Archive for the 'The Imperfect Mamas Club' Category
Falling Into Me
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.
Safe Skin
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.
Fueling the Dream Without Quenching the Fire
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?
1 commentWhen I find Summer, I’ll Let You Know
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.
One Heart at a Time
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.
3 commentsA Break and a Bit of Reading
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.
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.
No commentsThe Imperfect Mamas Club-Guest Post
Mothering through the Panic Room Phase
We moved into a new neighborhood when our kids were nearly 3 and nearly 1. Our household was busy and we were encountering some significant parenting challenges…. but big picture, things still felt relatively manageable. Our new next-door neighbors, whose four children were 2 to 8 years old, were among the best parents my husband and I had ever met; we loved their kids and their parenting style. My neighbor friend described to me the intensity of having four kids under six. “My bedroom was like a ‘panic room,’” she told me. “When I felt like I was about to lose it, I’d go into my room, close the door, and scream into a pillow.”
At the time, I hadn’t hit that stage yet in my mothering. Now I have. There are definitely days when I feel like I might lose my mind at any moment. Days when I can’t believe it’s only 11 AM and I have eight more hours to get through till bed-times. Days when I desperately wish I could be somewhere – anywhere – else. Sometimes I find myself in a whole week of panic-room-style days.
Being an at-home mom of little kids is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Other significant undertakings- traveling weekly for a demanding consulting job; building our house from scratch; starting my own business; climbing Mt Kilimanjaro, even – pale in comparison. Recently I thought, “I wish someone had told me how hard this was going to be.” Then I realized they had… I just didn’t listen or believe. It’s not till you’re in it yourself, going through the day in and day out, that you fully get it.
Being needed all day long by multiple small humans is unbelievably wearing. And then, managing a household in which things constantly need replacing and replenishing – groceries, clean clothes, diapers, wipes, toilet paper, soap, dog food – could itself be a full-time job. If I had one day of finding every single thing where and when I need it, it would feel like a major accomplishment. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just home management plus child management…. If, for example, I was happy to put the kids in front of the TV for hours and serve pre-packaged foods for dinner. Problem is, I’m not happy with that; the minimum effort doesn’t cut it. Doing this job with excellence – attending carefully and well – requires infinitely more.
When I hear moms who work outside the home say they “like “and “are good at” their jobs… boy, I get that. I like my (compensated) job too – at least, I like the space and independence and freedom that doing it brings (in comparison to tending well to my kids and home). My consulting work (which now occupies 3 – 5 hours of my week), even in its more frustrating and taxing moments, is way easier than being home full-time with my kids. And in the short and measurable runs, I feel much more competent and successful doing it than when I’m correcting my seemingly untrainable child for the 11th time on the same issue. More successful than working, over weeks and months, with children apt to show me their worst and most sinful sides in the home space we occupy together. (Note: this is not to knock moms who work outside the home or to say there’s no place for doing so. I understand that the landscape is complex and am not judging, here or elsewhere.)
The landscape of parenting today sells mothers such a bill of goods. All the options available to us cloud the realities – the full-time working mom, the part-time working mom, the part-time work-from-home mom, the full-time stay-at-home mom. The attachment mom vs. the scheduled mom. The child-led mom vs. the firme, high-expectations mom. We think, “This is so stinking hard. I must be doing something wrong. There must be a better way.” We feel discouraged and guilty. The darn photos we incessantly view on Facebook of other people’s families, the endless parenting magazines we fill doctor office waiting rooms - they show happier families, more fulfilled mothers. Hint at more successful strategies and results than ours. Can’t this be easier?!
The reality is: yes, there are parenting strategies that work better than others, critical principles that improve things when we employ them. But they’re no fix-all. It’s just darn hard work. We’ve been conditioned by our culture to see life in terms of instant results, short-cuts, and superficial happiness. But these have no place in mothering young children.
A friend of mine told me about an older, wiser couple she knew who called their earliest years with kids the ”Dark Years.” At first this struck me as sad – seeing such a tender and beautiful time with sweet babies int this light. But now I appreciate the candor and honesty that this viewpoint brings. This couple counted the cost; they got it. They didn’t deny that it was really hard at first; then they acknowledged and rejoiced when things got easier as their kids aged… when they got out of the ‘panic room’ stage. Because it does end, and it is worth it. We get moments of knowing this now, while we’re in this phase, and later we’ll get to relish it more fully when the intensity of life with young ones dissipates. God is with us. He humbles us as we mother young ones and teeter on the brink of insanity; he gives us the strength and vision we need. He equips us to fulfill our most challenging calling, that of mothering young children with excellence to grow and love him. God’s promise is that, as we trust and lean on Him, we will make it through the Panic Room stage and it will be worth it – for us and our kids.
Thanks so much for your truthful, yet encouraging words. I think one of my Imperfect Mamas Club t-shirts should read Hard Doesn’t Equal Bad. You can read more from this Mama here.
The Imperfect Mamas Club is an invitation, really almost a plea, to start sharing our struggles and our successes amongst Mamas, rather than put on our best hair and shoes whenever we get together. Are you more encouraged by the mom who appears to have it all together, or the mom who obviously loves her kids but also shows her slip and admits to her hard days and the fact that she doesn’t have it all together? I want to be the latter mom and help others be that mom too, for that path leads to grace and to the Lord, the other leads to guilt and disappointment. Would you like to find more Imperfect Mamas and/or let you own scratchy voice be heard, head to the original post and click on The Imperfect Mamas Club to the right (under categories) to see all related posts.
Please email me if you’d like to submit a story, reflection, word of truth or encouragement.
Imperfect Mamas Club-Guest Post
I came across A Path Made Straight on one of those late night blog binges. You know what I mean. By the time I found it I had a running list of all the ways I could be a better mom-better art projects, dress the kids in cuter outfits, take up knitting. As I read her blog I didn’t find myself adding to the list. Shoulders and neck loosening, the main words that came to mind, “Yes, exactly.” Her day sounded like my day, messy. And what I loved best was that even on the very far from perfect day, I could tell Mama Hooper still wanted to get up each morning and be with her kids, come what may. She seemed to want what I wanted, a little more grace each day, transforming my heart to then transfuse it to my children.
Thanks for openly confessing that you’re an Imperfect Mama.
More
The snowman figurine dashed to the floor, one mittened arm lying broken, bent just the way flesh and bone would be, she thought, and Mama sadly scooped it up with her hands. She whose long blonde hair spun as she twirled and caught the snowman and sent him to his fate stood to the side, her hand covering a muffled, I’m sorry, Mama.
And from her knees, Mama smiled and said, You are more important to me than this snowman, precious! It’s all right- let’s see if we can fix it!
But before long (less than ten minutes), and not very far away (about ten feet as the crow flies), came another shattering sound. And this time, a ceramic mama holding her baby close lay in ruins, head and body severed cruelly; even the soft carpet couldn’t save her. The flesh and bone mama knew there was no repairing this one, no- but before her heart ran away with her thoughts, there was a touch on her shoulder, and a sniffle. I’m sorry, Mama!
And the mama turned and pulled gangly four-year-old, all legs and angles and shoulders, into her arms and said gently, and with a smile, It’s all right, Eliana. I love you more than this piece! And they fingered it sadly, together, and rose as one and walked deeper into the day.
And the mama was thankful, and rather proud, for the way she had handled those moments. For she felt thatfinally, she was getting the hang of
But suddenly, the lemonade spilled. An entire pitcher. Right before lunch was served, when food was hot and ready and four hungry souls circled the table in that pure happiness which comes from food that fills…
But the sugary drink left a sticky mess on the table, and she just knew it was dribbling between the cracks and puddling on the spare leaf underneath. Oldest boy fetched a towel and middle boy tried in his eight-year-old way to mop up the lemons life gave them and Mama caught her eyes across the table.
Sorry, Mama, she murmured, all hopeful and vulnerable and waiting.
And the mama tried to smile, tried to reassure, tried to fix all with the Jesus words she knew by rote but still required a channel to be pulled through heart and up and out… but she stayed silent, and smileless, and moved to the sink to wring out the rags.
She tried the words on for size. You are more precious to me than… I love you more than… what? And she knew why the words stayed stubbornly still, did not move from their place to take wing on her lips and fly to the child whose heart lay in her Mama’s hands.
Her time. That was the culprit. It wanted her full attention, did not want to be interrupted by silly spills and severed heads and broken mittens.
My time. Is that it? That’s what is holding me back? Is she more precious to me than my time? Do I love hermore than my time?
Oh, it’s easy to give time when it’s on our “clock”, so to speak. But when it’s taken from us? Well, then, Jesus words require an effort that a stay-at-home mama must hone with preemptive quiet time in the morning, with whispered prayers all day long, with nighttime knees-by-the-bedside talks with her Lord.
There at the sink, she heard her pride crack, and felt as if her own heart were made of ceramic and was severed from the head that now bowed in humility.
Yes. That was the answer. Yes. I love you more than my time!
Their feet were kind of sticking to the floor, but that was beside the point. There were other things far more important.
Such as time, well spent.
Hobbling into the Imperfect Mamas Club-Guest Post
It may have been silent here, in the quiet land of blogdom, but in our home it’s been the opposite. Four children(add one Mr. Darcy) hacking, sniffing, and blowing noses can lead to quite the ca-cough-ony. Stumbling through the days, sometimes handing out grace and comfort, and others times impatient and waiting to call in sick, it’s nice to know someone else has been hobbling as well. And then writing about it when I can’t muster the energy. WordGirl is back this week and as usual I enjoy her honest reflection. Have you visited her blog yet? Don’t you think she should write a book?
Without further ado…
HOBBLE
: to move along unsteadily or with difficulty; especially : to limp along
I’ve been hobbling around for nearly three weeks now and I would like to think I’ve learned a bit from it. If nothing else, I know that when I am finally able to walk with a normal gait, when I am able to move steadily and without difficulty, I will be inordinately thankful. Walking is something that the vast majority of us take for granted. We simply put one foot in front of the other and our body complies without thought, without effort. Having not had that luxury for many days now, I find myself marveling when I am able to walk from one room to another and roll all the way through the ball of my right foot with each step. This, for me, is momentous.
I have decided that the old saying about absence making the heart grow fonder is true. Many of my daily activities were taken away from me the moment the surgeon snipped three tendons. I never thought myself overly fond of driving, of grocery shopping, of taking care of life’s little everyday tasks. Yet, I miss them now. As I pondered this last week, I came to the realization that I enjoy my mundane life as a stay-at-home mom very much. I am fond of making dinner for my family, whether I’m cooking a particular family favorite or something I’ll likely never throw together again. I enjoy keeping our house orderly, if not clean. (Even three weeks on the sofa hasn’t made me long to mop the floor or clean the toilets.) But most of all, I’ve realized how much I enjoy mothering.
For the first week following my surgery, I was able to do almost no hands-on mothering. I couldn’t even let little K sit in my lap and read her a book. I have gradually been able to take part in some of the hands on tasks of motherhood, but many of them (giving a bath, preparing a dinner, picking up toys from the floor) are, quite literally, still out of my reach. And what I’ve realized with some astonishment is that I truly enjoy many aspects of mothering.
I’ll be honest: At times, I have hobbled through motherhood. When my daughters were young, I struggled with the sheer physical demands placed on me. As my husband will tell you, with no small degree of sadness and a touch of frustration, I can only stand so much of someone touching me in one day. There were many days when my daughters were toddlers that I was willing to give him no more than a peck on the cheek when he returned home after a long day at work. I quickly found after leaving my job in the business world that taking care of two small children was not something that allowed you to mark things off of your To Do list. I washed the dishes, they ate again in two hours. I did laundry, they spilled chocolate milk on their dresses. I mopped the floor, they came running inside with glee and muddy shoes. All of this is obviously part of life and part and parcel of mothering. Since I didn’t enjoy it, I decided I was a bad mother.
So I have been encouraged to realize that even though I can’t do any of those things right now, I am still the only mother my daughters have. And they don’t love me any less because I can’t load the dishwasher right now. They do love that we can once again spend part of each day reading The Iliad together. They love crafting, assembling and creating Valentine’s cards together. They love going through my closet as they try to determine exactly how a 100 year old person would dress (since I am the closest thing they have to a 100 year old!).
Hobbling through life has given me a gift: the gift of realizing that I am no longer hobbling through motherhood. I’m not a ball room dancer, either. I don’t handle every twist and turn with grace and aplomb. But I do enjoy it and I am becoming more and more capable in the areas that matter most to me. So while I’ll continue to hobble from room to room for a while longer, I’m going to remind myself that in the ways that matter, I am strolling along just fine.
(How did this conversation start? Go back to the beginning, and then take some time to write your story. Email me at aimee@punctuate.net to join the club.)
I Am THAT Mom-Guest Post
From Tiana:
I have so many funny stories about how I can’t control my daughter one little bit. She’s such a strong-willed child that I just have to laugh at her or I might seriously go crazy.
Like the fact that I have a masters degree in nutrition and had great intentions of feeding her all home-made organic foods with lots of fruits and veggies, but instead I have a child who eats nothing but Wheat Thins and Goldfish crackers. And she’s now actually in feeding therapy once a week because of her refusal to eat. Oh, the irony.
Or the fact that we usually put her to bed in a dark, quiet room at 7:30 or 8:00 pm, just like other parents, but she’ll lie in her bed and sing or talk or play until 11:30 at night, just because she doesn’t want to go to sleep.
We took her pacifier away when she turned 3. Everyone told me she would cry for a few days, but soon she would forget all about it and all would be fine. She screamed bloody murder for an entire month. She stopped taking naps altogether for that month, never went to sleep before midnight, woke up 3 or 4 times a night screaming, and asked for her pacifier at least a hundred times a day (not exaggerating, really). And she would get so upset when I wouldn’t give it to her that she would lie down on the floor and sob and scream so loud that I really thought I would lose my mind, multiple times a day.
She wears the same pink princess dress every single day, and every night over her pajamas, because she says every princess needs to wear a dress that goes all the way down to her feet.
She’s so funny. She’s a handful, but I love her like crazy!
And now a story….
I Am THAT Mom
(originally published on Tiana’s blog, April 2009)
We’ve all seen it before: You’re standing in line at the grocery store and the woman in front of you has a toddler who asks for a toy or a piece of candy. The mom says no, then the child throws a huge tantrum, screaming and crying and kicking. Everyone looks at them, the mom looks flustered and begs the child to settle down, and the oblivious child continues his tantrum. You know what everyone around you is thinking, and you find yourself thinking the same thing:
“Why can’t that woman control her child?? MY child would never act like that. I just must be a better mom than her!”
Yesterday I had the humbling privilege of being THAT mom.
I picked Clara Beth up from Mother’s Day Out and took her to a local toy store that has real live bunnies for Easter. We went last year and of course she loved it, so I knew we had to do it again. She had so much fun petting the bunnies and feeding them grass. Then we went to look for a birthday present for her little friend. While I was looking I found Dora and Boots dolls, which I’ve been trying to find for Clara for months. I handed them to Clara and of course she was ecstatic. She played with them the whole time we were in the store and even let Boots pet the bunnies.
When I told her it was time to go, she asked me very sweetly,
“Mommy, can I keep Dora and Boots?”
I said,
“Yes honey, I’m going to buy them for you as a special treat.”
She was so happy.
THEN, when we got up to the cash register, I told her we had to pay for Dora and Boots. That’s when it all began to fall apart…
Clara: “NO! I want to keep Dora and Boots!”
Me: “I know. You can keep them. We just have to pay for them.”
Clara: “NO! I don’t want to pay for them! I want to keep them!”
Me: “Clara, we just have to hand them to this lady and she will give them right back to you.”
Clara: “NOOOOOOO! I want to HAVE Dora and Boots!”
You get the idea.
By this time her scream has escalated to its highest pitched, bloody murder volume. Everyone in the whole store is staring at us and the line behind us is getting longer. The grandmotherly woman at the register was trying to be nice and telling Clara that she could still hold Dora and Boots, but she would just point her little red line at them and Clara wouldn’t have to give them to her. Clara starts screaming at the top of her lungs,
“I NEED TO GET SELF-CONTROL! I NEED A TIME-OUT!!”
(To her that means she needs to go sit by herself and have everyone leave her alone – not quite the idea I was going for.) The saleslady then starts giving me that disapproving look that secretly says,
“You need to discipline that child.”
Then she looks at Clara Beth and says,
“Oh my, aren’t you a drama queen?”
It was horrible.
Finally I just grabbed the dolls and let the lady scan them, gave them back to Clara, paid for the toys, and marched out in total mortification. When we got to the door I knelt down in front of Clara Beth and told her that her behavior was not acceptable and that she needs to obey Mommy. I told her it makes God happy when she obeys Mommy. She told me she was sorry for screaming and I told her I forgave her, but I wanted her to have a thankful heart when Mommy buys her a special treat. She cheerfully said,
“OK, Mommy,”
and forgot the whole incident.
Yikes! Anyone wanna tell me where I went wrong? I’m assuming that from now on I need to prepare her before we get to the cash register so she’ll know what to expect. She doesn’t like to be taken by surprise (she gets that from me…). But like I said, it was very humbling.
Next time I see another mom in that situation, I’ll smile at her and make sure my face doesn’t show that disapproving look that we all know so well…
