I always thought being a parent volunteer, or “in charge” was good because then I was more involved with my kids. More active in their lives. After all, I am working at the dance studio that my daughter is taking classes. My husband and I are running the wrestling program that my 3 boys have participated in for almost 10 years. I am homeschooling my children and home interacting with them each day. There was even a time that we were running a small youth group at church on Friday evenings in addition to teaching a Sunday evening catechism class. Obviously these are all great things and this must show them how much they are loved. Besides if I have a talent or past experience, doesn’t this mean that I should offer my services to the powers that be?
Today, I went to my son’s high school to take him for some placement testing. I chatted with a faculty member there who was leaving her job to return home to tend to herself and her family. In fact, today was her last day. I was saddened to talk about her leaving as she had been an important point of contact for me at that school. A very compassionate and wise soul that I trusted. We talked about the difficulties we face trying to “do it all”. Being everything to everyone. Being in nurturing positions and trying to continue to give to others when you are running on empty yourself. It is easy to become overwhelmed. How do you replenish yourself to be able to do for others?
When I left home that morning, I had taken a book with me to sit outside on the school patio to read while I waited. I was excited to think that I didn’t have to drop my son off and run somewhere else quickly like I usually do because I am in charge of something else. But after our talk, I sat with the book in my lap. The sky was so blue and there was a beautiful breeze coming across the Quad. I felt thankful for that conversation. I felt thankful for that moment to sit and feel the breeze. I thought about her decision to leave her job. She was going to simplify her life. I have talked about “simplifying” my life for years. Why was that concept so hard for me? Yes, I have 4 children and that is always going to mean controlled chaos at best. But how did I end up being involved and committed in so many things from a leadership perspective? Why did I feel compelled to be “in charge”? I started thinking about my own mother and my own childhood.
My mother was never the parent “in charge”. She wasn’t PTA President, or Room Mom. She wasn’t a Girl Scout Leader. She rarely volunteered at school, if ever. She didn’t help coach cheerleading or sew costumes for dance. She didn’t chaperone field trips or drive a carpool. She didn’t sign up for any committees or participate in my activities in any form other than being the taxi service or a spectator in my corner. And truthfully, I never gave that a second thought.
Mom was always at home. Growing up, there was never an activity that I couldn’t join because she was “busy” or worked. She was there to pick me up and shuffle me to anything I participated in day after day without question. Dance, cheerleading, babysitting, part-time jobs, friends visits, shopping…whatever it was – she was my ride there and home again. She never came inside and looked for me. She didn’t chat with the other moms or try to make friends with my friends and hang out. She sat quietly in the parking lot and waited for me to be finished. I would come out and she was always cheerful and excited to hear about my day. She was willing to drive me through McDonalds and on to the next activity or home for a freshly prepared and delicious dinner where she would sit with me while I ate talking over the day’s childhood playground crisis or teenage dramas.
Mom took care of everything at home. My clothes were always clean, fresh, pressed and put away in my drawers. I never had to search for a uniform, a leotard or my favorite shirt. The house was always immaculate and the pantry stocked with my favorite foods for packing lunches or after school snacks. Freshly baked cookies and brownies were always in tightly sealed Tupperware and sandwiched neatly between sheets of waxed paper waiting for me to satisfy my chocolate craving. In fact, we didn't have Hostess cupcakes - Mom baked chocolate cupcakes, iced them, wrapped them individually and put them in the freezer. My sheets were constantly washed and crisp on my bed waiting for my weary head to hit the pillow. She always seemed to be one step ahead of any need that I would have. I would want for nothing. I counted on that. My mother was Queen of all homemakers.
One of my favorite memories of growing up was coming home from school and heading straight to my room to put my things away. I had a large desk with shelves. In front of my desk chair, I had a calendar desk pad. Several times a week when Mom had been out shopping, something would be waiting there for me. It was never anything extravagant. It could be bubble gum. It could be a needed school supply. It could be a new plastic insert for my 45s. It could be a new set of multi colored heart shoe laces or a package of barrettes. Whatever it was I loved it and it never got old. I remember walking that hallway every day wondering what might be waiting for me. I loved that she remembered all the details. I felt special. I felt loved.
I didn’t need my mom to run the cheerleading team even though she had been a cheerleader herself. I didn’t need her to volunteer to make dance costumes, even though her sewing was perfection. I didn’t need her to coordinate the class Valentine’s Day party even though her cupcakes would have put Martha Stewart’s to shame. I didn’t need her to have all of my friends to our house on Friday night to be the cool mom and be the house everyone wanted to go to. I knew how cool she was. I didn’t need my mom to run any organizations to further my achievements. I would do just fine on my own because I knew she was in charge at home. I felt safe and I was able to go out and be me because she was at home being her.
I would like to think that I am that kind of a mom. But if I’m really honest - I’m not. I’ve been the so- called “leader”. I’ve been the Coach’s wife, the Team Mom, the Dance Teacher, for goodness sakes, I have even been the Sunday school teacher and main educator. I have tried to maintain a clean home – but it’s not. I have tried to keep up the laundry – but I always forget someone’s uniform, leotard or favorite shirt. I try to keep groceries stocked for lunches or snacks – but ultimately I am running through a drive thru to get something because I didn’t shop that week. Sometimes bed sheets go unchanged for a terribly long time. Most times the convenience of store bought cookies wins out. I have to arrange carpools and I am often irritated when I have to drop off or pick up. My children ask me if they can join activities and I have to tell them no because I can’t commit to the pick up or drop off because I am working. I have missed school choral concerts. I have missed awards assemblies. To be honest, I have missed my own daughter dancing in her Christmas Open Houses for years because I am teaching the dance class in the studio right next to hers. I miss things because I am “in charge”.
I am so busy being “in charge” that I am not in charge of what is most important.
It’s ironic because recently something happened in my life. Decades ago, my childhood bedroom furniture went to the dump. The big canopy bed, my white dresser with gold handles and the desk with it's shelves that were home to dozens of trophies and stuffed animals over the years were gone. However, I kept the chair that went to my desk. It had been repainted and reupholstered a couple of times. But I still had it. In fact, it was the chair that I sat in at this computer to do most of my writing. My husband tried to convince me over the years to get a new office chair. But I held tight to the rickety ole’ white chair. It had a special place in my heart. The other day it finally broke beyond repair and my husband took it to the dump. Now that chair was 37 years old. It was nothing fancy or expensive. But that chair held the memory of coming home from school to find Mom’s little tokens and I really did feel sad when it was time to let it go. Not because I loved the chair, but because I loved the memory. I want my children to have a memory like that. But my fear is that my children will remember how much I did for everyone else that I was "in charge" of.
It occurred to me today, while playing backyard badminton with the family, how much I have been truly enjoying the past couple of weeks. I am not homeschooling. Not teaching dance classes in the evenings. Not running any sports programs on the weekends. I have had time to focus on so many things that I have been putting off while I was “in charge”. I’ve been easily keeping up with chores. Working in my yard. Planting flowers again. Sleepovers are happening at my home because I am not so stingy with my “free” time. My yard is filled with neighborhood kids. The fridge and pantry are stocked weekly. The laundry is not behind. I am not telling my children they can’t do something because I can’t pick them up or take them. Daytrips do not feel overwhelming. I am not in a hurry. I am patient. I am not shushing them. I am not busy telling them how busy I am because I am “in charge”.
I realized this evening that I am no longer fitting them into my schedule because I am “in charge”. I am able to fit myself into their lives the way that they need me. Isn't that what my mother was doing all of those years? I had teachers and coaches. I needed her to be mom. I have felt such a peace. It feels rewarding. It almost feels whimsical. Perhaps the key to being in charge is not being "in charge" - just being Mom.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Summertime
Summertime. Funny how it returns every year and it is always magical. Some of my most favorite things happened in the summer. I mean my most favorite lifetime memories. You know the ones that you can close your eyes and it feels so real…
My earliest summertime memories are of being about 4 years old. My neighborhood buddies and I played outside until dusk…catching lightning bugs and tadpoles. The Good Humor man would come and we would get Push-Up orange sherbet pops and collect the plunger bottoms. We would take turns having sleepovers. I remember getting penny candy wax bottles and sucking the juice out of them, sitting on the roof watching fireworks and going to the store to pick out my little plastic pool covered in fishies.
In later elementary years, summertime was still magical. Playing in the sprinkler hoses, Mom’s vegetable garden, swinging and singing outside for hours upon hours, the windows open and the smell the morning would bring, juicy watermelon slices, ice cold Nehi sodas out of the general store refrigerator and collecting the bottle caps, but the games of badminton in the backyard were a personal favorite. I could play for hours.
With time, summertime brought amazing trips to stay with my grandmothers. Grandma would plan trips into Washington D.C. She worked downtown and was the best tour guide around. She showed me every inch of that city. I loved that…the way she would walk and weave around that town. Planning our days. We did it all. She bought me my first little camera and we took pictures in front of every monument and museum. At night we would stay up very late eating ice cream, drinking Pepsi and watching M.A.S.H. We took long walks around the block and talked about people’s front yards and flowers. She would help me look for the toads in her backyard that I deemed my friends. She had a fabulous patio with big comfy cushions that we would lay on out in the shade under the breeze of the huge trees that filled the yard.
Eventually, I would make my way to my other grandmother’s home for another “vacation”. We would stay up so late, talking, eating nachos, playing cards and listening to music. During the days, she would sit poolside at her neighbor’s home while I would swim for hours. We would sit outside in the backyard at the picnic table under the huge tree and have lunches. We would go down to the pier and crab, drive in the evenings to get enormous hot fudge sundaes, play bingo at the local hall and spend an hour or two taking an afternoon nap… Life was very full and busy in a simplistic and wonderfully lazy way. We planned our days.
As I got a bit older, summertime still meant sleeping in and staying up late. It still meant filling the days with all those summertime things. Eventually we got an in ground pool in our backyard and that was awesome. Mom spent days canning from her harvest in the garden. I can still smell those tomatoes being skinned. Mom took us to the orchard to pick fresh peaches and there was nothing sweeter than those right off of the tree. Grandmommy would take me to the beach and planned fabulous family crab feasts. Grandma took me to the theater and planned yummy family cookouts. Granddaddy had his sailboats and would scrub them preparing for our daytrips where he served us his packed lunches on the Chesapeake. Though the “plans” became greater, the simplicity of the time was still the greatest.
Soon enough, summer would be filled with teenage things, like dating and Downtown Annapolis evening trips for ice cream and walking the docks. Sitting on the sea wall and planning our lives. Part-time jobs would be held and bussing tables or taking pizza orders filled partial days. Day trips to the beach with friends, washing cars and sleepovers while watching hours of MTV. Cheerleading camps and dance camps occupied Grandmother visits.
I remember the first time I realized I had reached “adult” summertime. Working 9-5 – realizing that my days had been filled for me. It felt horrible. I longed for those younger times. Those days that I knew I had 3 months of pure fun coming my way. Escape from the ritual of schedule was over. Unless I had accrued enough vacation time, I would not be anywhere anymore except at my desk. My grandfathers passed away and my grandmothers aged. We would talk about those summers and what they had meant to each of us. The magic they cast. The bond they had formed for us.
Once I had my children, I was thrilled to return to the summertime of my childhood. I quickly introduced them to the lightning bug jars, plastic pools, popsicles, watermelon, Sparklers, and hours of swinging in the backyard. I returned to local orchards to pick fresh fruit and taught myself how to make peach butter and strawberry jam. We would make beach trips, fishing trips and returned for crabbing expeditions on Grandmommy’s pier. We would take the metro into D.C. to see the Washington Monument, have a picnic and throw a Frisbee around. I wanted to share the magic of summertime.
Soon my children were each taking their own individual trips to my mother’s house and creating their own memories. Games of Wiffle ball, trips to the park, walks to the ice cream store, swinging on the porch swing, playing Rummy, buying plastic golf sets and other silly summertime toys, taking walks around the block with their grandmother and planning their days. Forming their bond, casting their magic.
Suddenly, the kids grew older. My grandmothers passed away. Our summers became filled with camps or sports for the kids. They planned their days. Wrestling camps, dance camps, cheerleading camps, Vacation Bible School camp, Lacrosse camps, football camps…if they had a camp for it, they wanted to sign up! Schools got out later. Schools started earlier. Spring sports were played into July. Fall sports began in July. We started searching our calendars to squeeze in when we could take a week to go on vacation, let alone make trips to stay with their grandmothers. No magic.
Today as I put my third son who is nearly 12, on a bus for a camp – I felt sad. Not just because he was going away alone for a few days – but because it was another chunk of time that is gone from our summertime. And each of the kids will want to attend a camp – thus another chunk, and another chunk and another chunk.
What I loved about summer had nothing to do with camps. My memories were of time spent with loved ones, who shared themselves with me doing simple tasks but creating such vibrant happy lifelong memories. I don’t long to return to the cheerleading camp that I went to in high school. I don’t long to return to the2 week dance camp I attended. What I long for is a late summer evening to play cards with Grandmommy and Granddaddy or watch M.A.S.H. with Grandma curled up on the couch. I don’t long for the 4-H club camp when I made a Popsicle birdhouse. I would give anything to be on Grandma’s patio on the big cushy chaise lounge having a Pepsi or at the picnic table in Grandmommy’s backyard spitting our watermelon seeds on the ground.
I am going to try to fill my summer doing those things with my family. Instead of squeezing them into our camp schedule – those things have to come first. Summertime shouldn’t be about filling their time with busy organized activity. It should be in finding the time to relax and helping them appreciate their youth because truthfully they are too young to understand – so it is my job to help them - Finding animals in the clouds, playing a game of backyard Wiffle ball, crabbing with chicken necks on the dock or playing Rummy on the patio in the evening while nursing homemade root beer floats. Soon enough they are going to realize that they haven’t accrued enough time to take a week off for vacation. I think tomorrow I’m going to buy a Badminton set…
My earliest summertime memories are of being about 4 years old. My neighborhood buddies and I played outside until dusk…catching lightning bugs and tadpoles. The Good Humor man would come and we would get Push-Up orange sherbet pops and collect the plunger bottoms. We would take turns having sleepovers. I remember getting penny candy wax bottles and sucking the juice out of them, sitting on the roof watching fireworks and going to the store to pick out my little plastic pool covered in fishies.
In later elementary years, summertime was still magical. Playing in the sprinkler hoses, Mom’s vegetable garden, swinging and singing outside for hours upon hours, the windows open and the smell the morning would bring, juicy watermelon slices, ice cold Nehi sodas out of the general store refrigerator and collecting the bottle caps, but the games of badminton in the backyard were a personal favorite. I could play for hours.
With time, summertime brought amazing trips to stay with my grandmothers. Grandma would plan trips into Washington D.C. She worked downtown and was the best tour guide around. She showed me every inch of that city. I loved that…the way she would walk and weave around that town. Planning our days. We did it all. She bought me my first little camera and we took pictures in front of every monument and museum. At night we would stay up very late eating ice cream, drinking Pepsi and watching M.A.S.H. We took long walks around the block and talked about people’s front yards and flowers. She would help me look for the toads in her backyard that I deemed my friends. She had a fabulous patio with big comfy cushions that we would lay on out in the shade under the breeze of the huge trees that filled the yard.
Eventually, I would make my way to my other grandmother’s home for another “vacation”. We would stay up so late, talking, eating nachos, playing cards and listening to music. During the days, she would sit poolside at her neighbor’s home while I would swim for hours. We would sit outside in the backyard at the picnic table under the huge tree and have lunches. We would go down to the pier and crab, drive in the evenings to get enormous hot fudge sundaes, play bingo at the local hall and spend an hour or two taking an afternoon nap… Life was very full and busy in a simplistic and wonderfully lazy way. We planned our days.
As I got a bit older, summertime still meant sleeping in and staying up late. It still meant filling the days with all those summertime things. Eventually we got an in ground pool in our backyard and that was awesome. Mom spent days canning from her harvest in the garden. I can still smell those tomatoes being skinned. Mom took us to the orchard to pick fresh peaches and there was nothing sweeter than those right off of the tree. Grandmommy would take me to the beach and planned fabulous family crab feasts. Grandma took me to the theater and planned yummy family cookouts. Granddaddy had his sailboats and would scrub them preparing for our daytrips where he served us his packed lunches on the Chesapeake. Though the “plans” became greater, the simplicity of the time was still the greatest.
Soon enough, summer would be filled with teenage things, like dating and Downtown Annapolis evening trips for ice cream and walking the docks. Sitting on the sea wall and planning our lives. Part-time jobs would be held and bussing tables or taking pizza orders filled partial days. Day trips to the beach with friends, washing cars and sleepovers while watching hours of MTV. Cheerleading camps and dance camps occupied Grandmother visits.
I remember the first time I realized I had reached “adult” summertime. Working 9-5 – realizing that my days had been filled for me. It felt horrible. I longed for those younger times. Those days that I knew I had 3 months of pure fun coming my way. Escape from the ritual of schedule was over. Unless I had accrued enough vacation time, I would not be anywhere anymore except at my desk. My grandfathers passed away and my grandmothers aged. We would talk about those summers and what they had meant to each of us. The magic they cast. The bond they had formed for us.
Once I had my children, I was thrilled to return to the summertime of my childhood. I quickly introduced them to the lightning bug jars, plastic pools, popsicles, watermelon, Sparklers, and hours of swinging in the backyard. I returned to local orchards to pick fresh fruit and taught myself how to make peach butter and strawberry jam. We would make beach trips, fishing trips and returned for crabbing expeditions on Grandmommy’s pier. We would take the metro into D.C. to see the Washington Monument, have a picnic and throw a Frisbee around. I wanted to share the magic of summertime.
Soon my children were each taking their own individual trips to my mother’s house and creating their own memories. Games of Wiffle ball, trips to the park, walks to the ice cream store, swinging on the porch swing, playing Rummy, buying plastic golf sets and other silly summertime toys, taking walks around the block with their grandmother and planning their days. Forming their bond, casting their magic.
Suddenly, the kids grew older. My grandmothers passed away. Our summers became filled with camps or sports for the kids. They planned their days. Wrestling camps, dance camps, cheerleading camps, Vacation Bible School camp, Lacrosse camps, football camps…if they had a camp for it, they wanted to sign up! Schools got out later. Schools started earlier. Spring sports were played into July. Fall sports began in July. We started searching our calendars to squeeze in when we could take a week to go on vacation, let alone make trips to stay with their grandmothers. No magic.
Today as I put my third son who is nearly 12, on a bus for a camp – I felt sad. Not just because he was going away alone for a few days – but because it was another chunk of time that is gone from our summertime. And each of the kids will want to attend a camp – thus another chunk, and another chunk and another chunk.
What I loved about summer had nothing to do with camps. My memories were of time spent with loved ones, who shared themselves with me doing simple tasks but creating such vibrant happy lifelong memories. I don’t long to return to the cheerleading camp that I went to in high school. I don’t long to return to the2 week dance camp I attended. What I long for is a late summer evening to play cards with Grandmommy and Granddaddy or watch M.A.S.H. with Grandma curled up on the couch. I don’t long for the 4-H club camp when I made a Popsicle birdhouse. I would give anything to be on Grandma’s patio on the big cushy chaise lounge having a Pepsi or at the picnic table in Grandmommy’s backyard spitting our watermelon seeds on the ground.
I am going to try to fill my summer doing those things with my family. Instead of squeezing them into our camp schedule – those things have to come first. Summertime shouldn’t be about filling their time with busy organized activity. It should be in finding the time to relax and helping them appreciate their youth because truthfully they are too young to understand – so it is my job to help them - Finding animals in the clouds, playing a game of backyard Wiffle ball, crabbing with chicken necks on the dock or playing Rummy on the patio in the evening while nursing homemade root beer floats. Soon enough they are going to realize that they haven’t accrued enough time to take a week off for vacation. I think tomorrow I’m going to buy a Badminton set…
Friday, June 18, 2010
It's all in the details...
“Mommy, turn on the weather channel! Please! Please! Please!”
My youngest and only daughter would yell this throughout the day when she was a mere 2 years old. I remember thinking it was strange. I didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on it as she was the youngest of four and the three older children were boys ages 8, 6 and 4 that I was homeschooling. So truthfully, anything that made her happy and quiet for me to teach math was unquestioned and welcomed. She would watch that weather channel and flit around the room…
My eldest son builds things. He has been building and inventing things since he was just a babe. Cloth blocks became Bristle blocks. Bristle blocks became wooden blocks. Wooden blocks became Mega blocks. Mega blocks became Legos. Legos were accumulated at a phenomenal rate. Bins and bins of legos. I mean multiple, LARGE storage bins overflowing with legos…not boxes, not directions…just millions upon millions of tiny little pieces of legos. I would find a piece on the floor and proceed to just throw it in the garbage – after all we are housing millions of these things. But he always caught me and knew exactly which piece that was and what the plan for it was going to be…
My youngest son has always been my observer. I remember carrying him around on my hip even after my last baby was born. He wanted to see. He wanted to watch everything I did. He didn’t say much. Just watched. His head was on a constant swivel – never missing anything. He observed all that was done around him and learned. He was patient. Patient in a ridiculous way that a 2 year old should just not be. Not much to say though. One day he asked to go out and shoot baskets on the basketball hoop in the driveway. He was a little over 2. He did not want the pole lowered. He kept it at regulation height (and he knew what that meant.) I watched him out there (from inside the house, hiding behind the curtains) alone for 3 and a half hours. He shot ball after ball, aiming patiently for the hoop. Quietly, observing his surroundings – taking it all in. Watching the ball. Watching the hoop. During that time, he put that ball through the hoop one time...
My second son began walking at 8 months old. The goose eggs on his head were frightening. He asked for his training wheels to be removed when he was 2. The first time he got on it, he rode around and around the court like he had been doing it for years. When he was 3, he decided he was going to surf. This idea became a part of who he was. I remember getting him a boogie board when he was 4. When we showed him how to hold it and ride, he threw a tantrum. He wanted to stand on it. When he was five, he had a surfing themed birthday party. That’s when he got his Indo Board. He practiced on that Indo Board for years. Eventually he picked up skateboarding. Same premise I suppose. He subscribed to Surfing magazine and talked of moving to Hawaii…
I later realized that my daughter loved the instrumental music on the Weather Channel. It inspired her. It made her want to dance in ways unlike the music videos or contemporary music. She has since grown into a lovely ballerina with her heart set on dancing with a professional ballet company one day. She is driven in a way that I could not have developed and sometimes do not even understand. This is her passion and obviously what she feels meant to do.
My eldest son went to an open house for a new high school that we were contemplating. The door opened into an amazing room. The Robotics lab. I saw his eyes. It was something that all of the suggestions that I had made through his life for sports, tiger cubs, or Christian Service Brigade would never bring to him. He joined the Robotics team this year. Built a phenomenal robot and headed off to the World Championships. Of course he did. At 2 years old, it was obvious. “Mommy, wook at what I beeult…” the words rang in my ears…
My third son is an all round athlete. Is the most outstanding player on any specific team? No. But he is the most tenacious athlete with every sport – football, wrestling, lacrosse. He has played organized sports for 8 years now and has never had a coach that didn’t approach us and tell us what a dream he was to coach. His focus is unmatched. His heart for the sport is apparent. We also call him “The Reporter”. He is aware at all times of the circumstances of every one of us around him. He is still a guy of few words – but acutely aware of all of our emotions – our likes and dislikes – our hurt or happiness. He observes all of us and makes sure to report to the rest of us what we may be too busy in our lives to be noticing. I count on him for that. He is observant in a very blessed manner. I can’t wait to see what he does with that…
My second son has saved his money and purchased his first surfboard at the age of 14. His life has been filled with numerous activities and he certainly has not grown up knowing anyone who leads the surfer life. Yet he has always felt called to this. We’ve encouraged many other things…and he has participated in those things and even excelled in fabulous ways with some. But somewhere inside of him the longing to surf held fast. We recently took him to the beach for his first excursion with his board. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. He repeatedly asked me if I had brought the camera. He wanted pictures of him surfing. So with a zip of a wetsuit and the Velcro leashed to his ankle he was off. To my astonishment, he caught wave after wave, standing immediately, weaving and riding to the shoreline. I watched in amazement while he did this for 4 consecutive hours. It was then that it all hit me.
When my children were born – they were already wired with their passions. But their passions were evident from a very early age. I didn’t realize these things until later when I could look back and remember those sweet toddler moments and then made the connection. If I could go back to each of them and look in their 2 year old eyes when she pleaded for the Weather Channel during my favorite television show, or when he cried to be carried on my hip while watching me cook in the kitchen when I was so busy preparing for that dinner party, or when the latest creation was being rushed to me for my approval and in my haste to finish the laundry I replied with a generic “MMhmm”, or the day that he had the tantrum because he wanted to stand on a boogie board and I fussed at him for not obeying and threatened to take him home.
I missed it. I could point them in 100 directions. Make 1,000 suggestions. Sign them up for every idea I had. Register them for all the things that I thought they should try. Things I liked. Things my husband was interested in. Things we had both done. But if I had been still long enough – I would have seen that I was being given foresight into their futures, who they would become, their passions, and their destinies. I was being given the opportunity to share their anticipation… A chance to catch a glimpse of who they were going to be without my suggestions. But I didn’t get it back then. I’ve learned a lesson – pay attention. Pay careful attention to the details when they are little, because what I considered details- they considered main ideas.
My youngest and only daughter would yell this throughout the day when she was a mere 2 years old. I remember thinking it was strange. I didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on it as she was the youngest of four and the three older children were boys ages 8, 6 and 4 that I was homeschooling. So truthfully, anything that made her happy and quiet for me to teach math was unquestioned and welcomed. She would watch that weather channel and flit around the room…
My eldest son builds things. He has been building and inventing things since he was just a babe. Cloth blocks became Bristle blocks. Bristle blocks became wooden blocks. Wooden blocks became Mega blocks. Mega blocks became Legos. Legos were accumulated at a phenomenal rate. Bins and bins of legos. I mean multiple, LARGE storage bins overflowing with legos…not boxes, not directions…just millions upon millions of tiny little pieces of legos. I would find a piece on the floor and proceed to just throw it in the garbage – after all we are housing millions of these things. But he always caught me and knew exactly which piece that was and what the plan for it was going to be…
My youngest son has always been my observer. I remember carrying him around on my hip even after my last baby was born. He wanted to see. He wanted to watch everything I did. He didn’t say much. Just watched. His head was on a constant swivel – never missing anything. He observed all that was done around him and learned. He was patient. Patient in a ridiculous way that a 2 year old should just not be. Not much to say though. One day he asked to go out and shoot baskets on the basketball hoop in the driveway. He was a little over 2. He did not want the pole lowered. He kept it at regulation height (and he knew what that meant.) I watched him out there (from inside the house, hiding behind the curtains) alone for 3 and a half hours. He shot ball after ball, aiming patiently for the hoop. Quietly, observing his surroundings – taking it all in. Watching the ball. Watching the hoop. During that time, he put that ball through the hoop one time...
My second son began walking at 8 months old. The goose eggs on his head were frightening. He asked for his training wheels to be removed when he was 2. The first time he got on it, he rode around and around the court like he had been doing it for years. When he was 3, he decided he was going to surf. This idea became a part of who he was. I remember getting him a boogie board when he was 4. When we showed him how to hold it and ride, he threw a tantrum. He wanted to stand on it. When he was five, he had a surfing themed birthday party. That’s when he got his Indo Board. He practiced on that Indo Board for years. Eventually he picked up skateboarding. Same premise I suppose. He subscribed to Surfing magazine and talked of moving to Hawaii…
I later realized that my daughter loved the instrumental music on the Weather Channel. It inspired her. It made her want to dance in ways unlike the music videos or contemporary music. She has since grown into a lovely ballerina with her heart set on dancing with a professional ballet company one day. She is driven in a way that I could not have developed and sometimes do not even understand. This is her passion and obviously what she feels meant to do.
My eldest son went to an open house for a new high school that we were contemplating. The door opened into an amazing room. The Robotics lab. I saw his eyes. It was something that all of the suggestions that I had made through his life for sports, tiger cubs, or Christian Service Brigade would never bring to him. He joined the Robotics team this year. Built a phenomenal robot and headed off to the World Championships. Of course he did. At 2 years old, it was obvious. “Mommy, wook at what I beeult…” the words rang in my ears…
My third son is an all round athlete. Is the most outstanding player on any specific team? No. But he is the most tenacious athlete with every sport – football, wrestling, lacrosse. He has played organized sports for 8 years now and has never had a coach that didn’t approach us and tell us what a dream he was to coach. His focus is unmatched. His heart for the sport is apparent. We also call him “The Reporter”. He is aware at all times of the circumstances of every one of us around him. He is still a guy of few words – but acutely aware of all of our emotions – our likes and dislikes – our hurt or happiness. He observes all of us and makes sure to report to the rest of us what we may be too busy in our lives to be noticing. I count on him for that. He is observant in a very blessed manner. I can’t wait to see what he does with that…
My second son has saved his money and purchased his first surfboard at the age of 14. His life has been filled with numerous activities and he certainly has not grown up knowing anyone who leads the surfer life. Yet he has always felt called to this. We’ve encouraged many other things…and he has participated in those things and even excelled in fabulous ways with some. But somewhere inside of him the longing to surf held fast. We recently took him to the beach for his first excursion with his board. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. He repeatedly asked me if I had brought the camera. He wanted pictures of him surfing. So with a zip of a wetsuit and the Velcro leashed to his ankle he was off. To my astonishment, he caught wave after wave, standing immediately, weaving and riding to the shoreline. I watched in amazement while he did this for 4 consecutive hours. It was then that it all hit me.
When my children were born – they were already wired with their passions. But their passions were evident from a very early age. I didn’t realize these things until later when I could look back and remember those sweet toddler moments and then made the connection. If I could go back to each of them and look in their 2 year old eyes when she pleaded for the Weather Channel during my favorite television show, or when he cried to be carried on my hip while watching me cook in the kitchen when I was so busy preparing for that dinner party, or when the latest creation was being rushed to me for my approval and in my haste to finish the laundry I replied with a generic “MMhmm”, or the day that he had the tantrum because he wanted to stand on a boogie board and I fussed at him for not obeying and threatened to take him home.
I missed it. I could point them in 100 directions. Make 1,000 suggestions. Sign them up for every idea I had. Register them for all the things that I thought they should try. Things I liked. Things my husband was interested in. Things we had both done. But if I had been still long enough – I would have seen that I was being given foresight into their futures, who they would become, their passions, and their destinies. I was being given the opportunity to share their anticipation… A chance to catch a glimpse of who they were going to be without my suggestions. But I didn’t get it back then. I’ve learned a lesson – pay attention. Pay careful attention to the details when they are little, because what I considered details- they considered main ideas.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Success or Failure?
When I decided to home school my children, it was a painstaking decision process for me. I weighed the pros and the cons of the situation. I prayed about it. I polled my friends. I spent countless hours hung in that horrible ambivalence and indecision. I wanted someone to tell me that I was doing the right thing and that everything was going to be okay. But truthfully when I made the decision, I knew I had taken a huge leap of faith, but I worried they wouldn’t be successful. That I wouldn't be successful...
The first year my oldest was in 4th grade, the next in 2nd grade, the third in Kindergarten and the youngest in a preschool curriculum. I did my best to be as organized as possible and we formed a true classroom in our home. The room above our family room was an open loft. The neighbor across the street had given us a full size classroom chalkboard. We bought school desks and chairs from a school manufacturer. Bookshelves, bulletins boards, all kinds of colorful grammar and science posters filled the room. We were visibly ready for sure. I took things very seriously and we all pushed ourselves academically. We were ready to succeed, afraid to fail...
The kids juggled seats. I juggled hats. We made it work and we had so much fun. We took great vacations and filled our lives with piano lessons, art classes, science projects and field trips. It was so refreshing and exciting. The kids were learning. In fact, they excelled beyond what the curriculum called for and I saw each of my children thriving in a fabulous environment. But due to my own insecurity, I held fast to many boundaries out of fear that I would fail my children otherwise.
The one thing that I made sure that they stuck vehemently to was that they worked independently most of the time. I would go over the instructions with them but then turned them loose. For the most part, I could trust them to work diligently and to their greatest potential. I prided myself on the fact that I was instilling the love of learning. But I checked their work every day. We went over mistakes. They had deadlines. They knew when work was due. They knew clearly what my expectations were and that it was their job to meet those expectations. There were daily chores. There were rules. Lots of them. There were no short cuts. I wanted success for all of us!
Once the two oldest reached the 8th and 6th grade levels, I no longer saw that diligence in them. Our power struggles began. The lesson manuals were written to the students at this point and not the teacher. At this age and level, the students were expected to work on their own for the most part and get help as necessary from their learning guide. We had homeschooled for 4 years as of then and I was ready for them to take the wheel especially since the younger two required more one on one teaching. They were easily distracted and schoolwork was being done complacently. I sadly realized that this was evolving into a teen situation. I worried we had reached the end of the line because I didn’t trust my ability to continue with their attitudes. I threatened them with returning to school if I didn't feel like they were improving. Secretly, I hoped they would not take it that far. If I had to send them back, wouldn't it mean that I had failed?
I had always believed that independence, responsibility and accountability were the most important things I wanted them to accomplish in their education process at home. When I felt that this was no longer an increasingly positive situation, I hesitantly decided to send them to our local public school. It broke my heart. I thought that being home with me was detrimental to their education at that point. Besides, I had threatened them with a consequence regarding their lack of motivation. I felt that I would be failing as a parent to keep them home. I believed I had to follow through on that consequence in order for them to succeed.
When they tested for their placement, they scored on very advanced levels and I felt proud. I was so relieved that the homeschooling had been successful academically and not just socially. I felt justified. (It is funny that everyone always questions the social aspect of homeschooling. That was the least of my concerns. We were so active and busy I knew that was not an issue.) But secretly I always worried that the schools were ahead of my home schooling education standards. Mostly due to the fact that, to hear the other mothers talk, all of their children were clearly headed to MIT very shortly. They talked about Algebra in 6th grade, Honors level classes and all sorts of standardized test scores. I had not done standardized testing with my children. I hadn’t felt it necessary in the grand scheme. It was clear to me they were intelligent beings; I didn’t need a number to tell me that. Obviously we had been successful and I could, in good conscience continue to school the younger two at home.
Roughly 2 weeks into the 8th grade, my eldest son came home from school. He bounded through the door yelling at me. “Well, I just want you to know that it is official! My education has come to a complete standstill. Thank you very much for sending me to school. I am bored out of my mind.” Additionally, he talked of the things the kids were doing in school. We had a very open and honest relationship and he was forthcoming with many stories. We counseled them to the best of our ability but were shocked by the mounting consequences of sending them to school. I was beside myself. I was perplexed. Again I was filled with doubt. I couldn’t make the right decision to save my life. Didn't returning them to school on an advanced level mean that we had been successful? Or did sending them to a morally corrupt situation mean that we were failing to do the right thing?
It wasn’t too much longer after that, I was easily convinced that I had made the wrong choice in returning my kids to public schooling. Every day another incident would confirm that I made a mistake. Yet, I never took them out of the school. I told myself that this was LIFE and they needed to get along in the world and figure things out. I convinced myself that my 11 and 13 year old children needed to tough it out and find their way in order to be successful. I told myself that this was my fault because I had brought them home and protected them too much and that was my failure. But in the back of my mind there was a small nagging voice telling me I needed to bring them home. I ignored it. I ignored it for weeks that became months and for my 11 year old, months that became years. I believed that voice was something too motherly trying to protect them from the reality of the world that would smother them in an unhealthy manner. Yet I continued to home school the younger two – knowing that there wasn’t a chance I’d let them set a foot in the school. I thought, "I may have failed the older two, but I will succeed with the younger two."
I still waited for the two oldest to become more independent. I waited for the responsibility to kick in. The accountability. After all, I sent them back to school because I had believed I was failing in that department with them and looked to the organized, educational establishment to help them succeed. Certainly, the strict rules and regulations of public school and the confinement of their teachers classrooms’ would eventually provide some sort of structure enough that my children would respect the consequences of underachievement and become hardworking students. But it just didn’t happen.
In addition to the fact that I have 4 children, 2 dogs, 1 cat and a guinea pig, I do not have the time, let alone the interest, in being a helicopter parent. “Did you do your homework?” “Let me see it.” “I’ll check it.” “Project?” “I’ll help!” Blah. Blah. Blah. When I was in school, I felt responsible for my own work and grades. Mom and Dad would ask occasionally, “…Do your homework?” and naturally I had. If not, my plans to do them were not far off. I didn’t feel like I had to do it because I would get in trouble. I just knew it was my job and truthfully it was important to me to do the work and to do well in school. I didn’t want to be confronted by my teachers. I didn’t want to disappoint any teacher that believed in my ability to be successful. I knew my teachers would ask. They would follow up. It was important to me that I appeared to be a "good student". After all, they were forming a reputation of sorts about me weren't they?Now there were countless times I procrastinated and upon reflection of my education, I most certainly did not work up to my potential. If I had, the grades would have been different for sure. But, I was happy with casual A’s and B’s with the occasional C because I chose not to get help. Besides I didn’t have to kill myself to do the work and I was making honor roll. I was succeeding.
So, I would not hover over my children with their schoolwork. I had taught them at home for years. I knew their potential. They needed to find their own way. I talked with my pastor. He agreed. He even equated it to them finding their own faith. They needed to find their own way. You teach them your beliefs and them it is up to them to make their way. My father always said, "You teach your kids right and wrong. But you can't be with them every minute of the day. When they are apart from you, they will make their own decisions and they are their decisions to make." They needed to make their own mistakes. Isn’t that why I sent them back in the first place? For goodness sakes, I could have them home watching every move they made and checking every grammar error and math problem while still taking fabulous vacations off season for much lower costs! Following that school schedule was a pain - homeschooling would have certainly been easier. But I believed formal schooling would require them to comply with steps for success or the consequences for failure in a way that home schooling could not.
Interestingly, I found school policies are different now. This meant that the values that I had hoped to instill were going to be conflicted. My children could take a test or quiz over if they didn’t do very well the first time. This made me unhappy. Why work hard to study the first time – knowing you had the opportunity to take it a 2nd time? After all, then you’ve seen the test and know exactly what to study for. Seemed like a no-brainer to me. I had never permitted my children to retake a test while homeschooling. They knew they had a test in every subject, every 20 lessons. They knew they needed to prepare accordingly. If they didn't - then they received the grade they had earned.
Group projects were something we became quickly acquainted with. Group projects require parental supervision and planning. Parents need to coordinate schedules, driving, supplies and supervision. I can’t tell you how many group projects were done at my house during those 3 years. Whoever thinks that you are going to get five 12-13 year old boys to sit down and work diligently on a project is clearly out of their mind. I would hear my son (or some others) begging for the others to cooperate and be serious. The clock would tick and very little would be accomplished. How much does a parent intervene? These aren’t my kids. This isn’t my project. Yet I would have to make sure that something is being accomplished on my watch, right? Who is responsible and accountable here? Oh that’s right, I am. Obviously, I am not a fan of the so-called “group project”. Basically, 1 or 2 kids do the work and the rest ride the coat tails of the others. They are a joke, yet used so frequently in our school systems. Why? Why should those that should fail, get to succeed because someone else was responsible?
Next, the ability for children to email schoolwork to their teachers is a ridiculous concept. I also feel that giving children the opportunity to turn things into some “inbox” at random times is unacceptable. The papers should be turned into the teacher on their desk and placed in their hands. Networks have problems. Computers have viruses. Papers get lost and misplaced. Besides, it is easy not to turn something in when the teacher is just going to look for it days later. Teachers and students need to look into each other’s eyes as a paper or assignment is turned in. Accountability. Responsibility. But that’s okay… The student will have numerous opportunities to turn in the same assignment that was due weeks ago. What does that teach about deadlines?
Additionally schools have begun to post all of the assignments and grades. Sometimes the teachers also send emails home to the parents notifying them each time their child didn’t complete something or turn it in. Hmmm. So that means, as a parent, I am expected to then say what to my child? Did you do your assignment? Why didn’t you turn it in? When did their failure become my responsibility? If he didn't do it, give him a failing grade. After all isn't that what he really deserves? When those failures add up to a bad report card, then I am responsible to provide the consequence - grounding, cell phone removal...whatever might say to my child, I expect more from you. But if I am constantly notified of every little assignment, I might as well be homeschooling those kids again. Give me a break. How about that teacher looking at my child and asking HIM what happened? How about forcing my child to be accountable to that teacher? How about my child having to explain to “his boss” why he didn’t do his job appropriately that day? Because when I ask him, he is going to give me all the excuses in the world and then am I supposed to sit over top of him and watch him do the work? WHY? I went to school. I did my work. This is about him, not me. And by the way, when I don’t show up prepared to do my job each day – I don’t get paid…in fact eventually I’ll be fired. No one is calling my mother or father. Let the consequences fall on the kids. The first time the due date is missed. Give the failing grade. That is real life.
Now don’t get me wrong. My kids have learned all sorts of things in school. Things they definitely wouldn’t have learned from me. I wouldn’t have taught them such clever ways to put down people. I wouldn’t have taught them how to cheat. I wouldn’t have had them repeat swear words after me. I wouldn’t have taught them how to befriend certain people to be kind to and to ostracize others. I wouldn’t have taught my children how important it is to be popular. I wouldn’t have taught my children different ways to get away with sex, drugs and alcohol. Now I understand these things are all a part of adolescence. But that wasn’t my reason for sending my kids to school. Academically we were in excellent standing. Remember I sent my kids to learn that in the world we need to be accountable and responsible for our own actions because there are consequences. Yet my kids didn't learn that. They learned that exceptions will be made repeatedly to help you succeed.
Interestingly enough, it is the first day of summer vacation and school is officially out. Today a teacher has called me to ask me if my son has turned in his research paper that was due 1 week ago. I sat on the phone reciting the banter between the two, thinking of the ridiculousness of it all. Why was I getting this phone call? What was going on? If he didn't do the assignment - give him the zero. This is actually what prompted me to write this blog today. I have been over and over this in my mind. Does he actually think that this is normal? If he was supposed to be there for the SATs on Saturday morning and he "forgets", is he expecting someone to offer for him to come on Sunday to take it alone?
Schools will tell you that this is a problem with the parents. .. that every parent wants Little Johnny to get an A because it isn’t “fair” otherwise. Parents will tell you that the schools are failing their children because they don’t have enough special attention or programs. When parents think their kids are an exception to a rule, why bother having a rule? When will parents get over the honors classes and the gifted programs? When will this generation of parents, refuse to “do” that science project? (When was the last time you looked at those science projects at the fair? Don't even tell me those children are doing those alone!)
I think the problem here is that parents see their child’s success or failure as their own? Little Johnny’s accomplishments are not to be worn as badges by the parents. No more than Little Johnny’s mistakes are reflections upon the parents. Little Johnny’s talents do not belong to mom or dad. Little Johnny’s grades do not belong to mom or dad. Little Johnny has to know that he only gets out of life what he puts into it – not what his mom or dad help him achieve. If Little Johnny wants to play on the Select Sports Team, he should because Little Johnny worked hard and deserves it, not because Little Johnny’s mom or dad called someone and complained or because Little Johnny’s dad is coaching. This generation has turned the schools into somewhere for their kids to swing the bat, miss 17 times and never be called out. This generation stopped giving trophies to the winners and starting giving trophies for participation. "Why work hard? We're all going to get a trophy with our name on it just because we showed up."
I’m sad to think that this generation of kids has so many “chances”. I‘m scared to think what kind of adults they will grow to be. I’m worried that we have made impressive test scores, select sport teams, etc. so important that we’ve lowered the bar to achieve them, rather than our children receiving impressive test scores and grades because of their own accountability and responsibility. In an effort for every child to be gifted and talented in everything they do in an extremely competitive world, no one is special anymore. Those that really do deserve acknowledgment for God given talents or just plain hard work are lumped with those that complain the loudest. These kids will grow up run companies, hold political offices, and more importantly raise their own children with those warped values that we allowed our society to implement.
I am looking for success for my child, so I will let them feel Failure. They need to feel how lousy it is – otherwise what motivation do they have to want to feel Success? But most importantly, I have already walked this walk – my childhood is over…when I became a parent, it was no longer about me…it is about them. I will let them be accountable and responsible for their own life’s journey. Maybe my child has a purpose that will change the world… I wouldn’t want to stand in the way because of interference on my part! I continue to home school my younger two children. They have never been in a formal school setting. It has been 8 years now. I still have moments that I worry about whether we are keeping up with what they would be doing in “real” school. I go to the Board of Education and I receive a review that tells me whether I am in compliance. That is how I am judging my own success. But in the end, I know that my kids know what I expect from them. I expect them to succeed and I expect them to fail. Both are necessary in growing up. Both are completely survivable. They have to be. That’s LIFE.
The first year my oldest was in 4th grade, the next in 2nd grade, the third in Kindergarten and the youngest in a preschool curriculum. I did my best to be as organized as possible and we formed a true classroom in our home. The room above our family room was an open loft. The neighbor across the street had given us a full size classroom chalkboard. We bought school desks and chairs from a school manufacturer. Bookshelves, bulletins boards, all kinds of colorful grammar and science posters filled the room. We were visibly ready for sure. I took things very seriously and we all pushed ourselves academically. We were ready to succeed, afraid to fail...
The kids juggled seats. I juggled hats. We made it work and we had so much fun. We took great vacations and filled our lives with piano lessons, art classes, science projects and field trips. It was so refreshing and exciting. The kids were learning. In fact, they excelled beyond what the curriculum called for and I saw each of my children thriving in a fabulous environment. But due to my own insecurity, I held fast to many boundaries out of fear that I would fail my children otherwise.
The one thing that I made sure that they stuck vehemently to was that they worked independently most of the time. I would go over the instructions with them but then turned them loose. For the most part, I could trust them to work diligently and to their greatest potential. I prided myself on the fact that I was instilling the love of learning. But I checked their work every day. We went over mistakes. They had deadlines. They knew when work was due. They knew clearly what my expectations were and that it was their job to meet those expectations. There were daily chores. There were rules. Lots of them. There were no short cuts. I wanted success for all of us!
Once the two oldest reached the 8th and 6th grade levels, I no longer saw that diligence in them. Our power struggles began. The lesson manuals were written to the students at this point and not the teacher. At this age and level, the students were expected to work on their own for the most part and get help as necessary from their learning guide. We had homeschooled for 4 years as of then and I was ready for them to take the wheel especially since the younger two required more one on one teaching. They were easily distracted and schoolwork was being done complacently. I sadly realized that this was evolving into a teen situation. I worried we had reached the end of the line because I didn’t trust my ability to continue with their attitudes. I threatened them with returning to school if I didn't feel like they were improving. Secretly, I hoped they would not take it that far. If I had to send them back, wouldn't it mean that I had failed?
I had always believed that independence, responsibility and accountability were the most important things I wanted them to accomplish in their education process at home. When I felt that this was no longer an increasingly positive situation, I hesitantly decided to send them to our local public school. It broke my heart. I thought that being home with me was detrimental to their education at that point. Besides, I had threatened them with a consequence regarding their lack of motivation. I felt that I would be failing as a parent to keep them home. I believed I had to follow through on that consequence in order for them to succeed.
When they tested for their placement, they scored on very advanced levels and I felt proud. I was so relieved that the homeschooling had been successful academically and not just socially. I felt justified. (It is funny that everyone always questions the social aspect of homeschooling. That was the least of my concerns. We were so active and busy I knew that was not an issue.) But secretly I always worried that the schools were ahead of my home schooling education standards. Mostly due to the fact that, to hear the other mothers talk, all of their children were clearly headed to MIT very shortly. They talked about Algebra in 6th grade, Honors level classes and all sorts of standardized test scores. I had not done standardized testing with my children. I hadn’t felt it necessary in the grand scheme. It was clear to me they were intelligent beings; I didn’t need a number to tell me that. Obviously we had been successful and I could, in good conscience continue to school the younger two at home.
Roughly 2 weeks into the 8th grade, my eldest son came home from school. He bounded through the door yelling at me. “Well, I just want you to know that it is official! My education has come to a complete standstill. Thank you very much for sending me to school. I am bored out of my mind.” Additionally, he talked of the things the kids were doing in school. We had a very open and honest relationship and he was forthcoming with many stories. We counseled them to the best of our ability but were shocked by the mounting consequences of sending them to school. I was beside myself. I was perplexed. Again I was filled with doubt. I couldn’t make the right decision to save my life. Didn't returning them to school on an advanced level mean that we had been successful? Or did sending them to a morally corrupt situation mean that we were failing to do the right thing?
It wasn’t too much longer after that, I was easily convinced that I had made the wrong choice in returning my kids to public schooling. Every day another incident would confirm that I made a mistake. Yet, I never took them out of the school. I told myself that this was LIFE and they needed to get along in the world and figure things out. I convinced myself that my 11 and 13 year old children needed to tough it out and find their way in order to be successful. I told myself that this was my fault because I had brought them home and protected them too much and that was my failure. But in the back of my mind there was a small nagging voice telling me I needed to bring them home. I ignored it. I ignored it for weeks that became months and for my 11 year old, months that became years. I believed that voice was something too motherly trying to protect them from the reality of the world that would smother them in an unhealthy manner. Yet I continued to home school the younger two – knowing that there wasn’t a chance I’d let them set a foot in the school. I thought, "I may have failed the older two, but I will succeed with the younger two."
I still waited for the two oldest to become more independent. I waited for the responsibility to kick in. The accountability. After all, I sent them back to school because I had believed I was failing in that department with them and looked to the organized, educational establishment to help them succeed. Certainly, the strict rules and regulations of public school and the confinement of their teachers classrooms’ would eventually provide some sort of structure enough that my children would respect the consequences of underachievement and become hardworking students. But it just didn’t happen.
In addition to the fact that I have 4 children, 2 dogs, 1 cat and a guinea pig, I do not have the time, let alone the interest, in being a helicopter parent. “Did you do your homework?” “Let me see it.” “I’ll check it.” “Project?” “I’ll help!” Blah. Blah. Blah. When I was in school, I felt responsible for my own work and grades. Mom and Dad would ask occasionally, “…Do your homework?” and naturally I had. If not, my plans to do them were not far off. I didn’t feel like I had to do it because I would get in trouble. I just knew it was my job and truthfully it was important to me to do the work and to do well in school. I didn’t want to be confronted by my teachers. I didn’t want to disappoint any teacher that believed in my ability to be successful. I knew my teachers would ask. They would follow up. It was important to me that I appeared to be a "good student". After all, they were forming a reputation of sorts about me weren't they?Now there were countless times I procrastinated and upon reflection of my education, I most certainly did not work up to my potential. If I had, the grades would have been different for sure. But, I was happy with casual A’s and B’s with the occasional C because I chose not to get help. Besides I didn’t have to kill myself to do the work and I was making honor roll. I was succeeding.
So, I would not hover over my children with their schoolwork. I had taught them at home for years. I knew their potential. They needed to find their own way. I talked with my pastor. He agreed. He even equated it to them finding their own faith. They needed to find their own way. You teach them your beliefs and them it is up to them to make their way. My father always said, "You teach your kids right and wrong. But you can't be with them every minute of the day. When they are apart from you, they will make their own decisions and they are their decisions to make." They needed to make their own mistakes. Isn’t that why I sent them back in the first place? For goodness sakes, I could have them home watching every move they made and checking every grammar error and math problem while still taking fabulous vacations off season for much lower costs! Following that school schedule was a pain - homeschooling would have certainly been easier. But I believed formal schooling would require them to comply with steps for success or the consequences for failure in a way that home schooling could not.
Interestingly, I found school policies are different now. This meant that the values that I had hoped to instill were going to be conflicted. My children could take a test or quiz over if they didn’t do very well the first time. This made me unhappy. Why work hard to study the first time – knowing you had the opportunity to take it a 2nd time? After all, then you’ve seen the test and know exactly what to study for. Seemed like a no-brainer to me. I had never permitted my children to retake a test while homeschooling. They knew they had a test in every subject, every 20 lessons. They knew they needed to prepare accordingly. If they didn't - then they received the grade they had earned.
Group projects were something we became quickly acquainted with. Group projects require parental supervision and planning. Parents need to coordinate schedules, driving, supplies and supervision. I can’t tell you how many group projects were done at my house during those 3 years. Whoever thinks that you are going to get five 12-13 year old boys to sit down and work diligently on a project is clearly out of their mind. I would hear my son (or some others) begging for the others to cooperate and be serious. The clock would tick and very little would be accomplished. How much does a parent intervene? These aren’t my kids. This isn’t my project. Yet I would have to make sure that something is being accomplished on my watch, right? Who is responsible and accountable here? Oh that’s right, I am. Obviously, I am not a fan of the so-called “group project”. Basically, 1 or 2 kids do the work and the rest ride the coat tails of the others. They are a joke, yet used so frequently in our school systems. Why? Why should those that should fail, get to succeed because someone else was responsible?
Next, the ability for children to email schoolwork to their teachers is a ridiculous concept. I also feel that giving children the opportunity to turn things into some “inbox” at random times is unacceptable. The papers should be turned into the teacher on their desk and placed in their hands. Networks have problems. Computers have viruses. Papers get lost and misplaced. Besides, it is easy not to turn something in when the teacher is just going to look for it days later. Teachers and students need to look into each other’s eyes as a paper or assignment is turned in. Accountability. Responsibility. But that’s okay… The student will have numerous opportunities to turn in the same assignment that was due weeks ago. What does that teach about deadlines?
Additionally schools have begun to post all of the assignments and grades. Sometimes the teachers also send emails home to the parents notifying them each time their child didn’t complete something or turn it in. Hmmm. So that means, as a parent, I am expected to then say what to my child? Did you do your assignment? Why didn’t you turn it in? When did their failure become my responsibility? If he didn't do it, give him a failing grade. After all isn't that what he really deserves? When those failures add up to a bad report card, then I am responsible to provide the consequence - grounding, cell phone removal...whatever might say to my child, I expect more from you. But if I am constantly notified of every little assignment, I might as well be homeschooling those kids again. Give me a break. How about that teacher looking at my child and asking HIM what happened? How about forcing my child to be accountable to that teacher? How about my child having to explain to “his boss” why he didn’t do his job appropriately that day? Because when I ask him, he is going to give me all the excuses in the world and then am I supposed to sit over top of him and watch him do the work? WHY? I went to school. I did my work. This is about him, not me. And by the way, when I don’t show up prepared to do my job each day – I don’t get paid…in fact eventually I’ll be fired. No one is calling my mother or father. Let the consequences fall on the kids. The first time the due date is missed. Give the failing grade. That is real life.
Now don’t get me wrong. My kids have learned all sorts of things in school. Things they definitely wouldn’t have learned from me. I wouldn’t have taught them such clever ways to put down people. I wouldn’t have taught them how to cheat. I wouldn’t have had them repeat swear words after me. I wouldn’t have taught them how to befriend certain people to be kind to and to ostracize others. I wouldn’t have taught my children how important it is to be popular. I wouldn’t have taught my children different ways to get away with sex, drugs and alcohol. Now I understand these things are all a part of adolescence. But that wasn’t my reason for sending my kids to school. Academically we were in excellent standing. Remember I sent my kids to learn that in the world we need to be accountable and responsible for our own actions because there are consequences. Yet my kids didn't learn that. They learned that exceptions will be made repeatedly to help you succeed.
Interestingly enough, it is the first day of summer vacation and school is officially out. Today a teacher has called me to ask me if my son has turned in his research paper that was due 1 week ago. I sat on the phone reciting the banter between the two, thinking of the ridiculousness of it all. Why was I getting this phone call? What was going on? If he didn't do the assignment - give him the zero. This is actually what prompted me to write this blog today. I have been over and over this in my mind. Does he actually think that this is normal? If he was supposed to be there for the SATs on Saturday morning and he "forgets", is he expecting someone to offer for him to come on Sunday to take it alone?
Schools will tell you that this is a problem with the parents. .. that every parent wants Little Johnny to get an A because it isn’t “fair” otherwise. Parents will tell you that the schools are failing their children because they don’t have enough special attention or programs. When parents think their kids are an exception to a rule, why bother having a rule? When will parents get over the honors classes and the gifted programs? When will this generation of parents, refuse to “do” that science project? (When was the last time you looked at those science projects at the fair? Don't even tell me those children are doing those alone!)
I think the problem here is that parents see their child’s success or failure as their own? Little Johnny’s accomplishments are not to be worn as badges by the parents. No more than Little Johnny’s mistakes are reflections upon the parents. Little Johnny’s talents do not belong to mom or dad. Little Johnny’s grades do not belong to mom or dad. Little Johnny has to know that he only gets out of life what he puts into it – not what his mom or dad help him achieve. If Little Johnny wants to play on the Select Sports Team, he should because Little Johnny worked hard and deserves it, not because Little Johnny’s mom or dad called someone and complained or because Little Johnny’s dad is coaching. This generation has turned the schools into somewhere for their kids to swing the bat, miss 17 times and never be called out. This generation stopped giving trophies to the winners and starting giving trophies for participation. "Why work hard? We're all going to get a trophy with our name on it just because we showed up."
I’m sad to think that this generation of kids has so many “chances”. I‘m scared to think what kind of adults they will grow to be. I’m worried that we have made impressive test scores, select sport teams, etc. so important that we’ve lowered the bar to achieve them, rather than our children receiving impressive test scores and grades because of their own accountability and responsibility. In an effort for every child to be gifted and talented in everything they do in an extremely competitive world, no one is special anymore. Those that really do deserve acknowledgment for God given talents or just plain hard work are lumped with those that complain the loudest. These kids will grow up run companies, hold political offices, and more importantly raise their own children with those warped values that we allowed our society to implement.
I am looking for success for my child, so I will let them feel Failure. They need to feel how lousy it is – otherwise what motivation do they have to want to feel Success? But most importantly, I have already walked this walk – my childhood is over…when I became a parent, it was no longer about me…it is about them. I will let them be accountable and responsible for their own life’s journey. Maybe my child has a purpose that will change the world… I wouldn’t want to stand in the way because of interference on my part! I continue to home school my younger two children. They have never been in a formal school setting. It has been 8 years now. I still have moments that I worry about whether we are keeping up with what they would be doing in “real” school. I go to the Board of Education and I receive a review that tells me whether I am in compliance. That is how I am judging my own success. But in the end, I know that my kids know what I expect from them. I expect them to succeed and I expect them to fail. Both are necessary in growing up. Both are completely survivable. They have to be. That’s LIFE.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
What Makes A "Good" Mother?
What classifies a “good” mother? Think about it for a bit. Does a good mom stay home and take care of her children all day? Does a good mom show her children what a valuable human being she is by taking a full-time job and going out each day to earn a paycheck? Does a good mom pack lunches every day? Does a good mom tell her child to pack his own lunch? Does a good mom play outside in the sunshine with her child each day? Does a good mom stand in line for hours to register her child for the “best” preschool?
Since I have entered those dreaded teenage years, I have been noticing how incompetent my children are. I have been a “good mother”. I don’t deserve this. I’m not their slave. How could they be so blatantly disrespectful? Bill Cosby used to call it “brain damage” and make light of the loss of attentiveness that seems to coincide with the flow of hormones. Besides the fact that they are incapable of making any decision with an inkling of good judgment – all of those things that I have asked them kindly and patiently to do for years are still flowing from my lips. “Please don’t leave wet towels on the floor. Hang them up when you are finished.” “Please put the toilet seat down.” “Please flush the toilet.” “Please put your dirty clothes in the hamper.”
I used to chalk it up to immaturity or perhaps they did not hear me. There were even times throughout the years that I would yell, make them come to me at that moment and correct their faux pas. I would stand there directly over top of them while they picked up their towel and I would show them for the 27 millionth time, how to fold and drape it over the metal bar. But each day the children would rise and shower and my home would again be littered with the Canon casualties of that morning. I would begin my daily ritual of walking through the house, opening blinds, flushing toilets and picking up towels. It is strange how those mornings evolved into a decade.
I always assumed that one day they would be intelligent beings that were old enough to follow a 2-step command and would do as I asked them and the brain damage would begin to heal. I guess it was that same ignorant woman that believed that even though I was fixing chicken nuggets, mac n’ cheese and apple slices 6 nights a week for the picky eaters surrounding my kitchen table – one day they would miraculously grow into muscular, health conscious boys on the cusp of manhood ready to devour the latest chicken and broccoli casserole with a side spinach salad that I had so painstakingly prepared. I had convinced myself that this was a “stage” that my younger children were in and that with time it would improve. It is pitiful what we will talk ourselves into just to survive another day, isn’t it?
However, I have to admit, I would never imagined that I would have teenagers still incapable of hanging towels, flushing toilets or refusing to eat vegetables that aren’t on a cob. How did that happen? That wasn’t what I signed up for. I was just being a “good mother”. I am proud to say that I do refuse to cook chicken nuggets and slice apples at dinner time now. Most nights that I cook a grown up dinner (meaning that food ingredients are mixed together or touching somehow), you can be sure that someone isn’t hungry, someone is taking a nap, someone is trying to make weight for a wrestling match or someone had a really late lunch. I was beginning to accept that those awesome family dinners just weren’t meant to be. But I still have trouble grasping the idea that my teenage boys are incapable of hanging towels or flushing toilets. These seem like fairly primitive harmless expectations to me.
I have experimented. After all, I am a “good mother”. If there is a problem, I can correct it with discipline of some sort. I will refuse to flush their toilets and wait to see what will happen. Apparently, the teenagers in my home are also void of the sense of smell. They don’t recognize that pungent aroma of fresh morning urine that has been sitting from the first son, while the second son uses the same unflushed toilet and then is finally topped off by the third son making his contribution to the concoction. I have tried to ignore it. Really I have. By lunchtime the smell is wafting down the stairs to the foyer near my front door. Naturally, I would have had no unexpected visitors to my home in the past week. But the morning I decide to wage this battle you can bet that doorbell will ring with everyone from my friends to the Fed Ex delivery man. I have even managed to continue through this humiliating experience and still restrain myself from that flush. But it never fails, the dreaded sound of the golden retriever taking long lapping drinks from that toilet bowl will send a shiver through my spine and launch me into motion every time. The next thing I know I am angrily flushing that toilet while swearing I’ll never let them use one of my toilets as long as I live. In fact, maybe I should just have the toilets other than the one in my master bathroom removed from my home permanently. Yeah, these are rational thoughts that I can enforce. So I lecture my kids on a fairly regular basis about towels, toilets, dirty clothes and dirty dishes. But if I have been a “good mother”, why are these things still a problem?
Recently I read a friend’s Facebook status that started me thinking. She is younger than me and has several children all of which are much younger than mine. She had posted about her 9 and 7 year old that were doing some schoolwork together and she was not involved directly. Then she said something that struck a chord with me. She made a remark about how being a lazy mother sometimes could be good. Don’t you know that I have thought about that comment a hundred times since I read it?
I have always felt that taking care of my children was my job. Of course it is. This is not rocket science. I was a very busy, hands-on kind of mother. I like everything done a certain way so it seemed much easier to do things myself. With 4 children, time was of the essence and I could certainly set the table faster, empty the dishwasher much more easily and mix up some lemonade without ending up with a sticky floor. If they needed it washed, I washed it. If they wanted a sandwich, I made it. If they asked for cookies, I baked them. I did it all and I was happy to take care of them and anything they may need. A “good mother” takes care of her children, right?
For those of us who deem ourselves “good mothers”, think twice before you criticize a “lazy mother”. On what do you base your judgment? Perhaps that “lazy mother” is affording her children the opportunity to be responsible while the “good mother” has cheated her children out of the experience. If I could go back and do it all again – I would do it differently.
My motto has always been “More is More.” I’m an overachiever, definitely a Type A situation happening here. You know the type, matching clothes for all of the children, perfectly groomed, while my hair is coiffed and sprayed, standing with a tray of fancily iced cupcakes on a plate that I whipped up before we went to the 9:30 Sunday morning service. Perhaps I should have spent more time sending those children back into the bathroom to hang their towels, flush the toilets and put away their laundry while I slept in that extra hour and watched some television instead of making cupcakes and pressing their matching outfits. Perhaps “Less IS More.” Perhaps if I had done less for my children then, my children would do more now.
Since I have entered those dreaded teenage years, I have been noticing how incompetent my children are. I have been a “good mother”. I don’t deserve this. I’m not their slave. How could they be so blatantly disrespectful? Bill Cosby used to call it “brain damage” and make light of the loss of attentiveness that seems to coincide with the flow of hormones. Besides the fact that they are incapable of making any decision with an inkling of good judgment – all of those things that I have asked them kindly and patiently to do for years are still flowing from my lips. “Please don’t leave wet towels on the floor. Hang them up when you are finished.” “Please put the toilet seat down.” “Please flush the toilet.” “Please put your dirty clothes in the hamper.”
I used to chalk it up to immaturity or perhaps they did not hear me. There were even times throughout the years that I would yell, make them come to me at that moment and correct their faux pas. I would stand there directly over top of them while they picked up their towel and I would show them for the 27 millionth time, how to fold and drape it over the metal bar. But each day the children would rise and shower and my home would again be littered with the Canon casualties of that morning. I would begin my daily ritual of walking through the house, opening blinds, flushing toilets and picking up towels. It is strange how those mornings evolved into a decade.
I always assumed that one day they would be intelligent beings that were old enough to follow a 2-step command and would do as I asked them and the brain damage would begin to heal. I guess it was that same ignorant woman that believed that even though I was fixing chicken nuggets, mac n’ cheese and apple slices 6 nights a week for the picky eaters surrounding my kitchen table – one day they would miraculously grow into muscular, health conscious boys on the cusp of manhood ready to devour the latest chicken and broccoli casserole with a side spinach salad that I had so painstakingly prepared. I had convinced myself that this was a “stage” that my younger children were in and that with time it would improve. It is pitiful what we will talk ourselves into just to survive another day, isn’t it?
However, I have to admit, I would never imagined that I would have teenagers still incapable of hanging towels, flushing toilets or refusing to eat vegetables that aren’t on a cob. How did that happen? That wasn’t what I signed up for. I was just being a “good mother”. I am proud to say that I do refuse to cook chicken nuggets and slice apples at dinner time now. Most nights that I cook a grown up dinner (meaning that food ingredients are mixed together or touching somehow), you can be sure that someone isn’t hungry, someone is taking a nap, someone is trying to make weight for a wrestling match or someone had a really late lunch. I was beginning to accept that those awesome family dinners just weren’t meant to be. But I still have trouble grasping the idea that my teenage boys are incapable of hanging towels or flushing toilets. These seem like fairly primitive harmless expectations to me.
I have experimented. After all, I am a “good mother”. If there is a problem, I can correct it with discipline of some sort. I will refuse to flush their toilets and wait to see what will happen. Apparently, the teenagers in my home are also void of the sense of smell. They don’t recognize that pungent aroma of fresh morning urine that has been sitting from the first son, while the second son uses the same unflushed toilet and then is finally topped off by the third son making his contribution to the concoction. I have tried to ignore it. Really I have. By lunchtime the smell is wafting down the stairs to the foyer near my front door. Naturally, I would have had no unexpected visitors to my home in the past week. But the morning I decide to wage this battle you can bet that doorbell will ring with everyone from my friends to the Fed Ex delivery man. I have even managed to continue through this humiliating experience and still restrain myself from that flush. But it never fails, the dreaded sound of the golden retriever taking long lapping drinks from that toilet bowl will send a shiver through my spine and launch me into motion every time. The next thing I know I am angrily flushing that toilet while swearing I’ll never let them use one of my toilets as long as I live. In fact, maybe I should just have the toilets other than the one in my master bathroom removed from my home permanently. Yeah, these are rational thoughts that I can enforce. So I lecture my kids on a fairly regular basis about towels, toilets, dirty clothes and dirty dishes. But if I have been a “good mother”, why are these things still a problem?
Recently I read a friend’s Facebook status that started me thinking. She is younger than me and has several children all of which are much younger than mine. She had posted about her 9 and 7 year old that were doing some schoolwork together and she was not involved directly. Then she said something that struck a chord with me. She made a remark about how being a lazy mother sometimes could be good. Don’t you know that I have thought about that comment a hundred times since I read it?
I have always felt that taking care of my children was my job. Of course it is. This is not rocket science. I was a very busy, hands-on kind of mother. I like everything done a certain way so it seemed much easier to do things myself. With 4 children, time was of the essence and I could certainly set the table faster, empty the dishwasher much more easily and mix up some lemonade without ending up with a sticky floor. If they needed it washed, I washed it. If they wanted a sandwich, I made it. If they asked for cookies, I baked them. I did it all and I was happy to take care of them and anything they may need. A “good mother” takes care of her children, right?
For those of us who deem ourselves “good mothers”, think twice before you criticize a “lazy mother”. On what do you base your judgment? Perhaps that “lazy mother” is affording her children the opportunity to be responsible while the “good mother” has cheated her children out of the experience. If I could go back and do it all again – I would do it differently.
My motto has always been “More is More.” I’m an overachiever, definitely a Type A situation happening here. You know the type, matching clothes for all of the children, perfectly groomed, while my hair is coiffed and sprayed, standing with a tray of fancily iced cupcakes on a plate that I whipped up before we went to the 9:30 Sunday morning service. Perhaps I should have spent more time sending those children back into the bathroom to hang their towels, flush the toilets and put away their laundry while I slept in that extra hour and watched some television instead of making cupcakes and pressing their matching outfits. Perhaps “Less IS More.” Perhaps if I had done less for my children then, my children would do more now.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Insecurity
I am a huge Beth Moore fan. I've read all of her books, done many of her studies, and seen her in person several times. I was so excited to start her book, "So Long, Insecurity..."
Yes, insecurity is a problem for me. It's a HUGE problem for me. I've spent a lifetime worried what others think of me. Worried that I don't measure up somehow. Worried that I talk too much. Worried that I am doing something I have no business doing because obviously somebody else can do it much better than I can. Worried that someone doesn't like me. (Which if you think about it - is ridiculous - because do I like everybody?) Nonetheless, that's me. The worrier. Worried mostly that people will think I'm not worthy of their friendship or their effort or their time. Yes, I know what the Bible says about worrying. I worry about that too.
I hate going to parties. Big, crowded festive parties. Small, intimate quiet get togethers. Take your pick - doesn't matter. I hate them. Before attending any party, I take the pledge of silence. That's right. I said the pledge of silence. I promise myself that I am not going to talk at this function. That I will remain quiet and aloof allowing the other person to monopolize the conversation. Yet I get to the party, and before I know it, I feel an inflated obligation to run my mouth incessantly. God forbid I allow a moment of silence to lapse during a conversation. I feel utterly responsible for carrying on the constant banter. I hate parties. I hate them because in the end I go to bed that night and recount everything that I said and worry that I shouldn't have said it, completely convincing myself that I have ruined every possible relationship with my big mouth and that I need to call anyone that I spoke to the very next morning and apologize for whatever I may have said to offend them. I truly do this. I kid you not.
So today I am sitting in my local public library. It's time for my semi-annual homeschool review with the Board of Education. I am waiting my turn. I scan the room. There are about a dozen women with their children in tow, with their fancy boxes, bags, rolling cases and carts filled with files, books and colored codes file folders and matching labels. I look down at my feet and think about my old, giant canvas bag packed with all that I could fit and the rest that I had carried school-girl style resting on top. I should be more organized. I should invest in some fancy carrying case. I must look like a real rookie. These thoughts are swirling through my mind. Never mind the fact, that I have been successfully homeschooling for 8 years. No one has ever held my children back, or claimed that I am not meeting all necessary requirements. I have only ever been complemented and praised for my diligence and organization. I have homeschooled 4 children, teach dance classes in the evenings, and run the local wrestling team with my husband. I make spaghetti sauce from scratch. I throw unmatched birthday parties. I made a birthday cake that was a flipping working ferris wheel one handed with a baby on my hip. Yet, here I am feeling insecure about my stuffed canvas bag. I'm worried about what those women (whom I will never see again) think of me and I feel inadequate.
How does this happen? How is it that you meet people that are oozing self-confidence? Those are the ones that I tell people, "God gave them my share." How do I get that back? I want to be the person that when someone pays me a complement, I don't break into some long winded story about how I really did a terrible job and apologize for what it could have been if only I had, blah, blah, blah. I could just simply say, "Thank you."
What am I teaching my children? Do they hear me do this? Do they realize I do this? Of course they do. For example, take your typical Christmas dinner conversation.
"Shelley, everything is wonderful as usual."
"Well, I couldn't find the lettuce that I really wanted. I added too much port wine to the meat. The potatoes are definitely over salted and I shouldn't have taken the guy's suggestion at the liquor store."
I would never want them to repeat this behavior. It's made life complicated for me. I have recently been convicted of the "children will do what you do, not what you say" policy, so it is in the forefront of my mind. Will they rebel against my pathetic whining and decide they will never be like that? (You know, the old, when I grow up, I'm never going to complain about everything I do wrong, like Mom does.) Will they watch me carefully and believe that it is a testament to some warped humility of mine and deem it the right thing to do?
You are wondering where am I going with all of this? Here's the thing: the decision to begin this blog was a whirlwind of an idea. Nothing I really planned. It was a very whimsical choice. It was not anything that I spent anytime contemplating at all. It was an emotional reaction. In beginning Beth's book, I felt the urge to rebel against my insecurity. Throw caution to the wind and see where it took me. It was a Jerry Maguire choice! I'm 40 - it's time to put my big girl panties on! You know, have some Mary Tyler Moore moment. "Your gonna make it after all" was loudly ringing in my ears.
When I called my mother to discuss this blog, I had already sent her the link for her perusal. My mother has always loved my writing. She's been my most diligent encourager. I was certain I was about to be praised for brilliant creativity again. She was going to say all of those things that a mother is supposed to say when she fully supports her child. But her reaction was not what I had expected. She basically said that I shouldn't be blogging. She said I was blogging because I was looking for approval from people through my writing. She asked me if I was sure I was reading Beth's book and that maybe I'd better start over. I was disappointed in those words. What is she saying? I truly felt I had taken a giant leap of faith to put my writing out there and I was very pleased with myself for mustering the self confidence to do it. I had just broken out of my shell and smacked my insecurity right across its ugly face! This has nothing to do with an insecurity problem. In fact, it was obvious to me that this was an act of a fresh confidence emerging from me- an uprising of sorts. Frankly, I was looking forward to getting to know this person better. Mom was definitely wrong.
Days later, a friend who had read my blog, approached me to share that a local magazine was looking for "bloggers". She was very kind and encouraged me to apply as she praised my writing. While very busy in daily life with my kids, homeschooling and preparing for our annual recital, the idea haunted me. I wondered if doors were being opened for me. I pondered that perhaps I was on some new spiritual road that was not in my control at all. I felt like destiny was navigating the course of my life and after that brush with insecurity at the library today, I decided I would further investigate this "blogging" job. It all had to be related! It was time for that confident person cowering inside me to make another appearance and clearly this opportunity had been provided for a reason. I was convinced.
After reading about it, I quickly decided I would apply. I wrote my 250 words on why they should choose me and what in the world I would blabber on about and included a link to my last blog. I carefully chose my 250 words. I typed and typed. I was on a roll. The ideas were flowing. This was amazing. The adrenaline was pumping. The excitement of my new adventure was too much. Pouring over each and every word - my first attempt was 368 words - we all know how I like to talk. Parting with each of the unacceptable 118 words was torturous for me. Finally, I felt that I had said enough and before I knew it, I clicked "send" and away it went... (Have you ever noticed how easy it is to click that send button? - Well, that's another blog for another time...)
After the submission and still reeling from my new found maturity, I decided to visit my blog again. You know the one I had just sent to the magazine? I read it. I felt something gnawing at me so I read it again. I pushed away from the computer. I held my face in my hands. I thought about how all of this had worked out. Wasn't it amazing? Here after all of these years of wanting to write a book but never doing it I had started a blog, made one entry, had one friend say it was good and suggest that I apply as a magazine blogger and just like that - I did it. It had all happened so easily. It must be "fate". Right? Isn't that what had happened?
As I sat staring at that page, I felt sick. My palms were sweaty. My stomach a little queasy. I was flooded with emotion. Uh -oh. Mom was right. I started this blog because I wanted someone to tell me that it was okay for me to write. That I was good enough. That I would be acceptable. And someone did do that and because of that I applied for a writing position with a magazine. I countered myself - Now granted, I really do love to write. I truly want to tell my stories. But I never dreamed of writing a blog. I've dreamt of writing a book. I could feel the revelation swelling within me. The overwhelming truth was that I did not start this blog as an intention for me to burst forth with amazing confidence. It was actually my way of asking the world for permission to write a book, wasn't it? It was just another act of insecurity...camouflaged.
So yes, all of this did happen in a very grandiose sort of way. And I do believe that one thing led to the next that led to the next and on and on. It's just that I now understand that it wasn't so much about me becoming some well-received author and accomplishing some lifelong dream. It was more about confronting my insecurity and needing to be aware of the root of my motivations. It's funny how those things can be so deeply imbedded in us to make us completely blind to them. It's also funny, how a mother can know her child better than that child knows her at 40 years old. In the long run this is a much more profound awakening than I could have hoped for. Something that will take me on a much greater journey, preparing me for a much grander life than what I was imagining.
We'll have to see what happens with the magazine position. The good news is that I have decided to continue blogging because I do enjoy it. If the magazine rejects me, it's okay. If you reject me, it's okay. It's not about approval. It can't be. My kids deserve better than that. I won't be sitting up tonight thinking I should erase this blog in the morning. I won't be running out to buy a fancy dolly to transport my color-coded file folders to the next review. I may even go to the next party that I am invited to and not take the pledge of silence beforehand. I am beginning to think I can carry the old canvas bag for another decade, as long as it isn't filled with the burdens of worry and insecurity. Beth reminded me that there is Someone who is willing to empty those things out of my bag for me. I hear the song again...but it sounds very different this time... "Your gonna make it after all."
Yes, insecurity is a problem for me. It's a HUGE problem for me. I've spent a lifetime worried what others think of me. Worried that I don't measure up somehow. Worried that I talk too much. Worried that I am doing something I have no business doing because obviously somebody else can do it much better than I can. Worried that someone doesn't like me. (Which if you think about it - is ridiculous - because do I like everybody?) Nonetheless, that's me. The worrier. Worried mostly that people will think I'm not worthy of their friendship or their effort or their time. Yes, I know what the Bible says about worrying. I worry about that too.
I hate going to parties. Big, crowded festive parties. Small, intimate quiet get togethers. Take your pick - doesn't matter. I hate them. Before attending any party, I take the pledge of silence. That's right. I said the pledge of silence. I promise myself that I am not going to talk at this function. That I will remain quiet and aloof allowing the other person to monopolize the conversation. Yet I get to the party, and before I know it, I feel an inflated obligation to run my mouth incessantly. God forbid I allow a moment of silence to lapse during a conversation. I feel utterly responsible for carrying on the constant banter. I hate parties. I hate them because in the end I go to bed that night and recount everything that I said and worry that I shouldn't have said it, completely convincing myself that I have ruined every possible relationship with my big mouth and that I need to call anyone that I spoke to the very next morning and apologize for whatever I may have said to offend them. I truly do this. I kid you not.
So today I am sitting in my local public library. It's time for my semi-annual homeschool review with the Board of Education. I am waiting my turn. I scan the room. There are about a dozen women with their children in tow, with their fancy boxes, bags, rolling cases and carts filled with files, books and colored codes file folders and matching labels. I look down at my feet and think about my old, giant canvas bag packed with all that I could fit and the rest that I had carried school-girl style resting on top. I should be more organized. I should invest in some fancy carrying case. I must look like a real rookie. These thoughts are swirling through my mind. Never mind the fact, that I have been successfully homeschooling for 8 years. No one has ever held my children back, or claimed that I am not meeting all necessary requirements. I have only ever been complemented and praised for my diligence and organization. I have homeschooled 4 children, teach dance classes in the evenings, and run the local wrestling team with my husband. I make spaghetti sauce from scratch. I throw unmatched birthday parties. I made a birthday cake that was a flipping working ferris wheel one handed with a baby on my hip. Yet, here I am feeling insecure about my stuffed canvas bag. I'm worried about what those women (whom I will never see again) think of me and I feel inadequate.
How does this happen? How is it that you meet people that are oozing self-confidence? Those are the ones that I tell people, "God gave them my share." How do I get that back? I want to be the person that when someone pays me a complement, I don't break into some long winded story about how I really did a terrible job and apologize for what it could have been if only I had, blah, blah, blah. I could just simply say, "Thank you."
What am I teaching my children? Do they hear me do this? Do they realize I do this? Of course they do. For example, take your typical Christmas dinner conversation.
"Shelley, everything is wonderful as usual."
"Well, I couldn't find the lettuce that I really wanted. I added too much port wine to the meat. The potatoes are definitely over salted and I shouldn't have taken the guy's suggestion at the liquor store."
I would never want them to repeat this behavior. It's made life complicated for me. I have recently been convicted of the "children will do what you do, not what you say" policy, so it is in the forefront of my mind. Will they rebel against my pathetic whining and decide they will never be like that? (You know, the old, when I grow up, I'm never going to complain about everything I do wrong, like Mom does.) Will they watch me carefully and believe that it is a testament to some warped humility of mine and deem it the right thing to do?
You are wondering where am I going with all of this? Here's the thing: the decision to begin this blog was a whirlwind of an idea. Nothing I really planned. It was a very whimsical choice. It was not anything that I spent anytime contemplating at all. It was an emotional reaction. In beginning Beth's book, I felt the urge to rebel against my insecurity. Throw caution to the wind and see where it took me. It was a Jerry Maguire choice! I'm 40 - it's time to put my big girl panties on! You know, have some Mary Tyler Moore moment. "Your gonna make it after all" was loudly ringing in my ears.
When I called my mother to discuss this blog, I had already sent her the link for her perusal. My mother has always loved my writing. She's been my most diligent encourager. I was certain I was about to be praised for brilliant creativity again. She was going to say all of those things that a mother is supposed to say when she fully supports her child. But her reaction was not what I had expected. She basically said that I shouldn't be blogging. She said I was blogging because I was looking for approval from people through my writing. She asked me if I was sure I was reading Beth's book and that maybe I'd better start over. I was disappointed in those words. What is she saying? I truly felt I had taken a giant leap of faith to put my writing out there and I was very pleased with myself for mustering the self confidence to do it. I had just broken out of my shell and smacked my insecurity right across its ugly face! This has nothing to do with an insecurity problem. In fact, it was obvious to me that this was an act of a fresh confidence emerging from me- an uprising of sorts. Frankly, I was looking forward to getting to know this person better. Mom was definitely wrong.
Days later, a friend who had read my blog, approached me to share that a local magazine was looking for "bloggers". She was very kind and encouraged me to apply as she praised my writing. While very busy in daily life with my kids, homeschooling and preparing for our annual recital, the idea haunted me. I wondered if doors were being opened for me. I pondered that perhaps I was on some new spiritual road that was not in my control at all. I felt like destiny was navigating the course of my life and after that brush with insecurity at the library today, I decided I would further investigate this "blogging" job. It all had to be related! It was time for that confident person cowering inside me to make another appearance and clearly this opportunity had been provided for a reason. I was convinced.
After reading about it, I quickly decided I would apply. I wrote my 250 words on why they should choose me and what in the world I would blabber on about and included a link to my last blog. I carefully chose my 250 words. I typed and typed. I was on a roll. The ideas were flowing. This was amazing. The adrenaline was pumping. The excitement of my new adventure was too much. Pouring over each and every word - my first attempt was 368 words - we all know how I like to talk. Parting with each of the unacceptable 118 words was torturous for me. Finally, I felt that I had said enough and before I knew it, I clicked "send" and away it went... (Have you ever noticed how easy it is to click that send button? - Well, that's another blog for another time...)
After the submission and still reeling from my new found maturity, I decided to visit my blog again. You know the one I had just sent to the magazine? I read it. I felt something gnawing at me so I read it again. I pushed away from the computer. I held my face in my hands. I thought about how all of this had worked out. Wasn't it amazing? Here after all of these years of wanting to write a book but never doing it I had started a blog, made one entry, had one friend say it was good and suggest that I apply as a magazine blogger and just like that - I did it. It had all happened so easily. It must be "fate". Right? Isn't that what had happened?
As I sat staring at that page, I felt sick. My palms were sweaty. My stomach a little queasy. I was flooded with emotion. Uh -oh. Mom was right. I started this blog because I wanted someone to tell me that it was okay for me to write. That I was good enough. That I would be acceptable. And someone did do that and because of that I applied for a writing position with a magazine. I countered myself - Now granted, I really do love to write. I truly want to tell my stories. But I never dreamed of writing a blog. I've dreamt of writing a book. I could feel the revelation swelling within me. The overwhelming truth was that I did not start this blog as an intention for me to burst forth with amazing confidence. It was actually my way of asking the world for permission to write a book, wasn't it? It was just another act of insecurity...camouflaged.
So yes, all of this did happen in a very grandiose sort of way. And I do believe that one thing led to the next that led to the next and on and on. It's just that I now understand that it wasn't so much about me becoming some well-received author and accomplishing some lifelong dream. It was more about confronting my insecurity and needing to be aware of the root of my motivations. It's funny how those things can be so deeply imbedded in us to make us completely blind to them. It's also funny, how a mother can know her child better than that child knows her at 40 years old. In the long run this is a much more profound awakening than I could have hoped for. Something that will take me on a much greater journey, preparing me for a much grander life than what I was imagining.
We'll have to see what happens with the magazine position. The good news is that I have decided to continue blogging because I do enjoy it. If the magazine rejects me, it's okay. If you reject me, it's okay. It's not about approval. It can't be. My kids deserve better than that. I won't be sitting up tonight thinking I should erase this blog in the morning. I won't be running out to buy a fancy dolly to transport my color-coded file folders to the next review. I may even go to the next party that I am invited to and not take the pledge of silence beforehand. I am beginning to think I can carry the old canvas bag for another decade, as long as it isn't filled with the burdens of worry and insecurity. Beth reminded me that there is Someone who is willing to empty those things out of my bag for me. I hear the song again...but it sounds very different this time... "Your gonna make it after all."
Friday, June 4, 2010
Friday Night Thoughts
I don't remember getting old. I certainly don't remember when I became embarrassing or increasingly stupid. As I sit here on a Friday night waiting for Son #2 to complete his rounds of partying for the evening, I find myself sitting on Facebook playing Bejeweled for hours killing time for the late night pick up. I began contemplating what happens to mothers as they age and trying to figure out exactly what stage of life I have entered and what my place is now.
I look in the mirror and I look the same. I hear my voice. Still sounds like me. I still pick out the same style of clothes and wear the same shade of lipstick that I have for the past 20 years. My ipod is full of the same ole' tunes I've loved for decades. I still prefer the same candy bar since I was in 5th grade. Yup. It's still me.
Yet tonight, I put on my new dress and drove my son to his 8th grade farewell dance. Well, first to the "pre-party". Parents were invited to stay and take pictures, but according to my son - this clearly wasn't intended for me. Maybe the other cooler moms and dads. He did let me get out and take a few quick pictures with his buddies. Then it happened. That car pulled up behind me. The doors opened. And they began to exit the car...
Girls. Girls in short dresses and high heels. Very tanned skin and sparkly eyes covered in shadow and lips glistening with pink. Giggling. Suddenly, the group of boys I was taking pictures of - like mindless drones began to follow right after the girls - walking out of the picturesque background that we had chosen when I held up my Kodak and looked proudly through my viewfinder. I shout to my son, "Wait! I want a picture of you." Through gritted teeth and forced patience he responds, "Mom, really are you serious?"
So, I concede. He catches up with his friends and I return to my car. I check my digital camera to realize I only have one picture. The picture I managed to capture was the one of my son's face the moment the girls arrived behind me. Hmm. I study the picture. Hmm. I zoom into his face. His posture. His expression. Forever captured on that camera is a moment that Mom no longer had a starring role in her son's life. That's a hard thing for a Mommy.
Now, granted he hasn't called me that in a long time...but I kept wanting to believe that little boy who called me Mommy was still in there somewhere. I look at the image again. Nope, he is just not there. What I see is a handsome young man.
So I return home. Click. Click. Click. Bejeweled again. Funny how your mind can pretend to focus on matching those colors and shapes. Meanwhile I watch the clock and think, "Well, if he has become a handsome young man, what have I become?" Am I boring? Am I embarrassing? Am I sad? Do I miss my baby boy's sloppy, sticky Popsicle kisses? Do I miss Friday nights when he was freshly bathed with his damp hair climbing into my lap with his blanket to watch the latest Disney movie? Yes. Heavy sigh...
I haven't changed. It's still me. I'm not boring. I'm reliable. I'm not embarrassing. I'm secretly admired. I'm not stupid. I'm just wiser than he realizes right now. Mom's are the constant. Children are the variable. I'll save those memories of my baby boy to tell his children one day.
As far as that picture? I thought about deleting it. But I think I'll file that one away too. Behind the Popsicle kisses. Because it's just the next stage. It's my job to keep track of his life story as he writes it. Right now he may not have me casted in a starring role, so I'll need to be content to be his biggest fan until he starts the next chapter. Maybe then I'll have a bigger part again.
I look in the mirror and I look the same. I hear my voice. Still sounds like me. I still pick out the same style of clothes and wear the same shade of lipstick that I have for the past 20 years. My ipod is full of the same ole' tunes I've loved for decades. I still prefer the same candy bar since I was in 5th grade. Yup. It's still me.
Yet tonight, I put on my new dress and drove my son to his 8th grade farewell dance. Well, first to the "pre-party". Parents were invited to stay and take pictures, but according to my son - this clearly wasn't intended for me. Maybe the other cooler moms and dads. He did let me get out and take a few quick pictures with his buddies. Then it happened. That car pulled up behind me. The doors opened. And they began to exit the car...
Girls. Girls in short dresses and high heels. Very tanned skin and sparkly eyes covered in shadow and lips glistening with pink. Giggling. Suddenly, the group of boys I was taking pictures of - like mindless drones began to follow right after the girls - walking out of the picturesque background that we had chosen when I held up my Kodak and looked proudly through my viewfinder. I shout to my son, "Wait! I want a picture of you." Through gritted teeth and forced patience he responds, "Mom, really are you serious?"
So, I concede. He catches up with his friends and I return to my car. I check my digital camera to realize I only have one picture. The picture I managed to capture was the one of my son's face the moment the girls arrived behind me. Hmm. I study the picture. Hmm. I zoom into his face. His posture. His expression. Forever captured on that camera is a moment that Mom no longer had a starring role in her son's life. That's a hard thing for a Mommy.
Now, granted he hasn't called me that in a long time...but I kept wanting to believe that little boy who called me Mommy was still in there somewhere. I look at the image again. Nope, he is just not there. What I see is a handsome young man.
So I return home. Click. Click. Click. Bejeweled again. Funny how your mind can pretend to focus on matching those colors and shapes. Meanwhile I watch the clock and think, "Well, if he has become a handsome young man, what have I become?" Am I boring? Am I embarrassing? Am I sad? Do I miss my baby boy's sloppy, sticky Popsicle kisses? Do I miss Friday nights when he was freshly bathed with his damp hair climbing into my lap with his blanket to watch the latest Disney movie? Yes. Heavy sigh...
I haven't changed. It's still me. I'm not boring. I'm reliable. I'm not embarrassing. I'm secretly admired. I'm not stupid. I'm just wiser than he realizes right now. Mom's are the constant. Children are the variable. I'll save those memories of my baby boy to tell his children one day.
As far as that picture? I thought about deleting it. But I think I'll file that one away too. Behind the Popsicle kisses. Because it's just the next stage. It's my job to keep track of his life story as he writes it. Right now he may not have me casted in a starring role, so I'll need to be content to be his biggest fan until he starts the next chapter. Maybe then I'll have a bigger part again.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
We All Start Somewhere...
For the past 16 years, my mother has spent countless hours listening to my child rearing stories. Some good, some bad. Every conversation always included her encouragement that I should write these down. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that to be true - yes I should. But raising four kids didn't provide much convenient writing time. Alas, I have embarked upon the shores of teenagehood and am now finding more time on my hands and a heartful of stories bursting to be told. Thus, a blog has been born...
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