Launch Number One

Some days I want my house back. Most days I’m okay with sharing it. It’s only been recently that I’ve come to realize how very close I am to launching my kiddos. Yes, the youngest is only in middle school, but as any high school parent can attest – it goes by fast. Five years. That’s all that’s left.

I used to think I would be sad. Maybe even a bit inconsolable when the last one leaves, but lately I find myself fantasizing about the quiet house. The counter that stays uncluttered. The fridge that stays full.

Will I miss them? For sure. But I’ll look forward to hearing about their adventures via phone, text, Facebook, and email. I’ll savor their visits and time spent with them. I think I will appreciate them so much more when I don’t have to pick up their dirty socks or clear their forgotten dishes.

I’m crazy proud of them and astounded at how great they are turning out, despite how unprepared their parents were going in. We could argue the nature/nurture dilemma until the cows come home, but I'd still lay my money on nature. Maybe it’s because they seem so ready to do their own thing, that I’m so ready to let them do it. It will be such fun to witness - the bumbles, the successes, the hilarious outtakes - I'm looking forward to all of it.

The first one launches tomorrow (In about 21 hours to be exact). So many small irritations and inconveniences have cropped up in the process of getting him registered, roomed, and paid for, that I’m more than nervous that it won’t actually happen or if it does, it won’t really stick. But, fingers crossed, the house will get one third quieter and the grocery bill one third smaller in less than 24 hours.

Will I be sad? I’d be lying if I said I won’t shed a tear or two. If only in memory of that sweet little tow-head boy with the bowl cut. I’m certain he’s still in there somewhere. I catch glimpses of him in a fleeting dimple when he laughs or the way his whole manner softens when he stops to run a hand over the dog’s head. I will miss my sweet boy with pudgy hands and deep questions.

Will I worry? You betcha. I’m a first-rate worrier. I can imagine all kinds of catastrophe, enough to keep my heart racing and sleep at bay for at least the first month he is gone. Will he find his classes, remember to eat, make friends, do his work, meet a girl? Will he drive his roommates crazy, lose his phone, get enough exercise, find his classes, or figure out how to do laundry? Mostly, will he miss us? Will he call me? Will he answer my texts? Plenty to worry about. I could make lists or write entire essays about it.

But I won’t.

Instead I’ll focus on the positive. No longer will I step on Dungeons and Dragons dice left all over my house or fish them out of the mouth of the latest foster dog. It will be nice to know the cats are safe as no cars will come roaring up the driveway at 30 miles an hour. The milkman will be relieved to only have to cart three bottles instead of seven up the driveway on Thursday when he makes his delivery. No one will wake me up at 1am with his pacing in the kitchen below me as he mentally sorts through a story or his evening.

I’m excited for him to meet interesting people who haven’t spent their entire lives in Pennsyltucky. I can’t wait for him to learn from professors who challenge his viewpoints and require that he actually read the text. I’ve been warning him this day would come when he will be responsible for his own diet and laundry and safety. Although he may learn the hard way how to set an alarm clock, keep track of his room key, and change the temperature on a dryer, I know he’ll revel in his independence. Which is what this whole parenting gig was all about. That’s the end game.

And hopefully, by Halloween I’ll be able to laugh at my fears. As always, my child will surprise me with his maturity, ability, and resourcefulness. This entire essay will seem silly. A silly collection of a mother’s heart, an overreaction, calling for one last roll of the eyes.

#launchingfirstborn #herewego #Susquehannabound 

On the Safe Side of Fate

Every mother harbors nightmares about losing her child. It’s what makes us nag and remind and question and stay up in wait for the headlights in the driveway. We only want to keep them safe. We wrongly imagine it is within our power. This past weekend that nightmare was a reality for a mom in my town. I don’t know her, but she has weighed on my heart ever since the moment I heard that a five-year-old had been struck and killed by a delivery van.

It was an accident. The van wasn’t driving too fast. The driver wasn’t doing anything irresponsible. The little boy was probably being a typical little boy – impulsive, energetic, easily distracted. I imagine he was happy to be out with his mom on such a day as Saturday. It was a gorgeous, blue sky, gentle breezes picture perfect day. Not the kind of day to be pierced by something so tragic.

I heard the sirens. I was puttering in my gardens. I have a friend who once worked as a surgeon in an emergency room. Days like this were busy days for her – people are out and active she told me– motorcycle riders without helmets, kids falling out of tree forts, accidents at picnics and concerts and fairs and sporting events. I worried when I heard the sirens and did what I always do – mentally sorted through my own children’s whereabouts.

Savoring the Days

I sense that I’m losing control. Okay, maybe I never had control in the first place, but I sure thought I had it. Now I feel like a passenger in a car being driven much too fast over those hills that make your stomach do that droppy thing.

I no longer have any say in what my teenagers wear, eat, or choose to do with their time. My opinion is not one they welcome and only on a good day even tolerate. Luckily, there is still one child left here with me on the island, but even he is inching across the sand, searching the horizon and forgetting to put on his life vest despite the fact that I have a stack of them right here beside me.

I knew this was coming. We all do, right? We joke about when our kids will be teenagers, right up until the point where they are teenagers and we stumble through our days of empty cupboards, stinky laundry, unset alarm clocks, music we don’t understand, and the daily reminder that we know NOTHING and all we can think is – how did this happen?

The Difference Between Plum Trees and Children

The keys to pruning are patience and timing. Good pruning can be the difference between a healthy, happy tree that produces abundant fruit and a tree that struggles to survive. I’ve read lots of articles and books on the subject in an effort to coax fruit from our little orchard of 13 trees. Alas, because I am more of a lackadaisical orchardist, than a rule-following orchardist, we have yet to have any significant yield from our little grove. Each year, about this time, I prune all of our now-not-so-little-anymore trees with the greatest of hopes. It takes me longer every year. I’m not sure if it’s because the trees have grown so much, or because I debate longer with myself about each cut.

This past Sunday as I tromped through the snow to take care of the annual pruning, I once again resolved to be better at caring for these trees. That pretty much involves fertilizing them and nagging my husband to spray them. And pruning them well.

I set to work pruning the dead and unnecessary branches. It’s not always easy to tell which ones should go. You want to train your trees to grow in a way that they can optimize the sunlight. So you remove branches that crowd or cover others. When a branch begins to grow upward instead of outward, you study the branch and seek out a “notch” (where a new branch will most likely grow) that is headed in the direction you would like to see the tree grow. You cut the branch just above the notch so that the tree will send the branch out in the right direction. Then you clear out all the “suckers” which are branches that grow strait up the center of the tree. They are useless freeloaders that only sap the trees resources. It can take hours to make so many important decisions. Some years I’m cautious and others I think just cut where it feels right and hope for the best.

As I worked, I began to think about how parenting is very much like pruning. When the trees are little you have to work hard to start them out right so that they will grow straight and strong. Sunlight, water, and fertilizer are a much bigger deal than pruning, but the little pruning you do is critical.

My Drishti is Grace

I’m trying to find a drishti for my life this year. I’d like more balance. Most of the time I feel like my life is very much skewed towards the being-the-mom part of my life. So I’ve been pondering the idea of choosing a drishti to focus on this year.

If you’ve never taken yoga (or even if you have since I’d hadn’t encountered this term in my very limited yoga experience), drishti is a point of focus where your gaze rests during meditation and during yoga poses. You look with “soft” eyes (not straining) at a particular spot. Not only does it keep your mind from being distracted by other visual stimuli, it helps you balance. I remember staring intently at an electrical socket in the aerobics room at the Y during my early morning yoga there. I suppose my gaze was a too intent because my tree pose almost always swayed and eventually fell over.

My memories of yoga are fuzzy. It was seven years ago and my youngest son was newly diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition. Those yoga sessions brought all the emotions I had tried to keep on a leash raging to the surface. As soon as the lights went down and the instructor began her soothing instructions, my tears would flow. The quiet and the peace overwhelmed me. I don’t remember the term drishti, but I do remember trying to balance my heart and my body.

My life feels askew. My body is changing in mid-life, surprising me with its unpredictability and its complaints. My children ask less of my time, but more of my soul these days. My writing is more contemplative, less certain. My garden fascinates me and my animals have become my most receptive audience. Even my husband looks different to me.

Here is an explanation of drishti I found on the web that captivated me:

Drishti is a technique for looking for the Divine everywhere—and thus for seeing correctly the world around us. Used in this way, drishti becomes a technique for removing the ignorance that obscures this true vision, a technique that allows us to see God in everything.

I think my drishti this year is grace. I want to find grace in my interactions with others. I want to seek it in the world, find the tiny pockets that you don’t see unless you’re looking for them. I want to live looking through a lens of grace – accepting more, silencing my constant need to improve everything, understand behaviors, explain the mysteries. I want to let the life around me just be. I want to focus on grace as I speak to my children, my friends, even my animals. I want more grace in my life and less judgment.

 In Sanskrit, drishti can mean a vision, a point of view, intelligence, or wisdom. With grace as my drishti, perhaps I will find the soft edges in my world.  If I can sift through my reactions from the point of view of grace, will I find more kindness, more forgiveness inside me? Mostly I hope that by claiming grace as my drishti, I will witness more good in the world and in my life.

The Me on the Shelf

“I feel like I put myself in a box on a shelf for 16 years and now I’ve just taken it down and opened it again.” I may be the writer but my husband said it perfectly. I’d been having this odd feeling similar to when I went away to college or moved in to my own apartment the first time. This feeling of expansiveness, as if anything is possible.

Lately many mornings when I run, I’m conscious of an overwhelming feeling of transition. I thought it wouldn’t happen until my last kid left for college. This year my youngest entered sixth grade. He doesn’t need my assistance getting ready for school so my mornings are no longer consumed by finding shoes, tying laces, packing lunches or buttering anyone’s toast but my own.

Other than chauffeuring, laundry, and a few meal services, my kids operate very much in their own worlds now. My oldest is on the brink of getting his driver’s license, so I will be out of one of those jobs very soon. I try to pull together dinner a few times a week, but with practice, rehearsals, meetings, and games, my kids can’t always make it. They are busy. I’ve become more of a spectator than a player in their lives. Sure, they still need to be reminded to do their chores (now much more than when they were younger and more compliant), but they rarely need my help with homework, hobbies, or their social lives. They got it, Mom. Thanks for the offer. It is usually best if I just stay quiet.

WARNING: Your Children May Require You to Endure Never-ending Embarrassment, Pain, and Worry

Last week I spent ten hours driving back and forth to the high school. I’m not kidding. An entire day. If I had any advice for new parents it’s this – buy a house across the street from the high school. Or better yet, right next door (that way you don’t have to worry about your child crossing the street). In the course of six days I took twenty trips to the high school and back. Marching band, play practice, Quiz bowl, forgotten instruments and uniforms, meetings, and PSATs. Each trip was valid (except maybe the mad dash over to the school with the oboe that was forgotten on the counter so that Child #2 could practice her solo with the orchestra before the concert next week).

We do a lot of things for our children. Some are things we never imagined we’d do. Like capturing and releasing a bat from my oldest child’s bedroom as I did one night this summer. Or volunteering to be the PTO president of the Elementary School because no one else wanted the job. Freezing (or roasting) on the sidelines of countless soccer games, getting up at 2am to meet the bus to retrieve a returning child from an overseas adventure, or doctoring the bleeding wing of a beloved chicken that survived a fox attack.

We joke about dirty diapers, baby barf, and potty training, but every parent knows that’s coming when she signs up. What we don’t anticipate is the rolling eyes, the disrespectful words, the outright rudeness. I remember shouting at one child, “If my friend treated me like this, I wouldn’t be her friend any more!” To which, the wise child replied, “You’re not my friend!”

Pushover Parent

I’m a wimpy parent. I hate that about myself. I talk a big game, but when the whining and explaining and

bargaining begins, I cave like a Florida sinkhole. I wish I didn’t. Now that my kids are in their teens, they truly have the upper hand. I’d like to think that they don’t, but I am smart enough to know that I’d be kidding myself.

When they were little, it was so much easier. I made a rule. They followed it. Rare were the times when they didn’t and when it happened, my disappointment in their lapse was generally punishment enough. There weren’t a lot of time-outs in this house. Maybe that’s why I’m suffering now. They learned early on that I wasn’t very interested in punishing them. They interpret most of my actions as depriving them. And truly that is the only power I hold. I withhold junk food, cable television, game systems, and worst of all – the wifi.

For the most part, they’ve figured out ways around their deprivations. They jump at any offer of junk food from friends and strangers, indulge in cable tv on the internet, play game systems in other homes, and utilize the wifi at school and public places. The result is that I don’t have much leverage. I’m watching the events play out in Syria and I see the US government in a similar position.

What my kids tend to forget when they are complaining about their backward mother is that I almost always allow them to invite friends over. I have an open door policy. I don’t mind a gaggle of kids swarming my house. When they want to create something in the kitchen, I tell them, “have at it, but clean up after yourself.” If they can cook it, they can eat it. My daughter has perfected a brownie in a cup recipe she can whip up in the microwave in mere minutes. My oldest survives on popcorn pretty much. He’s not always so great about cleaning the popper, but I figure it’s a better habit than cheezits.

My kids are spoiled in other ways also. They want to learn the oboe? Fine. Drums? Sign him up. Fencing? Sure, I’ll drive to the other side of the city twice a week and sit in a smelly place to watch people cloaked in white thrusts skinny swords at each other in silence. They sign up for all manner of afterschool clubs and teams necessitating that I ferry them to and from the school multiple times a week. Does anyone ever tip, let alone thank, the cabbie? Not on your life.

Only in a country like America could my children feel they lived a deprived life. I hear my daughter inform her friends, “There’s no food in this house.” And my oldest son’s friends who congregate on our porch several times a week generally show up with food and drink in hand. If any of you have ever tried to keep teenage boys fed for more than two hours, you know that the fact these kids arrive with snacks is something for which I am exceptionally grateful. I do want to point out though, that there is plenty of food in my house. There just isn’t a plethora of junk food.

Back to my point at the beginning of this meandering essay, I am a pushover parent. But I am also an incredibly lucky parent. My kids, while they might not appreciate all the ways in which I indulge them, don’t generally take advantage of my lack of authority. They are good kids who offer most adults a modicum of respect, at least in public. I read stories, and hear other parents tell tales of kids who have no respect, who take full advantage of their parents’ lack of leverage, and push limits beyond what is safe. I listen intently and have nothing to offer. I believe you should hold kids accountable, and yet sometimes I can’t help but rescue my own.

Parenthood shouldn’t be a battle. I want that to be true, but I know that for some parents it is a battle. I suppose one way to look at it is to remember that these children are learning to leave their nest. They won’t leave if there’s no reason to. Hopefully the reason they leave is because better opportunity and adventures await them on their own and not because the oppressive regime becomes too much to bear.

I try to remember that it is my job to equip these kids with values, manners, and skills that will help them navigate the world without me. That’s the overall goal. That, and to love them so that they know how to love. Maybe my pushover parenting is teaching them that when it comes to loving people, especially the people in your own home, sometimes it's good to cut people some slack. So I’ll cut myself some slack for not always towing the line and for bending a few rules. As we get closer to the finish line, flexibility is the key. That much I know.

The Mother I Never Intended to Be

There seems to be an ever widening margin between the parent I intended to be and the parent I am. As my oldest bears down on the end of his years at home, I am painfully aware of the many things I hoped I’d do and be as a parent but have yet to achieve.

I wanted to be much more gentle and patient. I was going to be the all-accepting parent who fed their dreams and defended their right to be whatever and whomever they wanted to be.

But then personal responsibilities overshadowed free-spirit. There are things a young person must do. Education, society, their health, and my sanity require it. It does matter what kind of grade comes home. As much as I want to bristle at the busy work and chafe at the unimaginative essay assignments, they must be done. Hoops must be gone through. Clothes don’t necessarily have to match but they should be clean. Same goes for hair, teeth, and fingernails. Sure, I’d rather have ice cream for dinner too, but no one can live on a diet of sugar. And while I love their very essence, sometimes I need a little space between their edges and mine.

I tried to explain to my distraught teen who had put off the summer assignments until the night before school started that no, it didn’t matter if either of us felt some of the work was silly, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t have to be done. I explained (badly and somewhat over emotionally) that this work had to be done so that the teacher knew my child was a serious student so that my child could be successful in his class. Then I laid out why it was important to do well in the class and in school for that matter – and here’s where the mother I never imagined I’d be regressed to saying, “so you don’t live in my basement all your life.”

Disregarding the Fish

Sorting through the mess accumulating in my hallway this morning, I came upon a pile of stuffed animals abandoned in the giveaway box. We keep this box in the hallway outside the kids’ bedrooms so it is conveniently located when they determine that an article of clothing, a book, or a toy are no longer needed in their lives due to physical or emotional growth (and sometimes due to the wax and wane of teenage culture). My ten-year-old rarely contributes anything except for clothing he received for Christmas, so I was surprised to find a collection of once treasured stuffies in the bottom of the box.

I admit that my eyes got misty when I spied the colorful fish amongst the other animals. The fish was my child’s first Webkin. I’m certain that Webkins will someday be what Smurfs are to my generation – a relic that causes a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment when they appear in present day media or in the back window of someone’s car. My two younger children amassed a sizable collection, which is impressive considering those were the days of dial-up.

Unclear and Present Dangers

This past summer I attended a writing conference with my oldest son. He writes as much and probably better than I do, so it was exciting to attend together. He still enjoys my company, although I know there are moments when he wonders how we could be related.  

This particular conference was held in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We were staying with a dear friend who lives in Victor, Idaho, just over the mountain pass from Jackson. Every morning I drove her Ford Expedition over the pass to attend the conference. Early in the evening before dark (the sun sets late in Idaho summers) we drove back to Idaho. 

The pass between Victor and Jackson is a road familiar to me. It is beautiful, steep, and offers a phenomenal view of the Jackson Valley from the top. The Grand Tetons are to your left as you come down in to Jackson and they are breathtaking, as is driving over the pass in general. I have been visiting this friend for 15 years and in that time I have never managed to ride over the pass without some moments of absolute fear. In recent years guard rails were added, which eased some of my fears, but my friend and her husband love to recount the stories of vehicles plunging over the edge of the pass. At one particularly sharp turn which has boulders instead of a guard rail, a potato truck crashed through the boulders and fell to the bottom, scattering potatoes for as far as the eye could see. “Did the driver live?” I asked hopefully. They chuckle and say, “Nope.” 

The runaway truck ramps offer no comfort and neither do my friend’s words when she says, “You’ll be alright. Just don’t use your brakes too much, otherwise you won’t have any left when you get to the bottom.” Easy for her to say. Her other words of advice directed me to not look in my rear view mirror because people tend to tailgate on the pass and it’s unnerving. 

The first morning I confidently climbed up the pass, resolved not to let any late-for-work locals intimidate me in to driving anywhere near the speed limit (50?!!). I pulled in to all the scenic vista spots to let my followers pass. When I reached the top, I flipped the rear view mirror up so I wouldn’t be tempted to watch the cars stack up behind me. There was no need for this since my son delighted in giving me regular updates, “Wow, there’s seven cars behind us now!”   

Each day’s travel became an adventure that we shared together. Instead of keeping his nose in a book, as is his custom, he monitored my progress commenting on how it wasn’t taking as long as it did the first day or laughing with me when we encountered an RV dragging an Expedition of its own and pondered asking for a lift.  

On the last trip back over the mountains, it was dark. We’d meant to leave earlier, but couldn’t drag ourselves away from wonderful new writer friends we’d met. One nice consequence of driving home so late was that there were very few cars on the pass. Still, we led a parade of about four vehicles as we descended into Idaho. I crept slowly around one of the first turns on the far side of the mountain and the truck groaned its way in low gear. Suddenly, we came upon a moose lumbering across the highway in front of us. Actually we came upon a moose’s legs. Moose are much taller up close, built upright like a giraffe. My headlights only illuminated his lower half. I was able to stop and we both held our breath as we waited to see if the cars behind us would find their brakes. 

Not our moose, but we did get a glimpse of this guy while rafting.

The moose halted his progression across the highway, his regal head just five feet in front of the truck’s hood, and regarded us. A moment later we could see headlights making their way up the pass towards us in the opposite lane. I frantically flashed my lights to get their attention and thankfully, the oncoming car also stopped. The moose was still undecided as to whether to continue across in front of me or go back the way he came. He didn’t seem panicked the way a deer would be – flitting back and forth blindly. He stood his ground, watching us expectantly, and when we didn’t move, he slowly turned and ambled back over the guard rail as if his huge feet were clod in snow boots.

 

We continued our drive down the mountain, only now the cars behind us kept a respectable distance. Arriving safely back at our lodging, we told our hosts of our adventure with the moose and how we had stopped and waited for him. We felt like old pros now, commuting over the mountain like locals. My friend poured me a glass of wine and commented, “Good thing that moose didn’t charge you. That would have really messed up the truck.” What? Who knew? Moose’s charge?  

Brady and I, the last day for the conference
in front of the giant metal Charlie Brown shirt.
(the conference was held at the Jackson Center
for the Arts)

Our moose adventure kind of sums up my efforts to keep my children safe these days. I am careful and attentive to the dangers I know, but there are so many I don’t know about. My kids are moving in a world quite different from the one I grew up in. I do all that I can, but in the end I must trust that they are smart people who will make smart choices. If I’ve done my job well, they won’t need me so much. They’ll sort it out, whether it’s a conflict with a friend, a decision about alcohol, or an encounter with a moose.

 

Fabric Memories

People talk about how a song or a smell can bring back memories, but for me it’s clothes. There are certain t-shirts, dresses, even socks that transport me to days gone by, some of them special, but many of them the simple ordinary moments of childhood. The watermelon dress that my daughter wore incessantly was a soft red-checked poplin sleeveless number with a big watermelon framing her face. She wore that dress to preschool, church, play dates, even to ride her pony. And the Tigger sweatshirt that my oldest adored, forever captured in a photo at Disney World. The look on his face when he met Tigger reflected the enormity of the moment and reminds me of how magnificent his imagination always was and is. My youngest has filled my storage bins with sports t-shirts. His first year as a Phillie in T-ball ignited his love for baseball (and the Phillies). Or the England jersey stained with blueberry syrup from the year his soccer team went to the championship game under the lights.  

Baby clothes make me especially emotional. I remember the sweet faces capped by the tiny hats I’ve saved. The funny onesies that made everyone laugh at my baby showers – “Don’t call me cute, I wanna be smart!”. Gift clothing is a double bonus of gratitude – the giver and the wearer. The tiny crocheted booties a friend brought my daughter back from Ireland still sit on my dresser. I could never part with the gorgeous baptismal outfit chosen when an older and wiser friend took me on my first outing with my newborn baby, patiently waiting while I loaded every possible necessity in to my diaper bag and calming my worries about feeding him in public. Even the flannel receiving blanket that swaddled my babes in the hospital nursery, the one with the blue and pink line, the same given to every other child born in that hospital, makes me sigh.  

These days my children are still cute, but not quite so cuddly, yet I still hoard their special clothes. The t-shirt my daughter made that says, “You Laugh At Me Because I’m Different, I Laugh At You Because You’re All The Same“ captures a moment that must be saved to pull out when her own daughter is challenging her sanity. The purple tie worn to the first Homecoming dance recalls my teenage son’s awkward confidence. The faded T-shirt that proclaims, “My Uncle Flies Airplanes at Seymour Johnson AFB,” reminds me of the bond my youngest has with his uncle and makes me proud. These are the fabrics that embody the moments that have shaped who they are becoming. These get stashed in my “Keepsake Clothes” bin (actually three bins now).  

I have a friend who makes memory quilts as a side business. She is a master at sorting through a pile of old clothes and creating a sacred and treasured family heirloom. Some day I will enlist her skills to create my own quilt of memories. I don’t know if I’ll be able to cull the herd down to the material for one quilt. It may require several. Maybe one will be from when they were babies and I’ll wrap myself in it when I am missing them. Another can be comprised of their teenage years and when I’m doubting my own abilities to overcome obstacles, I’ll draw comfort from those memories. And one will be comprised of clothes that tell a story. Someday I can curl up with a grandchild and tell her about the “cow jammies” that her mother insisted on wearing every night, stubborn as she was. Or maybe I’ll just wrap myself up in the memories, knowing that the fabric of this quilt was worn soft by the lives of my babies.

The Daily Grind

There are times when I wonder if today will be the day that my life changes. It seems as if the last few thousand days have been preparation for something. Most days I move through the matter of caring for three children and too many animals on autopilot, doing what needs to be done. I pick up the stray laundry, the cheerios hiding in the kitchen corner, the twisty-tie the vacuum spit back out. I do this because there is no one else. It’s not that there is no one else capable of doing the things I do, certainly there are plenty of bodies and minds in this household who know they can do anything better than I. No, it is simply that there is no one else who will do it. The raisin smashed on the floor under the chair, the dog toy lodged between the mission table and the wall, the toilet paper roll spinning empty on the hanger, these things are not visible to the average resident of this household. They do not matter. 

And yet they do. 

Without a keeper of the mess, the chaos would suck us all under. Our collective disorder would make us grumpy, accusatory, overwhelmed. Or maybe that’s only my overly inflated need to justify my days. All I know is that when everything is in order, those rare moments that last only until 3:24pm when my freshly educated spawn blast back through the door, those are moments of contentment. But it is a hollow and lonely satisfaction, remarked on by no one, not even the cat. We sit together silently, me with my tea, and her with her superiority. I feel calm. 

And then the chaos ensues and there are papers to sign, stories to listen to, arguments to settle, and emotions to sidestep. Dinner is prepared, animals are fed, dishes are done, children are deposited and retrieved from practice or lessons or meetings, clothes are pulled off the line and folded, phone calls returned, my day winds down. Every now and again, I pause. I wonder if this is really me. Wasn’t I meant for bigger things?  

There are days when it is all I can do to put one foot in front of another. The bus is missed, the team not made, the child not chosen and I fear I will run out of caring. But I don’t. Somehow the well grows deeper. I can’t ever be sick or take a risk without a cushion because too much depends on me. There is some comfort in dependence. It’s pretty thin. And I don’t do all this with expectations of the reward to come. I know that life is tenuous and all manner of ills can conspire against this little boat. If today is not reward enough, what is the point? 

We say our grace and I silently count my blessings. Oh, I know I am drowning in them. My life is good and full and so privileged. How dare I wish for more? I just keep doing what needs to be done. But secretly, my heart does wonder if that next phone call or e-mail will change everything. If I keep working, keep writing, keep spending my emotional energies on the people and tasks before me, if then, just maybe, something will come of it. 

The hours spent cleaning spaces and things that will be uncleaned momentarily cannot be returned. The emotion expended on children, who do not register or necessarily appreciate my worries, is spent. I do the work that no one else has time or desire to do. I keep doing what needs to be done to carry this life, and all the lives that depend on it, forward.  

On my quiet morning runs in near darkness, I have space to wonder. After I mentally sift through all my plans and worries for the day, I sometimes imagine a bigger life. A life of a famous author, a rich lottery winner, a sought after celebrity. But then I get back home and someone asks me to cut the crusts off his sandwiches and sign the homework planner and I realize that I am already one rich and lucky mama who is a sought after celebrity in her own world.

Gotcha!

As I opened the kitchen door, returning unannounced after my appointment was canceled, I heard scuffling in the living room. The door to the stereo/DVR consul clicked shut and a light went out. Little feet thumped up the stairs. I listened quietly and then set my keys down with a clunk on the counter. Kicking off my shoes I called a greeting to my lazy cat curled up on a stool at the counter. Mama’s home. (an hour too soon) 

I am well-aware that my children were doing something elicit. I could bust them. But I don’t. I’m not up to the scuffle tonight. Tonight I’m tired. Their father has been traveling for two weeks a continent away. I don’t have it in me to confront them, wiggle out the truth, and deal out the consequences. Not that watching a little illegal television drivel is so bad. Still. 

Later I tuck them in to bed and I say nothing about their earlier actions. They are more obedient than usual, kind of like how everyone on the highway slows down when they receive a pass from the cop with the radar detector. Count the blessings, and be very careful. At least for a little while. 

When I tucked my own self in to bed, I lay awake worrying. This isn’t the first time I’ve pretended not to catch them. There’s the missing chocolate chips and jello mix obviously eaten by the child with the sugar addiction. There’s the crumbs left on my desk right next to my open laptop that is still warm. And what about my dead phone battery run dry by Rat on a Scooter?  

I cut them a break on a regular basis, but is this the best parenting? Are they learning bad behavior is OK as long as they don’t get caught? This seems to be a universal condition. I’m just as guilty. I speed, turn illegally, park where I shouldn’t. When I do get a ticket, I hide it from my husband and appease myself by thinking I owe the state this fine since I’ve gotten away so many other times. 

There is a guilty pleasure in getting away with something. We’ve all felt it. Does it make us bad? I think that twinge of guilt, that moment of heat on our neck, proves that we are decent human beings. 

Calling my kids on their violation of the house TV rules tonight may have taught them something. Or it may have just reinforced that they need a better look out. I’ve resolved to bust them next time. If for no other reason than they need to be reminded that their mama always knows what they’re up to – eyes in the back of the head, as they say.  

Better they learn that now, so when they are 17 and tempted to host that keg party on an evening I’m out, they’ll make the smart decision.

What are you, Chicken?

It was time to let the chickens out. Every spring I coop them up in their pen for the duration of the gardening season, and every fall I let them loose again to eat the grubs and turn the soil. This past spring we introduced twenty new chicks to our brood. They had grown in to beautiful and interesting hens. This time around we ordered not only for egg production, but for aesthetics, choosing different colors, hair styles, even chickens that appeared to be wearing Ugg boots.  

When I opened the gate for the first time, late on a warm and windy afternoon, the old girls raced out and didn’t make it further than ten feet from the pen before applying beak to ground and getting right to work. The new hens watched from the doorway in a state of shock. There’s a world outside these walls? They clucked their concern and waited for the other hens to return. They even poked their heads out the door before scurrying back to the safety of the pen. 

The kids and I watched, calling, “Hey what’s the matter? Are you chicken?” The chicks were not tempted by our taunts and remained firmly planted in the safety of the familiar. 

It’s hard to leave what you know. Besides that, what’s the motivation? They had plenty of food, a soft place to lay eggs, a big yard to run around in, and a cozy house to roost in at night. Why leave? So they didn’t for the first four days that the gate was open.  

But then one ventured forth in to the wild blue yonder. The others cackled and fretted, but soon followed her out in to the world. Sometimes taking a leap of faith requires a leader. Or at least a guinea pig. Once you see someone else do it and survive, it doesn’t seem quite so impossible. 

This philosophy has inspired all kinds of creatures to do things as crazy as start a business, try out for a team, perform in public, marry, or have children. Others have done it before us, so we can do it too. 

But what about when the first one out of the pen is eaten by a fox? Or captured by a hawk? Or gets lost and can’t find its way back to the hen house?  

Amazingly, chickens, like people, don’t focus on these catastrophes. Chickens, to my knowledge, don’t have the capacity for imagination or empathy. They don’t care that the other chicken didn’t make it and they can’t imagine that a hawk might come for them too.

People are not chickens. Truth. Our fears have nothing in common with poultry fears. Many of us are afraid to leave the pen because it could lead to failure or rejection or embarrassment. For some, those fears trump even the fear of boredom, mediocrity, or repetition.  

My three kids each fall somewhere different on the chicken and the pen spectrum. One of them never even notices what the other chickens are doing. He ventures forth following his own lead. He is not easily embarrassed and would consider boredom a failure. He tries all kinds of things while his parents are stunned in to submission. We are not like him. At least, I’m not. When I was a teen, I was never brave. I walked to my own drummer, but quietly while no one was noticing. This child of mine doesn’t concern himself with how he should dress or act or speak. His curiosity drives his decisions about his personal time. He would most likely be one of the first out of the pen, were he a chicken. 

Another of my brood is somewhere on the outside of the fence also, but she would not follow any other hen out. She would go out her own way, perhaps flying over the fence or tunneling under. She would not let expectations dictate her actions. She does wrestle with her own fears once free. She does not like to fail or lose or be made a fool. Lucky for her, she is a fairly competent chicken.  

What she does better than most is to lead. So once she has successfully scaled the fence, she will go back to help a few others get out too. She is very un-chicken like in this way. Chickens may stick to their flock, but they could care less about the individuals in that flock. Not my chick, she’s watching the others. She worries about their well-being, wants their company, and craves their support. 

My last little chick is still learning to trust his abilities. He needs to see the leaders go first. He is willing to follow and to learn from them. Next season, he will be the first out of the pen, I just know it. 

All of our children will leave the pen some day. Our children must learn to believe in their own abilities to handle what they may encounter outside of the comfort zone of their chicken pen. They must be equipped with confidence, competence, and the ability to ask good questions.  

We must encourage them to take risks, rather than shielding them from every danger. Helping them learn to trust in their own abilities by allowing them to use them. Mostly, we must teach them to be curious about what is outside the pen. 

How do we do this? I have a few ideas, but must confess right upfront that this is an ongoing experiment for me as my chicks have yet to truly fly the coop. 

I believe we must let them make their own decisions as often as possible. As a young parent I believed whole-heartedly with the “give them choices so they feel in control” parenting philosophy until it became ridiculous. Truly, children don’t need a choice at every meal. I finally hung a sign that says, “Dinner Choices: 1. Take it. 2. Leave it.”  

But I do believe we must let them make their choices (and endure the consequences) when it comes to school work, what to eat or not eat, and who to be friends with.  

My oldest child’s first grade teacher said something on back to school night that has stuck with me all these years. She said, “If you sit with them and make them do their homework now, you’ll be doing the same when they are in high school.” I’ve never sat with my children while they do homework. Now, I have been blessed with children with no overwhelming learning disabilities, so that helps, I know. 

I do believe that all kids want to do well in school. And I also believe that kids sometimes battle with parents just because they can. If you draw a line in the sand over homework, I promise your child will cross it. They don’t want to fail. Trust me, no one does. Now, does this mean I never mention the H word to my children? Nah. But I do restrict their computer time (Windows 7 makes this very simple), and provide them with a “clean, well-lighted place” in which to work. I told them all at the beginning of their academic career – “I will never nag you about your homework unless you give me a reason to nag.” And for the most part, they haven’t. 

Food can get trickier, it being my own holy grail of sorts. I prepare a dinner five nights a week and my two older children prepare one dinner a piece one night a week. In the beginning we helped them, but slowly we are backing away and letting them take the lead. What is served is the only option. If you don’t want to eat it, that’s your choice. You can help yourself to something else, but it must be healthy dinner-worthy substances. They choose their own snacks each day. This gets a little hairy when they snack on too much and don’t want dinner, but allowing these freedoms provides the impetus for us to discuss all sorts of food issues like snacking vs eating a meal, what makes a healthy meal, not getting enough protein, eating while distracted, eating because you’re bored, and why exactly your stomach hurts. 

I don’t like every kid my kids are friends with. Who would? I’m not Mother Theresa, I don’t like everyone. I do talk to my kids about the friends they choose. I ask what they like about their friend. We talk about the interactions they have with their friends, and I tell them about the people I encounter. I’m open about my frustration with some people or my disappointment with others. I also tell them what I love about my friends and sometimes offer comparisons about my relationship with a particular friend and my child’s relationship with one of their friends. “She’s like your Linda,” I might say to my daughter when talking about a friend you can tell anything to because my daughter knows how close I am to my oldest friend Linda.

These seem like such small details of parenting – homework, food, friends, but truly they are the building blocks of life. They are the training ground for work, well-being, and love. Three things that can make or break the happiness we all seek for our children. If we control and dictate their behaviors when it comes to these areas of their lives, how will they have the confidence or competence to survive outside the pen?  

I want my children to step out in to the big wide world confident in their own abilities, knowing they can handle all that life throws at them. I also want them to know I believe in them and I trust them to lead their own life wherever it takes them. Even if it is far away from the hen house.

Nearly Empty Nest

Being thrown from the nest can be a good or bad experience depending on your ability to adapt and your attitude. This week I threw three chickens and one child from our nest.  

Broody hens are uncommon. At least that’s what the chicken books say. Today’s domestic chickens have had all the broodiness bred out of them. Their job is to lay eggs or become dinner. For the last two years I’ve had a silly number of broody hens. Broody hens are hens that have become overwhelmed with the desire to hatch eggs. They will park themselves on the eggs and refuse to move, foregoing food and water, and pecking anyone who tries to move them. 

Last year I humored three of my hens and allowed them to hatch chicks. It was all fun and memory making and all that until the chicks grew up to be roosters (five of the seven) and we had to butcher them. Not fun. Not happy memories. So this year when three of my hens started in with the brooding, I cruelly (and carefully) removed them from their eggs each night and stuffed them in the hen house with the rest of the girls. I did this for nearly a month grumbling all the way. I confess that I was less than gentle with my words and actions many nights. It was a battle of wills. 

Alas, the hens proved more stubborn than I, and I was forced to not only remove them from their nests, but also from the chicken yard. Having tried to convince them to give up their brooding dreams the nice way, it was time to stop asking. With the addition of 25 new almost grown up chicks to the chicken yard, there was no room to be spared in the laying boxes. We have three lovely laying boxes that our girls share happily. During the brooding fiasco, the broody hens allowed the other older hens to climb right in with them and add their eggs to the nest. Not so for these next upstarts. When the younger hens venture near the laying boxes the three old biddies start clucking and threatening and getting their feathers all ruffled up.  

Nature is soon going to dictate that these young hens lay their first eggs. And in years past there have never been any issues with the younger hens copying the older hens and laying their eggs in the boxes too. But right now there are no available boxes. So, in a fit of frustration I threw all three hens out of the chicken yard. They have been frantically pacing the fence wanting back in. This is somewhat ironic to me since I have to clip all their wings each spring so they will not escape the yard.  

Never mind that what these hens have been sitting on lately is the golf balls I left in place of the eggs I will not let them hatch. They are frantic to get back to their golf balls. One of the hens is so stressed out her feathers are falling out.  

The young hens have been carefully exploring the boxes full of golf balls. It won’t be long before they lay their first tiny eggs. The first eggs a chicken lays is comically small, but they get successively bigger. 

And what about the child thrown from the nest? Although she protested as we packed her up for camp (a camp she decided she wanted to attend four months ago), once she saw her tent and tent mates she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. I suppose removing this one from the nest follows a natural path of separation. It is a trial run for when she separates herself from us for good in just a few years. If that event is anything like this one, I’ll have to be careful the door doesn’t smack me in the butt when she thanks me for the ride and shoos me away.

 The hens are another story. It’s been five days and two of them repented of their broody ways and are back with the other girls. The third one still stalks the fence line by day and huddles in the rafters of the barn by night. At least half of her feathers are gone now and she is a sorry sight. She cannot seem to let go of her dreams of hatching a golf ball. I suppose I understand some of what she’s going through. Only it wasn’t so hard for me to leave my golf ball since she’s all grown up and in good hands.  

Still all week I have missed her and wondered if she is enjoying camp. I wonder if she has de-toxed from the sudden break from her electronics. I wonder if she is learning to make a friendship bracelet and a dream catcher. I wonder if she is playing her guitar around a campfire and singing songs I learned when I was a kid. I worry that she isn’t brushing her teeth or using enough sunscreen. 

Her leaving the nest for a while is good for her and for me. She’s remembering that she can take care of herself and that life can be rich without an internet connection. I’m realizing all the ways she adds sparkle and energy to this household. I’m also realizing that the quiet is only nice for the first few hours. After that I want my golf ball back.

A Mother's Comfort

When my children were little and they were hurt or afraid, it was easy to gather them in my arms and make everything okay. It’s not so simple now that they look me in the eye and question my competence.

My middle child is sensitive to any slight in the distribution of parental tolerance, reprimands, and praise. She sees injustice everywhere and well she should. Life is not fair. Never once have I suggested it is or should be. If life were fair, we wouldn’t have the abundant blessings we take for granted. But I digress.  

Because this child perceives that I “like the boys more”, she does not welcome my comfort when it is offered. She craves my attention, yet pushes it away when it is presented. My husband says she is exercising her woman’s prerogative.  

Earlier this week I carted her off to the oral surgeon to have four permanent teeth pulled. While she is my loudest child, ironically she has a tiny mouth. There is not enough room for all her teeth; and her permanent teeth are vying for front row seats creating a multi-tiered smile. Four have to go and then we have years of braces to look forward to.  

The original plan was to have my husband escort her to this appointment. While I am a woman of hearty stock, I become squeamish at the sight of a man with pliers in my daughter’s mouth. She has had eight baby teeth pulled in previous visits, trying to help the permanent teeth find their proper place. Each time I held my stomach and my tongue as I watched the doc work. This time it was to be my husband’s turn. 

Events conspired against us – the doctor had to change the date and the only date available was during a week my husband would be safely hiding on the other side of the planet. It fell to me. 

I let her use my coveted iphone to play games during the drive to the office and reassured her repeatedly as she let out small, whimpers each time she looked up to see that we were closer to our destination.  

Once in the chair, she was stoic. The doc was very impressed, gushing, “You’re awesome!” as he stuck her repeatedly with his nasty needle. I survived the ordeal by looking out the window and concentrating on the whir of nitrous oxide machine rather than the crunch of the pliers extracting each tooth (“Oh – the last baby tooth – bonus!”).  

Afterwards, as we stood by the check out desk, my daughter looked lost and beaten and kept holding her numb chin to be sure it was still there. I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her sharp edges hoping she would accept my comfort. When I looked at her face, it was obvious my hug was more painful than the teeth pulling, so I released her. 

She was quiet until about 15 minutes in to the ride home when the blood seeped through the gauze stuffing her mouth and spilled on to her shirt. I pulled over and tried to help, but she just screeched at me through her cotton-filled mouth and smacked my hands away. 

Once home, the tears finally came. I offered ibuprofen – the liquid form in the blue-raspberry flavor she loved (to heck with the food colorings). She swore she couldn’t drink it because her lips were too numb. I hunted up a straw and placed it in the tiny dosage cup, and held it out to her. She put the straw in her mouth and then cried even harder, shoving the cup back at me.  

Thirty minutes later she found me in the kitchen and through teary eyes informed me that her mouth hurt. I leaned towards her, arms outstretched and she leaned away, so I offered ice cream instead. She rebuked me like the idiot I am – how could she eat if she couldn’t feel her lips? 

I retreated to my desk to write, but she followed me there, still whimpering like an injured dog. I offered my kindle fire – maybe there was a show she could watch. She looked through the offerings and said there was nothing she liked.  

Today I could not offer my daughter the comfort she needed. In the end all I could say was, “I’m sorry this had to happen.” That seemed to be what she needed. She nodded and left to find the cat who apparently can offer much better comfort than I.

Balm for a Mother's Soul

The day does come when your children are able to do things for themselves. For years and years we do everything for them and then one day they learn to operate a knife, a can opener, the washing machine. And each accomplishment makes you less and less necessary. It’s very freeing.

I had a message from a friend who is home with a baby and a preschooler. She had an awful night and a rough morning. She wouldn’t be able to join me for a glass of wine on the porch that night as we’d planned. Her message catapulted me back to the days of early motherhood when it was an accomplishment just to get a shower or unload the dishwasher. You don’t think those days will ever pass. But in an instant you are reminding your teen to put on deodorant and arguing with your daughter about appropriate attire. (Wait! That’s a bad example, I argued with my daughter over appropriate attire when she was four!)

At our house, I am the parent who plays games. Not head games – Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Spit, Trouble, Risk. When the kids were younger, I always wrestled mentally as to whether I should try to beat them. Nowadays I have to fight for every property, point, and win I get. They are steadily gaining on me.

But what’s really awe-inspiring is when your child becomes better at something than you are. Last Friday night I watched with a smile pasted on my face, choking back tears as my daughter sang in front of a small crowd at the local library. I’ve been watching Addie sing for years, pretty much since she could talk. She sings even when she doesn’t know it – in the shower, as she putzes around the house, while she’s on the swing, in the car with her headphones on.

Last Friday she was participating in an Open Mic Night. She’s done things like this before and she does well – for a pre-teen. But that night she did well – for a human being. Let me back up and confess that I was a music major in college (the first time around). I spent years singing and performing. I did fine. Obviously, I never made a huge impact since you don’t own any of my CD’s. Eventually, I realized that no one was going to pay (much) to hear me sing and I got a real job. Music became my hobby, and soon just a memory.

When old friends hear Addie sing, they always say – “she inherited your voice” and I nod with pride. But let me be the first to tell you, my daughter can sing circles around me. She has a confidence and attitude that I never had behind the microphone. And she has a voice with depth and color beyond her years. Think I’m just an overly proud mom? Check her out on youtube.

It is a powerful moment when you see your child surpass you. My oldest son surpassed my math knowledge back when he was in sixth grade. And sometimes when I read his writing, I am awestruck that he could have this much talent at such a young age. I’m still struggling to write well, and he has a huge head-start on me. I tell him that someday when he gets published, he’ll have to put a good word in for me with his agent.

We all hope that our children will be happy and successful. But we worry – after all these are the people who can’t pick up their wet towels, wipe the jelly off the counter, or find their other shoe. How will they survive on their own?

Motherhood is an epic experience. Although it is never ending, it is rich with powerful moments and even more powerful memories. When we are given glimpses of their abilities it is balm for a mother’s soul. Maybe they will be alright. For Mother’s Day my 15-year-old vacuumed my car and helped his father cook me dinner. In only three years, he will head off to college (or somewhere). I am relieved to see him growing in to the young man I’ve dreamed he will be - even as I close up the cereal box he left out and trip over his sneakers in the hallway.