Raising the bar for being a Good Mother

Whoever keeps moving the bar for Mothering Standards needs to STOP.  When I was growing up, 230 years ago, it seemed the bar was pretty low:  we children were expected to go to school, respect our elders, eat our veggies and, as teenagers, don’t come home in the back of a patrol car or come home pregnant.  That was about it.

Then I had children and the bar was higher:  we didn’t just send our children to school, we had to “partner” with the teachers.  We had to be room mothers and PTA members to show that we were “invested” in our children’s education.  The backyard, piñata and WalMart cake birthday parties were substandard; we had to have “event” parties at “venues”.  When did Chuck E. Cheese become a “venue”?  Helicopter Parenting became a phrase and suddenly those of us who had no idea the rules changed were being told we were failing this parenting thing because we weren’t doing things that we didn’t even know we were supposed to do.

Now that I’m out of the baby / childrearing phase, I can be a little more detached.  I no longer feel the pressure to buy my children the perfect back-to-school wardrobe and I can look objectively at the blow-out birthday parties I see.  I am not (thank you, God) personally involved in the disposable vs cloth diaper debates, and I don’t worry about organic vs homemade baby food. 

Thanks to Pinterest, tho, I am seeing a new trend that freaks me out.  Not only apparently are moms today expected to pack their children’s lunches every day (which I did for one of mine who refused to eat cafeteria food) but they have to be nutritionally well balanced (which I agree with, but there ARE days when your child refuses to eat anything except waffles, so lunch was an Eggo that you toasted at 7:00 a.m. and a baggie full of Nilla Wafers and two graham crackers, because a 100% carb lunch is better than them eating no lunch at all … don’t judge until you’ve had a 6 year old who would barely eat in the first place …) but now the lunches have to also be visually appealing and cute.  There are websites and pins and posts that talk about how to make clever and crafty and creative lunches.  Because if the bread isn’t cut to look like a giraffe, you are a Parenting Fail.

 

 

Come on, world.  There is enough pressure on moms as it is.  We are judged on all sorts of stupid, irrational things.  We have to be SuperWomen, and raise perfect children while juggling careers and husbands.  We have to be Martha Stewart in the living room, Paula Deen in the kitchen and Heidi Klum in the bedroom. 

But when there are moms who are busy making Smithsonian worthy bento-boxes for their child’s lunches … wow.  That’s setting the bar kind of high. 

 

 

Chill out, ladies.  Relax, moms.  Take a breather, women.  We are OK.  We aren’t in competition with each other and, guess what?  If you don’t make palm trees out of bananas for your toddlers, they are still going to grow up just fine.  I promise.  And yes, there will always be *thatMom* who outshines you.  She will appear to be SuperMom and she will make you feel like you’re not succeeding … but I guarantee you, that SuperMom has her yoga-pants-and-no-bra days just like the rest of us.  OK, she may not wear that outfit to WalMart, but trust me, she HAS that outfit. 

Bento boxes for babies.  Seriously.  I am speechless.  I thought making my kids “fancy” pancakes (pour the batter in a cookie cutter) on the occasional Saturday morning was impressive.  I would have NEVER made it in the Pinterest-fueled Perfection Mom world that now exists. 

I see young moms at church.  I've had moms apologize to me (!) because they have a bottle of formula, not breast milk,  for their infant.  I've had moms spend several minutes explaining and justifying why they are using cloth or disposable diapers.  I've seen moms come into the nursery and see another child ask, "Do you think it's OK that my baby is older than that baby, but my baby is smaller?"  I just want to hug these moms, tell them they're doing just fine ... and remind them to breathe.  And NOT look at Pinterest.

I am at the point in my life where I feel obligated to give advice ... so to the young moms out there, I want to say, "You're OK.  You're doing a good job.  Don't compare yourself to SuperMom, because SuperMom is a facade.  She's got her eggos-for-dinner moments and I promise you, she owns a pair of yoga pants just like you do".

To the older moms, I want to say,"We survived!  We raised our children and we know what we did right and what we did wrong.  Give a supportive word of encouragment to that young mom you see. Let her know that the I-dressed-myself outfit her three year old is wearing (cowboy boots and a tutu) is adorable and just let her know you think she's doing a great job."

I love Pinterest.  Don't get me wrong.  But please, young moms, don't base your idea of "Good Mom" on what you see on Pinterest.  Sometimes, a baggie of graham crackers *is* the definition of Good Mom.  And in my opinion, a three year old in cowboy boots and a tutu is more adorable than the uber-coordinated "dress/socks/hairbow" look. 

Hang in there, moms.  You're doing a great job.  I promise.  Breathe.  Relax.  And don't judge yourself based on Pinterest or the fictitious SuperMom. 

 

Leaving On A Jet Plane ...

 

 

 

The nature of my husband’s work means that, periodically, he has to travel.  When the children were younger, he had a time where he was spending three weeks in London, one week at home.   He did that for months.  Because the kids were so young (and also because we were so broke), I wasn’t able to go with him, much to my disappointment.  Those were some long, lonely trips … the kids and I missed him something fierce and he – well, yeah, he missed us, of course, but he was spending his weekends playing tourist ... international travel is hard, but if you ask me (the stay-home spouse) it’s easier on the traveler than it is on the “stay home with two toddlers”  spouse.  But my perspective may be skewed.  There was one trip he was in San Francisco.  I had spent the day cleaning up baby vomit, and dealing with 2 year old tantrums; I hadn’t showered in days and if I recall, dinner that night was a gourmet feast of scrambled eggs.  (“But I don’t like scrambled eggs, Mommy.”  “Tough.  Eat them anyway.”)  He called me that evening to say he was sitting on the balcony of his hotel, watching the sun set over San Francisco Bay, while the turn-down maid was folding down his linens and laying a chocolate gently on his pillow. I found it hard, that evening, to be sympathetic to the woes of the business traveler.

But travel is difficult.  Hotel rooms aren’t home, and frequently the extent of sight-seeing is the airport and the conference room of opposing counsel’s office.  Restaurant meals get tedious when eaten three times a day, and planes and airport travel is never fun.

He came home from work yesterday and said the I-Wasn’t-Paying-That-Much-Attention Case had exploded and he had to go to Birmingham.  For three weeks.  The flight was the next day, at 9:00 a.m. 

Not cool.  Not cool at all.  I hate it when he travels.  Not because I’m having to be a Single Parent for three weeks at a time (which is a freakin’ HARD job, my hat is off to all my single parent friends … I could barely cut it for three weeks.  I have utmost respect for those of you who are doing it, day in and day out, month after month after month … I truly admire you); my kids are grown (~sigh~) and it’s just me and the dog.  I just get awfully lonely when he’s gone.  It’s hard not seeing him every evening and sharing the little bits about our day.  I realize all the things he does that I don’t even appreciate until he’s not here to do them.  He walks the dog, he waters the plants, he takes the trash out … when he’s not here, the plants get brown and droopy, the dog is left to fend for her own exercise (thank you, squirrels, for giving her SOME exercise) and, eww, I have to take the trash out. 

And we’re not even going to discuss the dead-bug-removal situation. 

The first few days he’s gone, it’s not too awful.  I can set the air conditioner on whatever temperature I think is comfortable, I can cook the foods he doesn’t like (Italian food!  Who doesn’t like Italian food?  What kind of lunatic doesn’t like lasagna?) and I can watch whatever I want on TV.  But the novelty of that wears off quickly.  Then, about day 3, it suddenly hits me.  This isn’t fun.  This is just lonely.

Today is Day 1.  I am showered and dressed, and cooked a meal.  Things are still OK; things will be OK for me for the next few days.  By this weekend, tho, it may be a different story.  I don’t do *alone* well.  I need people in my life, I need interaction, I need communication and I need conversation.

I need the next three weeks to fly by so that my plants will get watered, my dog will get walked and the garbage gets taken out by someone OTHER than me.

And I need my honey home. 

It’s gonna be a long, long three weeks.

Presidential Pez Dispensers and Pooh Coffee Mugs

When my son was younger, I can remember him standing in front of me, arms crossed angrily, defiantly telling me “I can’t wait until I’m a grown up and I can do whatever I want and I won’t have to do anything I don’t want to do”.  I would smile and say, “OK.  But until then, you have to clean your room / eat your broccoli / go to sleep / whatever.”   (The irony of him, growing up to be a Soldier isn’t lost on me LOL).  What little children, and some adults, don’t realize is that the flip side to that is you have to also take responsibility for your actions.  About the time you get to the point where you can, indeed, “do whatever you want” (within reason), you also realize that if you never eat a vegetable, you won’t be healthy.  If you never clean your room, you’ll end up on Hoarders: Buried Alive.  If you don’t go to sleep, you’ll be sleep deprived and then make ugly Facebook posts and send irrational text messages to people because you’re exhausted.  Or so I’m told.  (Sorry … and you know who you are, and why I’m apologizing LOL)

We, as adults, spend our lives walking that tightrope between “what we want to do” and “what we should do”.  Rarely do those two things dove-tail perfectly so we frequently find ourselves doing things we don’t want to do, and not doing things we want to do (sorry to disillusion you, future generations, but adulthood is NOT a constant parade of ice cream sundaes and Xbox marathons, curfew-free nights and timeout-free days).

Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty good on *this* side of the adult/child gap; but there are times when you have to put on your big-girl panties and do the “but I don’t WANT to” things in life.

A few months ago, my husband took a Legacy Class at church.  It’s couched in all sorts of pretty words, but the gist of the class is, “You’re gonna die.  Here’s what you need to do before you die to make sure your children are blessed, not burdened, by your legacy.”  Cheery, no?  I mean, I’m not ignorant nor am I naïve; I know that my time here is temporary and I take great joy in knowing that my eternal home waits for me and I anticipate with great expectation spending eternity with my Savior and Lord.  I’m not afraid of death, but I’m not quite ready to check out just yet.  If that’s what God has in mind, I won’t fight Him, but if He gives me decades more, I’m even happier with that.  We did, years ago, make a will.  As that document still says who will be the guardians of our minor children, we realize it needs to be updated.  We also have some other legal odds and ends we need to deal with, so my husband, being the responsible adult he is, has made an appointment with a lawyer who specializes in Estate Planning to discuss our “legacy”. 

Estate Planning.  That makes me laugh.  Sounds like we’re Downton Abbey type folks, deciding who gets the jewels and who gets the thoroughbred ponies and who gets the antique silver.  I hardly think a collection of Winnie the Pooh coffee mugs and a complete set of Presidential Pez Dispensers counts as an “estate”.  Still, we, as responsible adults need to update our will because we are responsible adults and that’s what responsible adults do.

I also gathered up our important papers and put them in a binder.  I wanted to call the binder “Very Important Papers File”, but realized I’d shorthand it to VIP File and that means something else … so I settled on Really Important Papers File”.  When I went to make the label for the spine, I realized it was now our RIP File.  Hmm. 

I realize that doing these things are part and parcel of being an adult, and I’m really OK with it all.  We’ll meet with our Estate Planner lawyer (I’ll not wear my tiara nor will I ask for a cup of tea in fine china, but I might just add a clause about the distribution and disbursement of the Pooh Collection LOL) and I’ll update my RIP File as the information in it changes … because I am an adult and I am responsible.  Or at least, I want to give the illusion that I am both an adult and responsible.

Just as I was patting myself on the back for being so mature, my husband mentions oh-so-casually, “Have you thought about which cemetery you want us to be buried in?”  What?  Eww.  No.  I have most certainly NOT thought about that.  “I was thinking we ought to decide, and then maybe look into pre-planning our funerals.”  He wanted to have a whole conversation about where, what type of headstone we wanted, he wants to pick out our caskets, plan the music, decide on the flowers … all of it. 

~~sigh~~

“It will make it easier on the kids if we’ve already decided everything.”

 Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

“Remember what a nightmare it was when (loved one) died unexpectedly and nothing was planned and the family had to scramble at the last minute to make the arrangements?” 

Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

“Remember when (other loved one) died, and they had prearranged everything?  All we had to do was pick up the phone and call the funeral director, and with one phone call, everything was handled?” 

Yes, I know that, but … eww.

~~sigh~~

So guess what?  In addition to meeting with the Estate Planning Lawyer (through which I can mentally giggle, imagining myself in a tiara, drinking tea, while deciding who gets the polo ponies), we are going to check out various funeral homes and cemeteries.  Eww.

~~sigh~~

 Sometimes being an adult is, indeed, a broccoli-free adventure, but sometimes, it’s kind of … icky.  And truth be told, interviewing funeral homes and walking through cemeteries, saying things like, “Ah, yes, this is a delightful spot, nice and shady” is just … icky. 

I’ll go, because it’s part of the “put on your big girl panties and just do it” part of being adult.  I’ll even, on the outside, look all serious and like I’m seriously debating if the pale pink satin lining is better than the creamy, off-white silk lining.  But inside, I’ll be giggling, imagining what that mahogany-with-brass-handles casket will look like, all festooned with Winnie the Pooh stickers.   I hope that, when our time comes, our legacy isn’t one of sadness and tears but of laughter and giggles, and Winnie the Pooh coffee mugs and Presidential Pez Dispensers.

And SOMEONE had better slap a Winnie the Pooh sticker on my casket, right next to the brass handles … because wouldn’t *that* be a great final chapter to the legacy of great-grandma Sandra?  I think so! 

I think I’m going to print this out and put it in my RIP file so that my anticipated, future great-grand children can know why there is a package of Pooh stickers in the safe deposit box.

It’s not polo ponies, or jewels or antique silver, but it’s more fun! 

Starfish Heroes

 

 

I was watching TV the other day, and the host of the show was surprising a woman with life-changing gifts:  cash, kitchen appliances, a new car, etc.  As each new gift was revealed, the woman wept with emotion.  Her life was truly impacted by these gifts.  I was reminded of the lottery winners who, when asked what the first thing they were going to, reply ‘Buy my mom a house’ or ‘Make sure my little brother goes to college’ … a huge, life-changing gesture.

In my (almost) 49 years on this planet, I’ve yet to be in the position of giving someone such an extravagant, life-changing gift.  I’ve never given a car to anyone (even my own children – sorry, baby!) and I’ve certainly never given anyone $20,000 or paid off anyone’s mortgage.  I also realize I will probably never be able to make a magnanimous gesture of that scale. 

I used to think that unless a kindness was of a life-altering level, it wasn’t really a big deal.  I devalued and discounted the kindnesses I was capable of, because they weren’t Oprah-level or lottery-winner-buys-mom-a-house sized blessings.

Then God made me aware of the “small” blessings I’ve experienced:  a meal was delivered to my family when I was recovering from surgery.  A car was loaned to us when ours was totaled in an accident and the insurance company was balking at paying.  A friend offered to babysit overnight when my husband was out of town and I was overwhelmed with two toddlers.  A gift card to the grocery store was mailed anonymously to our house when we were going through a financial rough spot.  The impact of those gestures was, indeed, life-changing.  Not on a “We’re paying off your mortgage and giving you a new car!” level, but on a personal, intimate level.  It’s humbling to have to accept a $50 Kroger gift card, but it’s an amazing feeling to know that someone cared enough to do that, and they loved us enough to do it anonymously so that we wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in their presence.  (That was 20 years ago, and I still don’t know who it was … if you’re reading this, please know that gesture was appreciated!)

I still struggle with the idea that my little gestures can have any impact.  That little voice of doubt and self-loathing gets loud sometimes.  (“Don’t flatter yourself, Sandra; it’s just a chicken casserole.  It’s not like you’re buying them a new car.”)  But then I’m reminded of how much that chicken casserole meant to me when I was the recipient, and I remember how it was so much MORE than “just” a chicken casserole.  It was a feeling of being connected, of knowing someone cared.  It was a gesture from the heart, and those are truly priceless.

The ones that really get to me are the gestures that you don’t even REMEMBER that had an impact on someone’s life.  When my daughter (now 19) was a newborn, we started attending church.  We walked in to a new church for the first time ever and I brought my six-week-old baby to the nursery.  I was introduced to the woman who was on nursery duty and she said she worked during the Sunday School hour; that for the church hour, someone else would be there.  When church ended and we went back to get her, the same lady was there.  Our baby was asleep in her arms and she said she didn’t want to wake her, so she just stayed in the nursery through the church service so that the baby could sleep.  She didn’t even know us, she certainly didn’t know our daughter, we were newcomers to the church … but she loved my baby that much that she sat in the nursery, holding a baby for over 3 hours.  I knew at that point, that was the church for us.  It was that church, those people, who showed me who God was, what love was, and it was in that nurturing, loving environment that I came to be saved.  Had it not been for Julie’s loving my child those three hours, I don’t know that I’d have made Hillendale my church home.  Literally, Julie’s holding my child was a life-changing event in my life.  Years later, I mentioned it to Julie and she had no idea what I was talking about.  She had no concept that, one Sunday, 10 years earlier, she had fundamentally changed my life. 

On the other side, I had a friend who had been through some struggles in her late teen years.  I was about 15 years older than she was, and I watched her make poor decisions, but I didn’t know what to say to get her to see the consequences of her actions.  Many, many years later (maybe 15 years), she told me how grateful she was to me for always being kind to her when she was younger, and how she appreciated how I always treated her with kindness and love.  She said she felt judgment and condemnation from others, but never from me and she was eternally grateful to me for being so supportive of her when she was going through her struggles.  I was floored.  I never knew that she felt such kindness from me – I was just being me. 

Lately, I’ve been aware of all the little blessings in my life:  I got a thank you note in the mail from someone that said the sweetest things; I got a hug at Kroger from a woman who wanted to thank me for raising a Soldier; I had someone tell me that they always enjoyed my Facebook posts;  I invited myself over to a friend’s house for dinner and they eagerly agreed, and we had the best time (and I made a trifle that actually turned out LOL!) … little gestures that the giver may not even realize had an impact on me, but they all did. 

It’s like that story about the man who found thousands of washed-up starfish on the beach one morning.  He was throwing  them, one by one, back into the water.  A passerby asked him why he was bothering, he couldn’t possibly make a difference with the thousands of starfish on the shore.  The man replied, “No, but it makes a difference to this one starfish.” 

So yeah, while I’d like to be able to buy someone a car, or pay off their mortgage, or other huge gesture, that’s not gonna happen.  But I will run across starfish in my day, and I can make a difference to that one starfish. 

And if anyone is feeling like their starfish-gestures aren’t being noticed or appreciated, I would like to suggest that they are.  Those of us who are on the receiving end of those hugs, those kind words, those chicken casseroles, those anonymous gift cards are truly moved.  Sometimes, holding that sleeping baby can be the thing that literally changes someone’s life.

Keep on, my friends.  Keep on loving those babies.   Keep on giving hugs in Kroger.  Keep on sending a “thinking of you” card or sending a “Hi, how are you” text message to someone you’ve not seen around for a while.

Speaking as a starfish, I can say with certainty that those “little” gestures can be huge.  I will never forget Julie holding my sleeping Michelle; nor will I ever forget being handed car keys and being told, “Keep it until the insurance company gets things straightened out.”  And the … relief … of being told, “Bring me those babies.  I’ll bathe ‘em, feed ‘em, and put ‘em to bed.  You can pick them up in the morning.”   And when you tell someone, “How about us getting together soon?” and they reply with, “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  How about this Friday?  Our house?  I’ll cook.”

Little gestures.  Starfish gestures.  Life changing gestures.

So I’m not Oprah.  I’m not Ellen.  I’m not a “buy my momma a house” lottery winner.  But to that one starfish, I am.

And to all of you who have been starfish-heros in my life, thank you.

Your gestures are HUGE in my eyes and even if you don’t realize it, I do. 

My prayer is that I may be a starfish-hero to someone else, in the same way that so many people have been starfish-heroes to me. 

You starfish-heroes are precious to me, and the kindnesses you’ve shown me and my family are not forgotten, even if you don’t know you’ve been a starfish-hero to me.

Body Blows and Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint Candies

This has been a tough week for me.  As the details of most of it aren’t mine to share (and because the details don’t really MATTER), I won’t get into specifics, but it was just one of those weeks.  You’re going along, all happy and content and thinking things are humming along pretty darn well when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, life smacks you upside the head.  You stagger, but you recover and you think, “Wow, that sucked …” and then while you’re still shaking that off, something else comes along and knocks you to your knees.  And then, while you’re still struggling to get back to your feet, something else comes along and kicks you in the teeth. 

And it goes on and on and on.

After a while, you get almost afraid to answer the phone, or the door, or check the mail because you don’t think you can handle another punch to your security.

Yet still the trials come.  After a while, they don’t even have to be “trials”.  It may be something that any other time might just be a nuisance or an irritation, but when you’re already on the floor, bleeding from the blows, it doesn’t take much for an irritation to become a major head shot.

That’s how my week was.  It seemed that the more I tried to fix things, the worse I made things.  I said and did the wrong things; I said too much when I should have kept quiet, I was quiet when I needed to speak.   I was so totally in over my head in dealing with situations that I never saw coming, situations that I was totally unprepared to deal with.

I was up at church on Wednesday and someone I know saw me in the ladies room.  I had been crying.  She asked me if I was OK and I said I was feeling overwhelmed.  She took that moment to put on her Sanctimonious Scarf and tell me that I just needed to pray more and trust God.  Then she started quoting song lyrics to me about “trusting Him in the storm” and telling me that my faith would get me through.

Wow.

Don’t get me wrong, my faith is bedrock strong and I am secure in my position as a Daughter of the King.  When crisis hits, the first thing I do is turn to prayer.  I do trust Him, and I know He’s got everything under control.  But that doesn’t stop me from, now, at this moment, being scared.  And lonely.  And overwhelmed.  And honestly, being told that my doubts and fears and concerns are because I’m not a good enough Christian, that my faith is shaky and that if I really believed in the Bible, I’d not be scared … um, no.  Sorry.  Quoting song lyrics to someone who is literally weeping in the ladies room probably isn’t going to do the trick.  Just FYI.

Sunday, in service, I had on my Happy Face; the “Look, everything is perfect in my world, can’t you tell?” persona that I tend to wear when I’m in church (because I want to be seen as a “good Christian” and a “good Christian” never has doubts or fears or concerns or worries, never cries and never shakes her fist at God and never questions Him, right?) but inside, I was a mess.  I stood in His Holy House, in the presence of God Himself and I didn’t feel a thing except scared.  And lonely.  And confused.  And angry.  And worried.

Then the worship leader said (and I paraphrase) “You may be feeling wonderful this morning, you may be happy and excited to be here and you may be filled with joy.  But someone next to you is scared.  And lonely.  And confused.  And angry.  And worried.”  I felt the tears well up, so I covered by rummaging in my purse for a piece of hard candy.  (A Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint always helps.) 

The worship leader continued.

“Some of you may be feeling that God is silent, or that He isn’t listening, or that He has left you.  If you’re one of those people who are, right now, in a good place and everything is going well and you’re feeling secure and confident in life, that’s wonderful, but be aware that the person sitting right next to you might not be.  They may be wondering where God is, and wondering if He hears them.  They may be feeling overwhelmed and lonely.”

I swear, if at that moment, Rick had said, “If you’re one of those people, please raise your hand so that we can hug your neck and pray with you”, I’d have raised my hand.  And folks, I was brought up Lutheran.  We do *NOT* raise our hands in church.  Ever.  And I certainly don’t draw attention to myself in church.  But at that moment, I would have.

We left after church, didn’t stay for Sunday School.  We used the excuse that we had to get home because my inlaws were coming over for a Father’s Day lunch, but that was just an excuse.  I just didn’t want to be around people because I was feeling so vulnerable and I knew I was one hug, or one concerned “How are you?” away from a crying jag and I don’t have time for that.

So that’s where I am today.  And that’s probably where I’m going to be for the next few days.  I am hanging on by my fingernails.  I don’t know that I can take one more thing … I’m fighting with everything I’ve got to deal with the things this past week has dumped on my plate.

I am feeling overwhelmed.  And scared.  And I am worried.  But I am NOT doubting God.  I am NOT weak in my faith, nor do I need Scripture or song lyrics or platitudes quoted to me.  Being scared, being overwhelmed, feeling like you’re barely hanging on is NOT a reflection of my spiritual health.  Life is hard.  Life is VERY hard.  Sometimes, it flat out sucks.  But that’s OK, too.  You always need Jesus.  But that doesn’t mean you don’t also need friends, a good crying jag and a big bag of Wintergreen Pep-O-Mints.

I have no doubt that this next week will have me making more mistakes.  I will say and do the wrong thing.  I will yell when I should hug, I will hug when I should back away.  I will over-compensate and I will hover, and then I will realize what I’m doing and I’ll back off too much.  I will over-explain and I will be silent when I should speak.  But I will also be praying.  I’ll be reading my Bible and I will be asking God for guidance.  And I will *REFUSE* to accept that my being afraid / scared / worried is because I’m a “bad Christian” or is a reflection of a lack of trust in God, or is proof that I don’t love God. 

When all this is over, I will sigh a deep sigh of relief, and I will be thankful to Him for getting me through this series of storms.  I won’t, however, feel guilty about being scared spitless while I’m in the midst of the storm.

So if you see me this next week (real life, or on Facebook, or whatever), understand why I may not meet your gaze, or why I may suddenly duck into the ladies room.  I may not be responding to texts and emails, and I may not be feeling very social.  But I will.  Eventually.  God will get me through this.  Of that, I am certain.

And if you see me suddenly rummage in my purse for a Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint, I probably wouldn’t hate it if you offered me a hug. 

And you know what?  If you’re feeling like I am, feel free to ask me for a Wintergreen Pep-O-Mint.  They come with hugs and understanding.  And I won’t quote song lyrics to you.  Promise. 

Family, InLaws and all that involves!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about family.  Not so much my immediate nuclear family (me, husband, kids) but my family of origin (parents, sibling, grandparents) as well as my inlaws.  I think that’s one of the curses of being an amateur genealogist, you spend so much time looking at family and family ties and family connections that it forces you to think about your own.

Growing up, I had a small family.  It was my parents, my brother and me.  That was it.  We lived six, seven hours away from either set of grandparents and we’d make a twice-a-year obligatory trip to see them for a long weekend, but we were never close.  My mother had one brother that I saw maybe four times my entire life (he had  ...has? … four sons and I couldn’t even tell you their names) and my father had one sister who never married and never had children.)  The impact of extended family on my life was minimal.

Growing up, I never really thought about inlaws, or extended family, or cousins or aunts and uncles … it just wasn’t relevant to me and I never knew any differently.  I knew my mother didn’t get along with my paternal grandmother, but then again, my paternal grandmother wasn’t the sort of woman that people got along with.  I could tell you stories … Lord a’mercy, the stories! … but that’s for another post.  Needless to say, she wasn’t warm-n-fuzzy, and as I only saw her twice a year, and then only for one afternoon each trip, she had little impact on my upbringing.  My paternal grandfather died when I was very, very young; I never knew him.

When, at the tender age of 19, I met the man who would become my husband, I wasn’t thinking of joining families.  “Family” was just some near-strangers who lived 6+ hours away and who I saw twice a year.  I assumed (“when you ass-u-me, you make an ass out of u and me” … anyone else remember that?) that once we got married, our “family” would be him and me and maybe, some day, in the far off future, some children, but I didn’t even take in to account extended family.

Boy was I young and naïve.  And wrong.  Thank God, I was oh-so wrong!  I married a man who came from a large, close family.  He grew up in a small town in Kentucky where both sides of his family had long, established roots.  His mother was the youngest of eight children, and all of the siblings were close.  He grew up with aunts and uncles that were as important to him as were his own parents, and he grew up with cousins that were as close as siblings.  He knew his grandparents, not as twice-a-year strangers, but as an integral part of his childhood – for the first 10 years of his life, he lived literally across the street from his grandparents.  To him, family wasn’t a twice-a-year obligation, it was a blessing and a joy (and sometimes a nuisance and pain in the butt J ) but good or bad, like it or not, family was family and they were there, they were staying and they were in your life.  Period.

Wow.  This wasn’t the way I grew up.  Not at all.

As I got to know his parents, I came to love them more than I thought I would.  I had a preconceived idea as to what our relationship would be like (after all, mothers in law and daughters in law NEVER get along, right?) so I had to overcome those self-imposed hurdles.  I had to get past the idea that she was going to hate me just because I was the daughter-in-law and we had to work through some rocky patches, but I can say, with confidence and complete assurance, that our relationship today is solid and secure and I love her deeply and I genuinely think she is one of the most amazing women I’ve known. 

And his grandparents?  Oh, his grandparents!!  I got to know them and love them more than I realized.  They have both gone on to Glory now, Popaw in 2009 and Mammy is 2012 but their presence is still a daily thing in our lives.  It was Mammy who started me on this genealogical journey I’m on; she asked me if I could find some info on her family – and look what that started!  J  It is her collection of photos and memories that I have inherited and I hope to pass that on, one day, to my descendents.  I truly loved those two people for they taught me about family and life, about God and about repentance, about forgiveness and acceptance.  They showed me humility and grace; generosity of spirit and gentleness of soul.  They showed me contentment in circumstances and grace in the face of heartache.  They loved me, and the knowledge of that fact alone is enough to make me weep with astonishment.  They loved me.  They didn’t even know me when I came into the family, but they didn’t care.  Their grandson loved me, and therefore, they loved me, too.  Over the next quarter-century, they came to know me and love me on my own merits, but at first, they just loved me because he loved me.  That was all they needed. 

Wow.  Mind-blowing.  When I was a pre-teen, my mother once told me, “When you were born, I thought I’d love you.  But I didn’t.”  I said, “But you eventually came to love me, right?” and her response was, “Well, you didn’t make it easy, did you?”  For an insecure, unsure person who grew up knowing that her own mother didn’t like her, certainly didn’t love her, didn’t even really want her … this idea that love and acceptance was NOT based on what I did was life-changing. 

Then, about five years ago, my son fell in love.  They were both in high school when they started dating, and as their relationship progressed, we all came to realize that this wasn’t just a high school infatuation.  We got to know her as their relationship grew and she slipped easily and seamlessly into our family until soon, it was as if she had always been a part of our lives.  If she had any of those adjustment issues that I had faced 25+ years earlier, I never saw it.  When they announced their engagement, no one was surprised; we all welcomed her with open arms.  (I hope she remembers it the same way; if there was any hesitancy it was unintentional).  When they married, I was overjoyed to welcome her into my heart – and yet another misconception about “family” that I carried from my bizarre upbringing had been shattered.

Now I was a mother in law (!) and I realized that I loved my new daughter in law without reservation and without hesitation.  I loved her, not just because my son loved her, but because of who she was independent of him.  And with my new daughter-in-law came a whole new group of people:  her parents, her brother … I now consider all of them as my family.  Her parents and her brother have eaten meals at my table, and we’ve joined families for holidays and celebrations; we celebrate each other’s joys and share each other’s sorrows. 

My idea of family has so changed.  Growing up, extended family was something that was distant and removed; they were an obligation and a duty, but not a joy.  Family was something you strove to distance yourself from – not something you embraced joyfully and eagerly.

I still am not close to my family of origin.  I doubt I ever will be, but I’ve come to be OK with that.  God has shown me that family doesn’t have to be people biologically related to you.  He has put parents and grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) in my life who have shown me what family can be, what they should be – and most importantly to me, they have shown me that even when things DON’T go smoothly, and when rough patches happen, family is still family.  You can’t just delete people from your life because they don’t fit in with your idea of what family is. 

I am still, at the mature age of 48, still trying to overcome some of the crap from my childhood.  When you grow up hearing that you were a mistake, that your mother wishes you had never been born and that the only reason you were here was because you were conceived pre Roe v. Wade, that can cause you to have a shaky sense of self-esteem.  God has been good to place people in my life who have shown me that love is NOT conditional, love doesn’t have to be earned and that a genuine, sincere family isn’t necessarily a family of biology and blood and DNA.  Thru genealogy, I feel a connection to the family that has gone before and as my family has grown thru marriage and babies and inlaws, I know I will have a connection to family that hasn’t even yet entered my life.

But I also know with 100% certainty, that due to the wonderful people that God has put in my life, I know that the family that I’ve yet to know will be cherished and loved.  And to my anticipated audience of my future great-great grandchildren, I hope you know that I love you already.  Even 100 years before you’re conceived, I love you and I pray for you.  I welcome you to the family and I hope you come to know that you are part of a long legacy of love and family.  Some of it is good, some of it is bad and some of it we want to sweep under the rug, but we don’t.  We are a family.  All of us.  Those of us biologically related and those of us related by nothing but love and our hearts.  We are family.  And that’s enough.  That’s everything.  Trust me.  Being able to say, “I belong.  I have family.  I have love” is a gift that I didn’t get until my adult years, and I cherish that gift every single day.  I hope that you, my future, anticipated descendents never know what it’s like to not know that you are loved, you are accepted, you are cherished.  I hope you always take comfort in belonging, in knowing you have a place of security and comfort.  But if you ever do have those doubts, please know that I, even tho I don’t know you yet, I love you and I assure you, you have a place in the lineage of love that makes up your family.

Happy Birthday, Beloved Husband!

Birthdays in our house are kind of a big deal.  We actually don’t celebrate birthDAYS, we do a whole birth weekend.  And if we can swing it, a whole birth-week.  There is a special meal of the celebrant’s choosing, gifts (I *heart* gifts LOL), and general fussing over.  When the kids were younger, our attention was focused on them and their parties.  We adults got the back burner (as it should be) when it came time to birthdays although we always did do a cake and a special dinner and a few gifts.  One year, when my son was 4, for his daddy’s birthday, he went to the store and bought his daddy the most special, wonderful gift in the world.  He bought him the best thing he could imagine – the one gift that, in his 4 year old world, was the one thing that was unbeatable.  He bought his daddy a plastic dinosaur.  He couldn’t think of a better gift, and he was going to give his daddy this gift.  My husband, upon opening the wrapping paper and finding a toy dinosaur, expressed such delight and joy that you’d have thought he had been given Super Bowl tickets.  That dinosaur was proudly displayed on my husband’s desk for years (it may still be there, I’ll have to ask) and when people would ask why he had a plastic dinosaur sitting on his desk, he’d puff up with pride and say, “My son gave me that!” 

A few years ago, when my husband turned 50, our daughter went to the parking lot where he parks and decorated his truck.  Imagine his surprise when, upon exiting the bus, he was greeted with this:

He loved it, by the way, and kept it decorated for about a week.  And people *did* honk, which was the coolest thing ever! 

Today is my beloved’s birthday.  As it’s on a Thursday, we are making it a whole birthday weekend.  Tonight, we are doing a small at-home party:  he picked the menu (fried pork chops and fried potatoes … he only gets fried foods once a year LOL) and banana split cake for dessert.  We will do gifts (I *heart* both giving and receiving gifts, so that’s my favorite part!) and candles and Daughter and I will sing, badly but with great enthusiasm.  Sunday we are doing a big family thing with the extended family – and while our son won’t be with us, his wife will be, so for that we’re grateful.

Happy Birthday, Love of my Life.  You are a blessing to all who know you, and I am honored and grateful to have shared your life for all this time.  And while I don’t know that we will ever be able to top the plastic toy dinosaur, and I am not going to decorate your truck, I hope that your birthday is still wonderful and that you know just how much you mean to us, your family, and how much we love you.