Our neighbor’s son spent all of 15 minutes gluing construction paper spider legs and adding a goofy face with Nanna’s help to his original pumpkin for the Cub Scouts contest in town. By the end of awards night, he had received a certificate of participation, an award and a certificate for getting 3rd place in one group, and a certificate and an ornate medal on a ribbon for getting best pumpkin overall, and two homemade trophies. He was convinced his medal was solid gold, and brought in to school the next day. His mother was exceedingly proud and happy for him (and relieved, as she’d had to sit through 2 cub awards ceremonies with her sullen son when he didn’t receive anything). His father admitted to being befuddled that this much fuss had been made over his 6 year old son’s pumpkin. Granted, he was proud of him, but wondered what he’d be expecting for future accomplishments.
With trophies given at every turn, for participation in any and all sports, and with kids starting their “careers” earlier and earlier, a child can have a trophy shelf by the age of 15 which would rival an Olympians – and be a middle of the pack performer.
In our enthusiasm to build our children’s self-esteem, I wonder if we are setting them up for disappointment in their own abilities and in the amount of applause they will actually receive in real life. Then there is the disillusionment when they realize that not everyone agrees that they are phenomenal in every aspect of life, as they’d come to believe. And I also wonder if they are missing out on recognizing that doing well at something and applying oneself can be its own reward.
My daughter was convinced yesterday that the world would end, as she realized she hadn’t been selected as the Student of the Month, for the second month in a row!! Never mind that there are another 17 kids in the class, and that she received the award twice last year. She lamented over all that she had been doing extra to get the nomination, and that now it was a wash.
I think the recent emphasis on self-esteem and celebrating our children’s accomplishments has been generally positive, but I am seeing ways in which it can backfire. Best case scenario would be an inflated sense of self and worse-case would be a generation of narcissists, who decide what’s in it for them before applying themselves, and only feel it’s worth it once duly rewarded.
Showing posts with label Parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenthood. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Letting Go
My youngest, and last little one, is off to kindergarten next Monday. This is not his first time to school, as he was away from me last year in PreK. Yet this still feels momentous. I worry. I worry that he is too young, and that his self-esteem and ability to keep up will suffer. I worry that it will be too much for him, that he’ll be labeled the “bad kid”, and won’t thrive. . I fear that the zeal for life and nature and learning that I see in him will be dulled, or that his child-like exuberance will be lost.
When I am anxious about a situation, I struggle to be at peace with my decision, any decision. No matter what course I decide on, I can still find a myriad of ways it could be ominous, and feel compelled to change directions. Earlier this year, I saw a teacher I respect in Walgreens, and we had a God-appointment in the skin care section. She knew I’d been struggling over what to do for my son this coming year, and asked how I was doing with everything. I launched into my concerns and uncertainties, and tears were poised and ready to roll from my eyes. She earnestly spoke to me, “I see those tears, and your eagerness to get it all right, and I see myself. I was so overwrought, when my kids were young, about everything. I urge you, don’t choose that path. Choose a course, release them onto it. Pray for them, love them, give them nutritious meals and let go. It WILL be all right.” I should have tape recorded that conversation and made it my mantra.
Change, in its essence, embodies both loss and gain. The losses I am feeling are of the comfort of our simple routine, of the noisy and constant companionship of little ones, of the openness of days to fill together as we see fit. I'm also feeling a loss of my sense of self. I'm well-acquainted by now, with the demands of being a full-time mom: of hauling my children everywhere, of scheduling park days and play dates, of feeling continually overextended and somehow more worthwhile because of it. It leaves me with the question I haven’t been afforded in a long time: What will I fill days with, now that they are not filled for me? And at the base of this is my greatest fear: that the "best years" of having my children are behind me, and that somehow I haven't treasured them or maximized them enough. If I am not careful, I can lead a morose existence, lamenting each change my children undergo, each loss of what we leave behind.
Without negating the losses, I’d like to also embrace the gains. Yes, I wonder what he and I may lose. Yet my child will be learning to read, and growing in confidence and independence. We'll have much to share of our days when we are together. I’ll be giving myself permission to thrive, guilt-free, when not every one of my moments is spoken for. I can explore my skills as a teacher, by volunteering and substituting, and it will be the same hours as my children. I can seek out new clients for my ESL tutoring business. And it is not as if, the years of morning snuggles and giggles, before school recess, debriefing over cookies and carrots, reading at bedtime, and weekend excitement, and flat-out exhaustion, are anywhere near to an end. And when they are, there will be losses and gains to navigate then as well.
Is the poignancy of letting go done once and for all? Or is it ever done at all? Letting go occurs first at birth, when the umbilical cord is cut. There are first steps, and weaning, loose teeth, and first days of school. There are graduations and senior slide shows that make moms want to break into the ugly cry. There are walks down the aisle, and down the runway. And I know mothers who still view their grown children as their own heart, walking around outside their body. So, all I am feeling now, I will be feeling again, and probably magnified. I have to remind myself that the purpose of raising children is to launch them into God’s world, not secure beings to meet my emotional needs.
So by your grace, God, I’m letting go.
When I am anxious about a situation, I struggle to be at peace with my decision, any decision. No matter what course I decide on, I can still find a myriad of ways it could be ominous, and feel compelled to change directions. Earlier this year, I saw a teacher I respect in Walgreens, and we had a God-appointment in the skin care section. She knew I’d been struggling over what to do for my son this coming year, and asked how I was doing with everything. I launched into my concerns and uncertainties, and tears were poised and ready to roll from my eyes. She earnestly spoke to me, “I see those tears, and your eagerness to get it all right, and I see myself. I was so overwrought, when my kids were young, about everything. I urge you, don’t choose that path. Choose a course, release them onto it. Pray for them, love them, give them nutritious meals and let go. It WILL be all right.” I should have tape recorded that conversation and made it my mantra.
Change, in its essence, embodies both loss and gain. The losses I am feeling are of the comfort of our simple routine, of the noisy and constant companionship of little ones, of the openness of days to fill together as we see fit. I'm also feeling a loss of my sense of self. I'm well-acquainted by now, with the demands of being a full-time mom: of hauling my children everywhere, of scheduling park days and play dates, of feeling continually overextended and somehow more worthwhile because of it. It leaves me with the question I haven’t been afforded in a long time: What will I fill days with, now that they are not filled for me? And at the base of this is my greatest fear: that the "best years" of having my children are behind me, and that somehow I haven't treasured them or maximized them enough. If I am not careful, I can lead a morose existence, lamenting each change my children undergo, each loss of what we leave behind.
Without negating the losses, I’d like to also embrace the gains. Yes, I wonder what he and I may lose. Yet my child will be learning to read, and growing in confidence and independence. We'll have much to share of our days when we are together. I’ll be giving myself permission to thrive, guilt-free, when not every one of my moments is spoken for. I can explore my skills as a teacher, by volunteering and substituting, and it will be the same hours as my children. I can seek out new clients for my ESL tutoring business. And it is not as if, the years of morning snuggles and giggles, before school recess, debriefing over cookies and carrots, reading at bedtime, and weekend excitement, and flat-out exhaustion, are anywhere near to an end. And when they are, there will be losses and gains to navigate then as well.
Is the poignancy of letting go done once and for all? Or is it ever done at all? Letting go occurs first at birth, when the umbilical cord is cut. There are first steps, and weaning, loose teeth, and first days of school. There are graduations and senior slide shows that make moms want to break into the ugly cry. There are walks down the aisle, and down the runway. And I know mothers who still view their grown children as their own heart, walking around outside their body. So, all I am feeling now, I will be feeling again, and probably magnified. I have to remind myself that the purpose of raising children is to launch them into God’s world, not secure beings to meet my emotional needs.
So by your grace, God, I’m letting go.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
His Hands: Father's Day Tribute
As a tribute to fathers for Father's day, a soloists sang "His Hands," at church this morning. It spoke of our fathers and grandfathers and all that they undertake and overcome out of their love. Their tireless service and love is made evident as those in heaven, "take a look at his hard-working hands."
Hands do tell a story. That's why I've always loved them, studied them, held them, and drawn them. Here's more about four of my favorite pairs of hands.
My Grandpa, Harland C, used to lift me onto his lap and clasp me with his fleshy, ruddy hands. We'd sit in his brown plaid rocker and watch silent golf or listen to our Peter and the Wolf record. I'd look down and squish the pads on his fingers and well-muscled palms, take in the crackled skin and pulsing veins, and ask if the purple marks hurt. Those same hands were used to build a hospital in Irian Jaya, build (and rebuild when lightning struck it)his family's mountain top dream home, and construct facilities for Young Life ministries. He gave his life, his time, his gifts away through those hard-working hands.
My Daddy, James Kenneth, has hands which tell our story as well. I remember being intrigued by the veins on his hands, and how they would refill as soon as I indented them. With those hands, he lifted us high in the air to fly like super heroes around the house in bath towels. And we would line up for him to launch us into the air in the swimming pool. He hugged us, built kites with us, and taught us to work with those hands. Despite my lack of aptitude for it, he purposed to teach me what he felt to be the basics of car maintenance, and didn't scold but snickered when after several lessons, I proceeded to get under the back end of the car and look around, wondering where to change the oil. He would take time out of his work day to visit widows in our community, and help them through their honey-do lists: fixing screen doors, hanging pictures, doing little things to make life easier for them. The only form of payment he seemed comfortable accepting was a piece of pie or a muffin and his rave reviews for the goodies. One of my kids favorite memories is being lassoed on the beach by Grandpa, weilding his lasso of seaweed rope, and creating drip sandcastles near the surf of the California beach near their home.
My father-in-law, James Leonard, in his mid-70's, is still building ramps for the home-bound with the local Men of Mission, plowing a sizeable garden, and rebuilding the dam in the creek with his grandkids, despite the arthritis which stiffens his fingers and wrists. His hands are always open and welcoming, and his lap ready for someone to climb into. He has trophies to show from his mighty hunting days, and still can lead a successful hunting party on the hills surrounding their Virginian home. He has worked as an engineer at facilities across America and even in Bermuda, yet has maintained his unassuming ways, wit, and down-to-earth nature. When hurricane Katrina struck our region, he led a team of builders in providing what our local residents needed most.
My husband, William Otis, has the best hands of all to hold. With those hands, he can tie and untie knots while fishing with the kids, paddle across the salt marsh landscape in his kayak, carefully landscape our yard, and continue daddy's tradition of hoisting the kids into the air to be super heroes or to fly like angels. He can hold and reassure me when I am a tumult of emotion, and say "I'm here for you" with every transferred and folded load of laundry. At the close of each worship service he extends his hands over our congregation, asking God to bless us and remind us that we are never alone; that the Holy Spirit goes with us. While in India, he laid his hands upon the children gathered around him for prayer, even after they kept getting back in line for more. He talks with his hands, preaches with his hands, types sermon notes, letters of exhortation, and our charter school application with his hands.
I feel exceedingly blessed to have the influence and love of each of these men in my life and in the lives of my children. I know that one of them has already gone on to hear the words, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful with a few things. Now, come and share in your Master's happiness" and that the others will one day hear the same.
Hands do tell a story. That's why I've always loved them, studied them, held them, and drawn them. Here's more about four of my favorite pairs of hands.
My Grandpa, Harland C, used to lift me onto his lap and clasp me with his fleshy, ruddy hands. We'd sit in his brown plaid rocker and watch silent golf or listen to our Peter and the Wolf record. I'd look down and squish the pads on his fingers and well-muscled palms, take in the crackled skin and pulsing veins, and ask if the purple marks hurt. Those same hands were used to build a hospital in Irian Jaya, build (and rebuild when lightning struck it)his family's mountain top dream home, and construct facilities for Young Life ministries. He gave his life, his time, his gifts away through those hard-working hands.
My Daddy, James Kenneth, has hands which tell our story as well. I remember being intrigued by the veins on his hands, and how they would refill as soon as I indented them. With those hands, he lifted us high in the air to fly like super heroes around the house in bath towels. And we would line up for him to launch us into the air in the swimming pool. He hugged us, built kites with us, and taught us to work with those hands. Despite my lack of aptitude for it, he purposed to teach me what he felt to be the basics of car maintenance, and didn't scold but snickered when after several lessons, I proceeded to get under the back end of the car and look around, wondering where to change the oil. He would take time out of his work day to visit widows in our community, and help them through their honey-do lists: fixing screen doors, hanging pictures, doing little things to make life easier for them. The only form of payment he seemed comfortable accepting was a piece of pie or a muffin and his rave reviews for the goodies. One of my kids favorite memories is being lassoed on the beach by Grandpa, weilding his lasso of seaweed rope, and creating drip sandcastles near the surf of the California beach near their home.
My father-in-law, James Leonard, in his mid-70's, is still building ramps for the home-bound with the local Men of Mission, plowing a sizeable garden, and rebuilding the dam in the creek with his grandkids, despite the arthritis which stiffens his fingers and wrists. His hands are always open and welcoming, and his lap ready for someone to climb into. He has trophies to show from his mighty hunting days, and still can lead a successful hunting party on the hills surrounding their Virginian home. He has worked as an engineer at facilities across America and even in Bermuda, yet has maintained his unassuming ways, wit, and down-to-earth nature. When hurricane Katrina struck our region, he led a team of builders in providing what our local residents needed most.
My husband, William Otis, has the best hands of all to hold. With those hands, he can tie and untie knots while fishing with the kids, paddle across the salt marsh landscape in his kayak, carefully landscape our yard, and continue daddy's tradition of hoisting the kids into the air to be super heroes or to fly like angels. He can hold and reassure me when I am a tumult of emotion, and say "I'm here for you" with every transferred and folded load of laundry. At the close of each worship service he extends his hands over our congregation, asking God to bless us and remind us that we are never alone; that the Holy Spirit goes with us. While in India, he laid his hands upon the children gathered around him for prayer, even after they kept getting back in line for more. He talks with his hands, preaches with his hands, types sermon notes, letters of exhortation, and our charter school application with his hands.
I feel exceedingly blessed to have the influence and love of each of these men in my life and in the lives of my children. I know that one of them has already gone on to hear the words, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. You have been faithful with a few things. Now, come and share in your Master's happiness" and that the others will one day hear the same.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Birthday or Coronation
Our daughter Debra Lynn turned 7 today. We had 6 little girls over around lunch time. The girls took turns making their own pizzas and assembling some of those Lowe's build-it kits with the help of Super Dad. We had a round of squirt gun fights in the back yard and cake and presents. I collapsed on the couch towards the end, but was very pleased with how things went.
I keep intending to scale down what we do for birthdays, because the expectations of the children can become unmanageable. They already understand, fortunately, that we do not offer the party extravaganzas they have experienced with a few of their friends: hiring a magician to perform, offering pony rides in the front yard, renting the Party Pad, Chuck E. Cheese (or some other parent-tormenting station). But they have come to expect a home party with lots of friends and presents.
When Debra was being a bit demanding and particular this morning, Bill mentioned under his breath, "You might remind her that she is having a birthday, not a coronation." That made me giggle.
How do you celebrate birthdays? Do you experience the tension of celebrating your loved one without going overboard?
I keep intending to scale down what we do for birthdays, because the expectations of the children can become unmanageable. They already understand, fortunately, that we do not offer the party extravaganzas they have experienced with a few of their friends: hiring a magician to perform, offering pony rides in the front yard, renting the Party Pad, Chuck E. Cheese (or some other parent-tormenting station). But they have come to expect a home party with lots of friends and presents.
When Debra was being a bit demanding and particular this morning, Bill mentioned under his breath, "You might remind her that she is having a birthday, not a coronation." That made me giggle.
How do you celebrate birthdays? Do you experience the tension of celebrating your loved one without going overboard?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Random
I just had a conversation I never thought a good parent should have.
I just instructed my son in the proper pronunciation of the word fart. I was trying to never use the word, but somehow it made its way into our vocabulary, in addition to "passing gas" or "tooting." I simply couldn't have him continually going around saying "You forted" or "I forted." "It's fart." I divulged. "A fort is a military stronghold. It's fart, pronounced like heart." He was blown away.
I wonder if "breaking wind" is universally hilarious, or if it's just a peculiarity around here.
What words do you use in your home for flatulence?
I just instructed my son in the proper pronunciation of the word fart. I was trying to never use the word, but somehow it made its way into our vocabulary, in addition to "passing gas" or "tooting." I simply couldn't have him continually going around saying "You forted" or "I forted." "It's fart." I divulged. "A fort is a military stronghold. It's fart, pronounced like heart." He was blown away.
I wonder if "breaking wind" is universally hilarious, or if it's just a peculiarity around here.
What words do you use in your home for flatulence?
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mom
I am enjoying reflecting on all that I appreciate about my own mother as Mother's Day approaches.
She exemplified (and still does) taking on a task with energy and perseverance, and never shrunk from hard work or seemed daunted by a sizeable project. She created beauty and order in our home, and provided colorful, nourishing meals, that tasted good too. She set an overall structure to our days without micro-managing us all day long. She expressed an assurance in our God-given abilities and in our willingness to choose the right course. She did not allow fear to dictate whether or not she would allow us to pursue an opportunity, but communicated a sense of expectancy and hope regarding each new undertaking.
She maintained her own interests and prioritized taking care of herself spiritually and physically, even when the demands of 4 kids and home management were most intense. She treated Daddy as special (indeed, he is), spoke well of him to us kids, and was always looking for nice little things to do for him.
I am grateful that God gave me my mom, and that much of who I am, and strive to be, can be traced to her influence.
What do you most treasure about your mom?
She exemplified (and still does) taking on a task with energy and perseverance, and never shrunk from hard work or seemed daunted by a sizeable project. She created beauty and order in our home, and provided colorful, nourishing meals, that tasted good too. She set an overall structure to our days without micro-managing us all day long. She expressed an assurance in our God-given abilities and in our willingness to choose the right course. She did not allow fear to dictate whether or not she would allow us to pursue an opportunity, but communicated a sense of expectancy and hope regarding each new undertaking.
She maintained her own interests and prioritized taking care of herself spiritually and physically, even when the demands of 4 kids and home management were most intense. She treated Daddy as special (indeed, he is), spoke well of him to us kids, and was always looking for nice little things to do for him.
I am grateful that God gave me my mom, and that much of who I am, and strive to be, can be traced to her influence.
What do you most treasure about your mom?
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Loss of Genius
Each of us has a covert belief that somewhere within us lies a genius, waiting to be realized. This is doubly held with the addition of our children. Indeed we impress the belief upon our kids that, "You are truly special. You can do
The question is, what do we do when our notions of genius evade us and reality smacks of anonymity, mediocrity, or just plain hard work? When the contribution we feel called upon to make ends up in the lengthy will-call list? How do we reorient ourselves to still apply what we've been given when our grandiosity has met reality, and it hardly seems worth the effort any more?
Blogging felt like my entry into the greater world of ideas and promised discovery. It doesn't take long to feel, "Why bother?" when you get an inkling of the amount of material out there. I felt rather sheepish for having joined the throng of self-publishers; eager for an audience, a following.
A friend's teen has a pursuit of the week, she absolutely pines to do. Take up guitar. Try out drums. But the father balks at purchasing the items, for he knows when it proves to be hard work and does not afford her instant celebrity status, the wonderlust will wear off, the practice hours hardly feel worth it, and the money will have been unwisely spent. A toy maker shared his frustration with kids today. They want to instantly learn and apply the tricks of the trade. They don't value the process of learning to carve, but want to know how long it will take and be speeded towards wowing their friends with what they can do.
We've lost touch with the joy within the work itself. The satisfaction of creating, for its own sake, whether or not it is a rarity or the only of its kind.
In Alcott's "Good Wives," both Amy and Laurie had to come to the realization that their inner genius of composer and music fell sadly short, and had a realignment of goals to make afterwards. They both still found pleasure and merit in their pursuits.
So, whether or not I am a born writer, I want to write. Whether or not I am the best cook out there, I want to try new recipes. If my drawing is stilted or mere copies of photos I like, I will still choose to create it. We are born to create, to apply, to labor and to love and not to be bound to perceived impact or where we rank in comparison with others.
"Each one should work heartily, as serving the Lord and not men."
We are to:
1. Work with and use the time and resources given: and to help our children discern and do the same:
2. Be released from the need for acclaim and notoriety
3. Let the process and the application of oneself and one's God-given inclinations be its own reward, even if it only seems to be for the way it transforms us.
4. Encourage others to do the same.
anythingyou want to do: Be anything you want to be." The other day, my daughter said she'd decided she wanted to be an ice skater. Precious. But come to think of it, we live in the subtropics, she bumps into things regularly on dry, level ground, and we don't have sizeable investments to fund such a venture. Now what? I think I smiled, and said, it'd be fun to ice skate some time as a family, and that roller-skating was great exercise too.
The question is, what do we do when our notions of genius evade us and reality smacks of anonymity, mediocrity, or just plain hard work? When the contribution we feel called upon to make ends up in the lengthy will-call list? How do we reorient ourselves to still apply what we've been given when our grandiosity has met reality, and it hardly seems worth the effort any more?
Blogging felt like my entry into the greater world of ideas and promised discovery. It doesn't take long to feel, "Why bother?" when you get an inkling of the amount of material out there. I felt rather sheepish for having joined the throng of self-publishers; eager for an audience, a following.
A friend's teen has a pursuit of the week, she absolutely pines to do. Take up guitar. Try out drums. But the father balks at purchasing the items, for he knows when it proves to be hard work and does not afford her instant celebrity status, the wonderlust will wear off, the practice hours hardly feel worth it, and the money will have been unwisely spent. A toy maker shared his frustration with kids today. They want to instantly learn and apply the tricks of the trade. They don't value the process of learning to carve, but want to know how long it will take and be speeded towards wowing their friends with what they can do.
We've lost touch with the joy within the work itself. The satisfaction of creating, for its own sake, whether or not it is a rarity or the only of its kind.
In Alcott's "Good Wives," both Amy and Laurie had to come to the realization that their inner genius of composer and music fell sadly short, and had a realignment of goals to make afterwards. They both still found pleasure and merit in their pursuits.
So, whether or not I am a born writer, I want to write. Whether or not I am the best cook out there, I want to try new recipes. If my drawing is stilted or mere copies of photos I like, I will still choose to create it. We are born to create, to apply, to labor and to love and not to be bound to perceived impact or where we rank in comparison with others.
"Each one should work heartily, as serving the Lord and not men."
We are to:
1. Work with and use the time and resources given: and to help our children discern and do the same:
2. Be released from the need for acclaim and notoriety
3. Let the process and the application of oneself and one's God-given inclinations be its own reward, even if it only seems to be for the way it transforms us.
4. Encourage others to do the same.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tact
"Your cat is dead, Debra. Molly died. That old man, our neighbor, said so."
The tact of little brothers. That is not the way I'd hoped to break the news to our daughter, and I hadn't even realized that wise little Benjamin had picked up on my conversation with the neighbor the day before. Did I know anyone with a little black and white kitty with a collar. She had been accidentally backed over by our neighbors the day before. It sounded too much like our Molly, but I was still hoping it wasn't and I was certainly not ready to tell the kids about it.
I guess 4 yo Ben thought the walk to the school bus was as good a time as any. He looked puzzled when he saw me standing there holding her while she was crying, so he decided to repeat the news flash. I interrupted him, "let's not talk about that anymore Benjamin, it's hurting her feelings." His brow furrowed over her distress, as if seeing the gravity of the situation for the first time. He stooped down and picked up two pine needles and held them in front of our faces. "This is you, Debbuh, and this one is mommy." Then he crossed them over eachother. "And you are hugging." For some reason, we got tickled over that, and giggles covered over wailing. We spent the rest of the wait for the bus musing about kitties in heaven. Not sure that they will be there, but I don't think God is going to take issue with this point of theology when it consoles the pain of his precious ones.
The tact of little brothers. That is not the way I'd hoped to break the news to our daughter, and I hadn't even realized that wise little Benjamin had picked up on my conversation with the neighbor the day before. Did I know anyone with a little black and white kitty with a collar. She had been accidentally backed over by our neighbors the day before. It sounded too much like our Molly, but I was still hoping it wasn't and I was certainly not ready to tell the kids about it.
I guess 4 yo Ben thought the walk to the school bus was as good a time as any. He looked puzzled when he saw me standing there holding her while she was crying, so he decided to repeat the news flash. I interrupted him, "let's not talk about that anymore Benjamin, it's hurting her feelings." His brow furrowed over her distress, as if seeing the gravity of the situation for the first time. He stooped down and picked up two pine needles and held them in front of our faces. "This is you, Debbuh, and this one is mommy." Then he crossed them over eachother. "And you are hugging." For some reason, we got tickled over that, and giggles covered over wailing. We spent the rest of the wait for the bus musing about kitties in heaven. Not sure that they will be there, but I don't think God is going to take issue with this point of theology when it consoles the pain of his precious ones.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Mommy Wars
There are so many questions mothers are riddled by. Behind each dilemma: breastfeed or formula with DHEA, bouncy seat or baby sling, parent-set schedule or baby led routine, being a stay-at-home mom, or a working mom, disposable or cloth, homemade or store-bought baby food, is the plaguing question of what this decisions says about me as a mother, whether other moms will pass judgement upon me for doing this or not doing that, or whether my children will be served or suffer from my efforts.
Evidently, the debates can become quite nasty. It's understandable, really, considering all that we consider to be at stake.
Then there are the questions of how to educate your children, how much to shelter them, what forms of media to allow.....
Friday, September 11, 2009
Deleting Diapers
I just deleted diapers and wipes from my weekly grocery list that I print off of the computer. Amazingly, we no longer have need for either (although wipes always come in handy if you don't mind smelling like a powdery tushy). This feels like a rite of passage. Changing diapers is not one of the parts of babyhood I deal with nostalgia over - although there are plenty of others.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Fulfilled Prophecy
"Enjoy these years. They go fast."
How many times have I heard this sage wisdom, and thought, "Yeah right, it's only 10 am and lunch/ nap time is light years away." Or, "There is a reason people have to be told to enjoy these years. They were too fatigued to enjoy them themselves."
Now, sure enough, my youngest is nearly four, and every piece of baby furniture has been donated and even the half-pack of pull-ups given away. In a way, it did go fast.
I hope I can always enjoy the stage our kids are in now, enjoying memories of how they got to where they are today, and anticipating the future, but mostly soaking in who they are now.
How many times have I heard this sage wisdom, and thought, "Yeah right, it's only 10 am and lunch/ nap time is light years away." Or, "There is a reason people have to be told to enjoy these years. They were too fatigued to enjoy them themselves."
Now, sure enough, my youngest is nearly four, and every piece of baby furniture has been donated and even the half-pack of pull-ups given away. In a way, it did go fast.
I hope I can always enjoy the stage our kids are in now, enjoying memories of how they got to where they are today, and anticipating the future, but mostly soaking in who they are now.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The New Royalty
The monarchy has been reinstated here in America, and it's by a new flock of Princesses. You see them everywhere: flouncing about in dress-up ball gowns, preening in the mirror with roll-on glitter and lip gloss, and turning pirouettes on a stage before an audience of watch-watching relatives. Any accessory or appliance imaginable can be found stamped by princesses. Disney was savvy and put them all in a regal league together: Cinderella, Jasmine, Ariel, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Their faces now grace backpacks, lamps, flash lights, dinner ware, crowns and beads, you name it.
I have a daughter myself, and it is precious to watch her twirl in a tutu or totter by on plastic heels, with head held high. But I sometimes wonder, what we will do when our precious 2, 3, and 4 year old princesses grow up and begin to demand reign in their larger kingdom? It's harmless and sweet now, but when the little sweeties start demanding the applause, center-stage: gifts and favors which were once fun to bestow could begin to feel obligatory, and increasingly less appreciated. If they've been told they can do no wrong, that they are the fairest of them all, and that there is nothing they can't do or have, reality will smart a good deal. With the deepening of vanity and pride and how does one then reaquaint them with reality without crushing the "self-esteem" so carefully built?
What are we moms of budding princesses to do? Revel together in the joys of girlhood, and don't rush with them into teendom. Snuggle and giggle, dress-up, dance to music, taste cookie batter, set up tea parties, gather garden bouquets and sing made-up songs on the piano together. Steer away from the media "princesses" as ideals, and point out what it is to be a real lady. (In fact, my dad tells a joke that a man should never hitch himself to a woman whose father dubs her "princess" - talk about high maintenance!!) Hold up the heroic women of the Bible as real examples to follow. Dispell the myth that one must be the "fairest of them all" to be fair or content at all. And remind them that yes, you are special as God's Little Princess, as the book GiGi by Sheila Walsh poignantly tells. . . . And so are all these other children of His, so treat them accordingly. Look for ways to serve, rather than be served. Treat all His "subjects" with courtesy and respect, and to be ready to use what it is that God has given you, whether or not it is the best that there is out there.
May we all have eyes to see ourselves as He, the King of all kings, sees us!
I have a daughter myself, and it is precious to watch her twirl in a tutu or totter by on plastic heels, with head held high. But I sometimes wonder, what we will do when our precious 2, 3, and 4 year old princesses grow up and begin to demand reign in their larger kingdom? It's harmless and sweet now, but when the little sweeties start demanding the applause, center-stage: gifts and favors which were once fun to bestow could begin to feel obligatory, and increasingly less appreciated. If they've been told they can do no wrong, that they are the fairest of them all, and that there is nothing they can't do or have, reality will smart a good deal. With the deepening of vanity and pride and how does one then reaquaint them with reality without crushing the "self-esteem" so carefully built?
What are we moms of budding princesses to do? Revel together in the joys of girlhood, and don't rush with them into teendom. Snuggle and giggle, dress-up, dance to music, taste cookie batter, set up tea parties, gather garden bouquets and sing made-up songs on the piano together. Steer away from the media "princesses" as ideals, and point out what it is to be a real lady. (In fact, my dad tells a joke that a man should never hitch himself to a woman whose father dubs her "princess" - talk about high maintenance!!) Hold up the heroic women of the Bible as real examples to follow. Dispell the myth that one must be the "fairest of them all" to be fair or content at all. And remind them that yes, you are special as God's Little Princess, as the book GiGi by Sheila Walsh poignantly tells. . . . And so are all these other children of His, so treat them accordingly. Look for ways to serve, rather than be served. Treat all His "subjects" with courtesy and respect, and to be ready to use what it is that God has given you, whether or not it is the best that there is out there.
May we all have eyes to see ourselves as He, the King of all kings, sees us!
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