parenting

Life isn’t meant to be easy, it’s meant to be lived.

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They piled off the bus, dropping pumpkins and scarves, and moving like syrup across a plate. Slow.

My oldest went with her great-grandma and cousin to a farm yesterday. They bounced along in a wagon pulled by a tractor. “It was a hayride with no hay. We said, ‘Why do you call it a hayride then?'” They ate hot dogs, drank chocolate milk, and “visited” all the way back.
This is being recounted in the lobby of the Senior Center while the kids are playing Pass-The-Skull, a new, unofficial game that can arouse a fierce competitive nature in even the shyest of personalities.

As you may have guessed, I am more interested in the elderly hovering around the glass entryway than the triangle of kids on the floor. I study their interactions through the smell of cafeteria food and moth balls. It’s a potpourri all its own, and it’s my future.

“I didn’t know that was your husband until he said, ‘Thanks for helping my wife.'” Hunched Shoulders is smiling, the words coming out intermittently. “I was surprised because you two are so different. You are quiet and he is very talkative.”
Black Tennis Shoes and High-water Slacks is smiling back, shifting her feet. And I’m thinking, Simmer down you sweeties. One of you is still wearing a ring.

I spot another couple. They are mingling, working the social circle of this wrinkle parade I find so unbelievably adorable. I start to wonder if they have the same conversations they’ve always had, just evolved.
“Herb, does this fanny pack look OK or does it make my butt look more saggy?”
“It’s fine, Maude, but why are you wearing those pointy shoes?”
“Well, I don’t want to look like a square. I may be old but I ain’t dead yet. Here, put your tie on. I’m not going to the potluck with you dressed like that.”

This morning I’m talking generations of behavior with my husband. Wounds, traditions, and memories passed through the ages, contributing to the potluck that is us. What things are we keeping? What will we start in our family? What do we not want to keep going down the line?

“Oh, I worry for our kids. I don’t want them to struggle so hard and I just feel like what we do isn’t enough.”
“I know.”

It isn’t. It never will be. It Can. Not. Be.

All of it hits me faster than I want to accept it. This parenting, it will never be enough to keep them from making mistakes, from pain, or from hardship. Because life isn’t meant to be easy, it’s meant to be lived. And that entails the aforementioned.

Dang it.

It’s a perfect design, really. At some point we have to choose. We have to do our own seeking, our own learning, our own discovery of who am I and who is God.
Where do I find the most peace, contentment, connection? Where do I learn the most about how I relate, where I fail people, how I love or don’t love well, the lies to which I cling, my hopes, my longings, that I’m actually quite capable and good at some things, or that time and again no matter the journey-I find myself back on the lap of God? In the muck and mire of the day.

Am I willing to be the kind of parent that wants this for her kids?

Yes, no, yes, but I don’t think I mean it, OK yes, I don’t know, ultimately…yes. It will rip my heart out, I can only say it in a weak whisper, but yes.
And they’ll need someone who can go through it with them.

So here I am, ticket in hand for the rollercoaster that’s ahead.

Ferris Wheel of Tantrums

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My jaw is locked again, her screams are ringing through my head like the pressure of a sinus infection. They settle into a moan, a forced noise so I don’t forget she’s there. I clutch the oak trim of our counter as I remind myself it’s her choice and I just have to follow through with what I said. Go ahead, be upset, not changing this mama’s mind. 
She calms enough for me to talk to her. But a hug, a kiss, another poor decision later and we are cresting the top of the Ferris Wheel of tantrums once more. Round and round, up and down we go. And I want off the ride.

As with all great battles, we make a peace treaty. I feel certain I am the declared winner, though the true victor is exhaustion. She finally succumbs to her pillow and I melt into every step leading me to the kitchen. I take a deep breath. I need something. Left of the fridge, bottom shelf. There it is, my salvation. Hershey’s dark chocolate Bliss. Oh, it is. I escape, I indulge, I take because I deserve. I’ve just spent the better part of the morning straining, at times unsuccessfully, to stay the adult. What I really should have is a hot fudge sundae so massive in girth that it would only fit in the bowl of our fire pit. But I’m not stocked for this kind of decadence so I do what I can with the candies.

Entitlement, how did I find you?

Really. I am such a political advocate against this kind of thing. I come from hard-work, do-it-right-with-all-you’ve-got parents who taught me never to cut corners. I admire in all three of them a loyalty rarely found anymore. My mom spent over 25 years in one position, my dad has been 35 years at one company, and my stepmom, wait for it…47 years in the same dental office. I believe there is a serious, personal flaw in people who are entitled to everything they want. People, like me.

Yes, I work hard. No I don’t expect everything done for me. But I also want to be thanked for cooking dinner. A standing ovation would be nice after taking care of all three of my kids for the summer. I don’t think a Grande Caramel Mocha is too much for running so many errands. Just a little color for the gray hair I don’t want to admit I have, every two or three months. I need, need a Dr. Pepper on a lonely day, to watch Parenthood every night so I can catch up to season 5, and QUIET. Can I just, get, some quiet?

Granted, none of these things are bad. Balance requires some checked out, veg out, “me” time. But what’s been happening to my heart is ugly. I have become discontent.

Ann Voskamp is teaching me different.

The truth is:

I GET to have three, healthy kids to drive me bonkers. I’ve spent most of my life wanting kids around me and I have not been asked to do without them. 
I GET to stay home to teach my little girl to be respectful even when she’s highly disappointed and angry with her circumstances.
I GET to have a yard that needs mowed.
I GET to have running water, hot or cold or anything in between, so I can wash dishes that served us meals others would call extravagant. Yes, even Ramen. 
I GET to learn the hard, uninspired, meaningful, poetic, regretful, bipolar process of writing that in fact, does touch some of you out there. 

When I know I’m blessed, I become the blessing for someone else. And that’s the place of contentment. 

Thank you. “I say the words slowly, hope they soak into his pores, broken man who yearns to bless, and I am him and he is me and behind the masks we are all the same. All, we only find joy in the blessings that are taken, broken, and given.”                                                             -Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

 

Parents or Grands?

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If you just glanced in their direction, they looked like many other young couples you might see in our area. With a quick scan, they seemed the kind of couple that may leave some of us wanting to eat healthier and update our hair style.
Tall, well-manicured and clean-shaven, carrying themselves with an ease and confidence that was anything but hurried.

So when the waddling blonde who stretched just to the top of their knees and sucking a pink binky reached for grown-up arms, I wasn’t sure if I was looking at mom and dad or grandma and grandpa.

I studied him, the way his gray started above his ears and sloped down to his neck like sunglasses with a neck strap. I searched her face for wrinkles and blotchy skin. But I couldn’t really tell from the mixed messages of her lustrous, A-line bob and his dark wash, bootcut jeans. It could have gone either way: they started having kids early…or late.

The guitar of our lead worship pastor strummed, voices harmonized. I was singing. And I was still looking at the seats in front of me.

Little one wanted up, and so she was.
Little one was bored, so the Iphone she played.
Little one was tired, and so they rocked.

Snuggles, snacks, Siri. All of it was marveled by the two adults taking care of her.

That’s how I figured it out, of course, that they were grandparents. They were much too patient.

Parenting Grown-Ups

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Arms folded tight across my chest, my jaw jutted out (Chase does a great impression of this) I was thinking, “I’ve got him. I’m beyond right, I’m brilliant.”

Often, I was. But is that the point?

I grew up an only child, caught in the crosshairs of a civil divorce. What they say is true, a great divorce is still a divorce. Luckily, I’m close to all my parents. But one of the aftereffects of this was my uncanny ability to relate to people older than me. Add to this the fact my mom worked at a college campus where I spent many of my post-school hours and summer days. I was surrounded by them: grown-ups.

After kindergarten I’d go straight to the president’s office (the father of my mom’s best friend) and schmooze him with my charm. He’d give me snacks. I returned daily.

I hung out with 20-something’s on a regular basis, was really good at P-I-G because I had a basketball rim at my constant disposal, and knew all the professors on a first-name basis, though I still said Mr. Then I’d go home to my mom, another grown-up.

It was a couple years into marriage that I realized my husband didn’t have the same appreciation for these stellar relational skills. In fact, he thought they were downright annoying. Recently I’ve also learned that I tend to communicate aggressively when things don’t go my way. Said husband would also say this is not a becoming quality of mine.

But so became our toxic dance.

“You come home and just check out.”

“Nothing’s ever good enough for you.”

Round and bitterly around we went for a long time. I was the parent who was always picking up the slack. He was never reaching the bar.

We both wanted to be seen. I wanted him to know that when he was in the room, I still felt alone. He wanted me know that all his hard work all day long was for us. I wanted him to know that connecting was important to me. He wanted me to know that he was doing that the best he knew how.

“He’ll always fail you, you know. He can’t really fill you. No human can,” said an oh-so-wise woman to me once. 

Huh. Are you sure? Because I’m pretty certain if he acted exactly like Westley in The Princess Bride everything would be fine.

Of course she was right. People let me down, all the time. They’re people, I’m people and that equals mess. I haven’t mastered this perfect balance of give and take, love and let live. It turns out, grown-ups can think for themselves. It turns out, so can I. And when I do, I have a lot more to actually offer.