PARENTING

1: the raising of a child by its parents

Sometimes I wish I could just do the fun part of parenting.  You know the kind I mean:

Celebrating your child's birthday...
...with a party where your child delights in her friends and they delight in her.
...by allowing all of the sugary treats that are on the NO list - cupcakes from The Cupcake Collection, Sprite, homemade lemon bars, brownies from Sweet 16th.  (But even then, not all at the same time.)
...by reminding yourself of why she is so very challenging and so very rewarding

Celebrating the 9th Birthday

Sharing thoughtful conversations...
...about the book The Secret Garden and what the perfect garden would contain
...about the best way to take in the view, whether with a cup of coffee, a good book or friends in tow
...about what it means to grow up and whether the freedoms adults have outweigh their responsibilities
...and if those freedoms aren't worth it, what age would you freeze yourself if you could?

The View that Prompted a Thoughtful Conversation

Playing a good game of Hug Kiss or Tickle: You may be unfamiliar with this game since game K and I invented it.  Here's how you play:
...say the title slowly, with a voice suited to building anticipation
...let your child choose one
...smother child with kisses, swaddle her in hugs or consume her little body with tickling hands
...laugh with said child
...always, always play rounds in multiples of three, so that mom gets a fair share of hugs, kisses and tickles

I wish I could do just these things and let go of all the rest and they would turn into the great women I see lurking beneath the surface of these little girl bodies.  But if all I did was celebrate, talk and play, they would very likely turn into undisciplined, spoiled women with no one around to enjoy the great potential they hold inside.  And that would be a tragedy.  So I'll keep working away at trying to be the best mom I can be.  But I secretly look forward to being a grandmother when, as I see it, you really do get to just do the good stuff.

LITURGY

:the work (and worship) of the people

Today at church, we had an instructional liturgy.  This was great, as it allowed our family (new to Anglicanism) to learn why we do what we do each Sunday morning.  Throughout the service, the verger explained portions of the service to us.  I learned a lot, but one thing that stuck with me was something the rector said: that liturgy is the work of the people.  It's not the work of the staff, the vestry, the "people in funny clothes" as he said.  It's my job as a part of worship to work out my salvation (with fear and trembling).  Now, I must confess that this process of working it out is not easy - or pretty.  In fact, I was brought face to face with just how messy it is this morning.

Before leaving for service this morning, I was reading in the current Bible study I'm doing.  The study is called Breaking Free and my hope is that this study will show me the things in my life and in my heart that keep me from experiencing God's freedom in my daily life.  So this morning, I was making notes about some of the things I've realized take me captive.  The first was one I've known for a while: fear.  I am afraid of many things on a daily basis.  A simple question to a stranger can cause anxiety, especially if I fear the question will elicit a less than favorable response.  Fear of conflict occupies a very large space in the miasma of fear in my heart.  The other thing that I've recently been acutely aware of is my fear of what other people think of me. 

Kids being kids, part one - a picture worth framing

Friday evening, J had a fantasy football draft, so the girls and I went to Cheekwood to see the Chihuly exhibit at night (OK, they're young, it was more like Chihuly at dusk).  We're accustomed to being at Cheekwood on a weekday when there are few other people there and most of those people are families similar to ours.  That's not the demographics of Chihuly at Night on a Friday.  Instead of moms dressed in skirts, t-shirts and sandals, there were silver haired dames in starched linen pants.  Instead of children roaming the lawns, there were couples picnicking.  And they were picnicking on blankets, using fiesta ware and stemware, not Chinet and Solo cups. 

Chihuly at Dusk - It really is stunning

There's nothing wrong with any of that, but it made me more tense than I normally am during a Cheekwood trip.  One thing I love about Cheekwood is letting my children roam free.  B especially loves investigating plants up close, chasing down squirrels, picking up frogs and leaping over streams.  This doesn't pair well with the Friday night crowd.  Nor does it pair well with a mom who is fearful that those who see my children behaving like (gasp!) children will judge me and find me lacking as a mom.  I left Cheekwood embarrassed at how my daughters had behaved and ashamed of myself for feeling that way.

Kids being kids, part two - climbing on an old garden door

The night at Cheekwood followed close on the heels of another difficult parenting moment.  B had a rough night Wednesday and her behavior was, in fact, so poor that J and I decided to cancel a portion of her birthday party.  Just days before, we sent out invitations for her friends to join us for dinner, bowling and a sleep-over.  But her behavior left us feeling like a big consequence was necessary and cutting the birthday party short felt like the right repercussion.  I hated telling the parents that dinner and bowling were still on, but the sleepover was no longer on the agenda.  Their responses were uniformly supportive.  One mom even told me she admired my willingness to make the hard decision.  But I hated to do it. I hated to disappoint B.  I hated to change our plans.  I hated for these other parents to know I have a daughter who misbehaves.  (Crazy, right?  Like their children never misbehave?  I know, but rational thoughts don't apply to these fears of mine.)

And then came this morning.  J wasn't feeling well, so he stayed home from church.  It was only after we arrived that I realized how challenging this would make my morning: instructional liturgy means no Sunday School for the children. Even 6 year old K was expected to attend service with me.  I took a deep breath and plunged ahead.  I led the three girls to the area where we normally sit, but B said, "I want to sit closer."  Since B is generally the most challenging of my daughters when it comes to church, I figured it was wise to follow her lead.  Where did she lead us?  To the front row.  Not a row near the front.  The first row in the sanctuary.  As we sat down, I leaned over to B and whispered, "Since you want to sit in the very front, I expect you to be on your best behavior."  "OK," she replied.  Easier said than done.  I didn't keep count of the number of times I had to ask B or K to change their behavior, but I did note in my journal during the service:

Doing the work of our salvation is not easy.  Knowing that others' opinions of me are too important is one thing - being broken of this is another as I stand/sit in the front row and watch my daughters sit, stand and squirm in front of the body of Christ.  Pride is ugly and it lives in me.

Yet the key to breaking this bondage of fear in my heart was contained right there in the service:  "The Lord is my helper.  What can man do to me?"  So I'll keep preparing my heart to know more of what God wants for me and I'll keep trying to respond to his promptings.  I'll keep hoping to break free of bonds that should not enslave me.  I'll try to remind myself that my daughters are children - whether at Cheekwood or St. Bartholomew's.  And it's OK for them to act like children.  If I want them to be who they are, I shouldn't expect anything less.

Kids being kids, part three - inspecting the water lilies

RULE

1 a: a prescribed guide for conduct or action
b: the laws or regulations prescribed by the founder of a religious order for observance by its members
c: an accepted procedure, custom, or habit

Are you a rule-follower?  Or do you look for little ways to break life's rules?   I recently read a very good book.  It was beautifully written, flawlessly executed and had a gripping plot.  But I found myself comparing it to my favorite book: a book with less flowing descriptions, fewer classic lines, a style all its own.  One of the many things I love about The Book Thief is that the author breaks the rules.  He plays with narrative technique, bends the rules of grammar, plays with readers' expectations about how a story should progress and is an expert at making abstract concepts concrete.  I love the story of the book thief, but even more, I love the way her story is told.  I remember reading it the first time and feeling such freedom.  This book taught me to tell the story the way it needed to be told - regardless of the rules.

You see, I think I'm a rule breaker at heart.  I'm not your classic rebel, but the older (wiser?) I've become, the more I've resisted blindly following the rules.  I have a deep desire to carve my own path, even if it means hacking my way through the weeds, seeing the occasional snake or stepping in a hidden puddle.  A character on a television show I enjoy recently said that the reason countries who were formerly part of the British empire excel is because the British imposed order.  Are rules really the foundation for success?  Or are they stumbling blocks to creativity, a multi-faceted society and freedom?  I really don't know.

I'm certainly not an anarchist.  I pay taxes (well, my husband does since I make no money!), I drive under the speed limit, we have order in our home.  But I think it's worth pondering the role that rules play in my life versus the role that rules should play in my life.  I would never suggest that we should each do what is right in our own eyes - that is a recipe for disaster.  But where do we impose or follow rules simply because they make our lives easier, not because they are right?

I've sometimes caught myself telling my children to stop doing something not because it was wrong (hurtful, unkind, unsafe), but because it was inconvenient to me (loud, annoying, would make me late).  I'm not sure that's right.  In fact, I'm pretty sure it's wrong.  I don't mean I shouldn't ever ask K to talk more quietly, I shouldn't ever ask A to clean her room, I shouldn't ever ask B to take her shoes and socks to her room.  None of these infractions break the rules of our home, but I do think it's OK to encourage personal responsibility and appropriate boundaries.  Where I think the path veers into a territory I dislike is when these common courtesies overshadow other aspects of my relationship with my daughters.  I don't want to be the enforcer.  I want to be their mother.  And while I think it's perfectly acceptable for me to express my needs and desires to them (being a doormat of a mom does not teach them a lesson I want them to learn), I want to be careful not to hand out consequences based on actions that are inconvenient, but not wrong.

As I've pondered this, I've reflected on the difference between guidelines, rules and laws.  In my mind, guidelines are strong suggestions, rules are man-made and laws are God-given.  The definitions, by the way, do not fully affirm these distinctions.  Rule and law are very similar words by definition.  I like guidelines best because they allow some interpretation by the participants while still providing clear information about expectations.  Perhaps I classify rules as man-made because that gives me the freedom to bend or break rules as I see fit.  But I wouldn't argue that it's ever OK for me to bend God's laws.  I just think there are an awful lot of rules our there that go far beyond those laid out in the ten commandments and well beyond the two laws Jesus says are most important.  Love God?  I'm trying to do that well.  Love others?  Yes, with God's help.  But no running in the hallways?  I'm pretty sure there are enough natural consequences to take care of that one.

Finding their own path

I guess my stance on rules comes down to this:  I want to be moving towards mystery, not rigidity.  I think this is consistent with Jesus' reply on what matters:  love is one great big mystery.  And I long for my children to do the same.  I hope they will embrace the things in life we will never understand.  I want them to trust their inner voice even when it contradicts a rule set by someone in power somewhere.  I think they were each made without a mold and I hope they will refuse to conform to rules that will alter the shape of who they are, even if that rocks the boat sometimes.

INDESCRIBABLE

1: that cannot be described
2: surpassing description

I rarely regret that I've limited myself to one word titles for my blog posts.  Sometimes it's a challenge to find exactly the right word to convey what I'm thinking.  Other times a word leaps out, wanting to be explored.   More often than not, I'm thankful for the discipline and focus it provides to my writing.  But on a day like today, it's a true challenge.  One word to describe B?  That's nearly impossible.  I've tossed around several options: strong? complicated? varied?  What one word can encapsulate a child who is

Silly

Sisterly

Creative

Nurturing

Fashionable

Funny

Generous

Hungry

Beautiful

As I've written this post and searched through our photos of this daughter I love, I've decided I do have one word to describe her:  MINE.  She's many other things - most of them wonderful beyond words - but she is and always will be mine. I'm so thankful she is.

Happy 9th Birthday B!

HOTEL

: an establishment that provides lodging and usually meals, entertainment, and various personal services for the public

Do you remember how much fun it was to stay in a hotel when you were a child? As a part of recent travels, we spent three nights in hotels with our daughters and their delight over the experience was fun to witness. Our first hotel had an elevator with a glass wall and a chandelier lit up and visible from said elevator. When you are ten, nine or six, it doesn’t get much better than this.

After a breakfast featuring a waffle made my an eight year old, powdered sugar doughnuts for each daughter, coffee for the mom and Mountain Dew for the dad, we obliged our daughters and rode the elevator all the way to the top, just so they could watch all the way up and all the way down.

The next night (at a different hotel) offered similar fun times. A and B shared a bed with minimal fighting and were even considerate of J, K and I when they woke early the next morning. Instead of waking us all up, they crept into the bathroom with their books, climbed into the bathtub and read. When tired of reading, they grabbed pop tarts and ate them in the bathtub, too. If I’d remembered my camera, I would certainly have snapped a shot of the hotel bathtub, littered with two pop tart wrappers and two books just before J emptied it to have his shower.

While J showered, B devised a game for the hotel room: she took the four extra large square pillows from the hotel beds and stacked them one on top of the other. Once they were stable, she backed up to the wall and got a running start before leaping onto the tower of pillows. Needless to say, her sisters quickly followed in her footsteps. I watched, amused – and thankful that we were on the second floor, with no one directly below us to be bothered by the thumping of girl bodies onto the hotel floor strewn with pillows.

Pillow jumping was quickly replaced with pool jumping as the girls enjoyed first the indoor and then the outdoor pool. Two pools in one place?! This might just be as good as mom letting us have doughnuts for breakfast!

One of the fun things about the ages my children now are is seeing them take joy in the small pleasures in life – whether it’s a doughnut for breakfast or an extra large, comfy hotel pillow. It’s easy for me to miss the magic of something as simple as a hotel stay. I’m so thankful that my daughters’ delight gave me eyes to see the beauty of the new and unusual, if only for a little while. I have a feeling I’ll look forward to our next hotel stay in anticipation of seeing their joy yet again.

VOW

:solemn promise to do something or to live or act a certain way

I used to be one of those people who thought it was rather silly to cry at weddings. Then I had three daughters. Now, every wedding I attend is through the lens of a mother who will one day witness a ceremony binding her child to another. We recently attended a wedding: it was simple, beautiful, authentic and fun – just like the couple being wed. One of the pastors officiating the ceremony used lovely metaphors to describe the process of marriage: dance and architecture. She talked about how with dance, you must know your own steps, stay in your own space, improvise when necessary and merge your style with that of the other dancer(s) and the choreographer. She also drew parallels between the design of a building, the importance of its foundation and how collaboration can enhance a structure’s ultimate form. These apt word pictures were drawn directly from the lives of the bride and groom, but were applicable and relevant to all in attendance. In closing, the pastor advised the newlyweds to re-read one of the passages from their ceremony when the dance of their marriage yielded missteps or the blueprint didn’t show them the way out of a conflict. The passage was a well known one: 1 Corinthians 13.

And then came their vows:

In the presence of God and all those present here today, I give myself to you. I promise to love and sustain you in the covenant of marriage, from this day forward in sickness and in health, in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow. I promise to love you without reservation, to encourage you and to comfort you. I promise to laugh with you, to cry with you, to grow with you, to always be open and honest with you and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.

As they repeated these vows, I whispered to J, “This is what they should go back and read. Because when you’re saying your vows, you don’t really believe the sickness will come or that sorrow could ever be a part of your life together. You’re too wrapped up in the joy to see that coming.”

“Sounds like a blog post to me,” he whispered back. I spent the rest of the night off and on thinking about vows and their importance, mentally composing this post long before I had the chance to actually sit down and type it up.

I love what these vows promise: specific actions (to laugh, to cry), specific ways to care for each other (encouragement, comfort), all no matter the circumstances (sickness, health, plenty, want, joy, sorrow). As I watched the bride and groom dance, I found myself thinking that I hoped my daughters wouldn’t say their vows too soon. This was perhaps an odd thought since J and I married young – I was twenty-three, he only twenty-one. I’ve never regretted marrying early because I married the right man. I’ve loved him day in, day out through fourteen years of marriage and I love my life with him. But do I want my daughters to marry that young?

At which point I realize what I really have known all along – that who they say their vows to is far more important than when they say them. Just this weekend, my mother-in-law was sharing that one of her criteria for a boyfriend was that he had to be the kind of boy who would swing on a playground. She didn’t want to date someone who wasn’t fun. Ten year old A piped up, “Yep. That’s my criteria, too.” I laughingly replied  that she should probably create her own criteria instead of using someone else’s. I told her I was very thankful I’d managed to find a man who loves books as much (if not more) than I do.

I hope each of my daughters will have their own criteria for what they want in a man. I hope they find someone who loves them for who they are, someone who pushes, prods and encourages them to be who they were made to be, someone who thrills their hearts and brings them joy. I hope they’ll find someone worth vowing to spend their life with. But it’s totally fine with me if we wait a few decades for that to happen…

K Dancing at her uncle and aunt's wedding, 2006

HEART

4: the emotional or moral as distinguished from the intellectual nature

I got to spend some time on Thursday soaking up wisdom - from a mom (T) who has home schooled for fifteen years and her daughter (B), the product of said home schooling. B was once K's dance teacher is now starting her second year in a BFA program at Fordham University, in conjunction with Alvin Ailey Dance. I had a ton of questions for them - everything from how to know when to get serious about dance to how dance meshes with home schooling. The overwhelming impression I was left with? Trust my heart.

The vast majority of the information that these kind women shared with me was not surprising:

Q: How do I help A avoid the pitfalls of eating disorders as a dancer?
A: Talk about it, talk about it, talk about it. Help her build up her internal confidence for when she's faced with a teacher who wants her to be thinner - because it will happen sooner or later.
Q: How will we know when it's time to get serious about dance?
A: Keep following her lead.
Q: Should I ever give A advice on performing or should I just keep being her cheerleader?
A: Be her cheerleader. Let her teachers do the rest.

I don't have a burning desire to have a daughter who is a dancer. I do have a burning desire to have a daughter who is confident in pursuing her passions. This conversation reminded me that my factual knowledge about A's passion is far less important than my heart knowledge of her as her mother. I have a desire to help her become who she was made to be and that doesn't mean that I need to know the different approaches to teaching classical ballet. I just need to know A and stay in relationship with her to know whether her dance classes are filling her emotional tank or depleting it.

I think one reason I seek out people like B and T is that I'm more comfortable with my intellectual side than my emotional side.  I want facts to confirm or deny what my heart tells me.  This can be wise - or it can be treacherous.  Because facts about what school of dance is best for one child might not be factual for my daughter, but I can probably trust my gut reaction to seeing pictures of the school's dancers in their recital costumes.  I want to learn to rest in the fact that I know my daughters far better than anyone else on the planet, with the exception of J.  I want to learn to use knowledge to supplement what my heart tells me, not to direct my heart.  Hopefully, that will teach my daughters by example to trust their own hearts when faced with whatever decisions await them on their paths.