally Clarkson’s two blog posts on parenting.

Blog Post 1
Blog Post 2

If you haven’t discovered her already, consider checking out one of her many books that offer a sense of purpose, hope, and grace for this crazy journey we call motherhood.  I recommend Mission of Motherhood, The Mom Walk, and Dancing with my Father. And her blog offers a daily dose of wisdom, truth, and encouragement.

See you next week.