You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I want to write
a list of all the advice I can think of that you won’t learn in a parenting
book, such as the four lessons at the beginning of the chapter. These are just the kinds of lessons that we learn
as we go, the lessons that humble us.
The more kids you have, the more you’ll understand.
Now those with one child will probably be horrified by
this list, since you probably still have time to be on top of everything. And, to you, I say “More power to ya” and
“Just wait!” Or maybe you could offer
some clear-headed perspective and inspiration to those of us who gave up trying
too hard a few kids ago. Well, here they
are in no particular order:
#1 This is by far the hardest part
of having a new child . . . the lack of sleep.
When you first have a child, you will have to learn to function in a
fog. That’s just the way it is. So go easy on yourself when you start to go a
little loopy. I remember waking up for
the second or third month in a row with my first (and my second) and just
crying out in the dark, “Lord, if You love me at all, You will let me
sleep. Please, Lord! Please!
Why . . . oh, why can’t I just sleep?” with tears streaming down my
face.
I never did get the desired amount of sleep, but I did
learn to function in a fog. And
remember, when you are up at night crying, you are not alone. Millions of mothers around the world are
doing the same thing at that very moment.
But you know what the funny thing is? Even if the baby is sleeping, I still can’t
fall asleep easily. I think there’s a
Mommy-Insomnia (Mommy-Insommy? Too
cutesy?) that comes with kids, a hyper-alertness that keeps us half-awake. I will lay there for an hour or
hour-and-a-half thinking about stupid things, like this brilliant chain
of thought that went through my head the other night:
Hmm, I wonder if we should try raw cocoa? Raw or regular? Which is healthier? Is it even healthy to eat cocoa? There’s debate about that. I won’t give up chocolate. If God made it, it must be okay. Except pork and shellfish. Never pork or shellfish! Refuse-cleaners of the earth. I could do without meat. But I love vegetables. Cocoa in moderation. Fine with me.
My grandma eats chocolate and drinks coffee. And she’s in her 90’s. Eating locally? Pineapples?
No, I’m not so much about eating local as I am about eating
healthy. Coconuts? Tropical!
Wow, my hair feels dry. Why can’t
I sleep? I need to go to sleep. The kids are sleeping well and I’m wasting my
time. My mind just keeps running. And running.
And it’s not running anywhere. My
goodness! If people could see what goes
on in my head when I’m trying to sleep.
I should write this down to add to my book later. Okay, now I’m thirsty. But I can’t get up or I’ll really be
awake. I want coconut cake. Yertle the Turtle. Yertle the Turtle? Where did Yertle the Turtle come from? How did I get from coconut to Yertle the
Turtle? Haven’t read that book in
ages! I can see soup connected to
turtle. Mock turtle soup. But coconuts?
Hmm, did Yertle climb a tree, like a palm tree? Are coconuts from palms?
I’m not kidding.
This is the kind of grand planning that goes on in my head and steals my
sleep. It’s ridiculous. Anyway, learn to function in a fog. You will not get the sleep you want, but
you’ll get just enough to keep you alive.
And you will get through it! You will
get through it alive!
[Which is totally contrary to what I once told my son, H., about sleep. When he was about three
years old, he asked me, “What happens if you don’t get enough sleep?” Now, in my defense, he had asked me this late
in the day, at a time when I was thoroughly exhausted. And I could not stop the words that came out
of my mouth. In a dramatic, serious
tone, I looked at him and said, “If you don’t get enough sleep, you’ll
DIE!”
At the time, it seriously sounded like a reasonable
answer. And my reasoning was that if you
were never able to fall asleep, your body would eventually wear out and you
would die. Because our bodies need sleep
to stay healthy. Anyway, Jason gave me
“the look” from across the table, and I changed my answer to “You will get
really, really tired and not be able to function well during the day.”
Well, poor kid, months later I was putting him to bed and
he asked me if Daddy and me were going to go to bed right away. And I told him that mommies and daddies can
stay up later than the kids. He got all
upset and, through tears, he looked up at me and said, “But then you’ll
die!” (Okay, sub-lesson for #1: Be more careful what I tell the children,
especially when I’m tired!)]
#2 This is also usually a
consequence of number one: It is
perfectly acceptable to start crying over seemingly small things because you
are so sleep-deprived that you can’t think straight. If you have to change the baby’s outfit again
because they got some kind of body fluid on it again, go ahead and
cry. If you just dropped the paper towel
for the third time because you are too tired and weak to keep a grip on it, let
the tears roll. Or if all of your
children have taken up the tribal chant of “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom” at the same
time, but no one can hear your small, pathetic plea to stop talking because your
head is about to explode, then curl up the fetal position in the corner of the
room and sob. That’s not being too
emotional; that’s being smart! If we
didn’t let it out in a cry sometimes, we might explode in a fit of rage! (And just keep telling yourself, “Sleep will
come . . . sleep will come. When I’m
sixty-five and develop narcolepsy, sleep will come.”)
#3 Never - and I repeat, never - pick up a pair of scissors
and impulsively start hacking away at your hair while you are home alone with a
little one. I don’t know, but there’s
something about having a baby that makes you want to cut your hair. Call it the “Steel Magnolias syndrome”. Well, one day when D. was a baby, I looked
in the mirror and realized that I hated my hair and wanted it cut shorter. I’m one of those that won’t think or care
about something for so long, but then as soon as I decide that I don’t like it
and want a change, I have to do it NOW!
And that’s what happened with my hair. I couldn’t wait for an appointment. And so despite the fussy baby at my feet, I
picked up a pair of scissors and began to cut.
Well, I don’t know exactly how it happened, but somewhere in my
tunnel-vision-frenzy to make sure my hair was even (and because of the feverish
anxiety that comes with letting a child whine at your feet), I began to lose
all perspective of what I was doing.
And when I finally put the scissors down and stepped
back, my eyes were opened . . . and I gasped in horror. My hair, which had been about
shoulder-length, had now mysteriously been shortened to about an inch
long. No joke! I went from a bob to a crew cut. And I seriously didn’t see it happening as I
tried to even out “this little piece, and that quarter-inch, and hurry because D. is getting more upset.”
Well, when the shock wore off, there was nothing left to
do but grab the hair gel and spike it up into a sassy, little style. And then I waited for my husband to come home
from work. And when he walked in the
door, I was waiting there to meet him, giggling in embarrassment. The “Who is this young man and what have
you done with my wife?” look on his face was priceless.
If I could have hidden for months, I would have. But a few days later, we had to go to my
nephew’s birthday party. As I walked
around the corner and came into view of Jason’s relatives, his sister let out a
shocked “yelp” at the sight of my hair.
But you know the funny part, I had actually forgotten that I now looked
like an adolescent boy. And I began to
look all around me, like, “What is it?
What are looking at? What made
you gasp?” And then I realized that it
was me! And so I say once again: Never, ever, cut your own hair on impulse
while you’re home alone with a baby.
#4 After you have kids, real
conversations will become a thing of the past.
Get used to it. Now you will find
that you can’t complete a perfectly constructed sentence to save your
life. There is only so much room in your
brain. Your speaking ability has to move
over to make room for the Barney theme song.
After I had kids, I went from being an eloquent orator
(see!) to a blathering space-cadet that stops in mid-sentence because I heard a
noise from one of the kids, and then I can’t remember what I was just talking
about, and then I can’t - for the life of me - find the word that I want to
use. All of my previous knowledge has
atrophied in my head. Thank you, Barney
and Teletubbies!
But don’t worry, the other mothers of young children will
all be in that boat with you. So, oddly
enough, the conversations work out alright.
And sadly enough, you will find yourself wanting to talk about
(and defend) Barney and the Teletubbies.
(Okay, maybe not the Teletubbies, but definitely Barney . . . and the
Wiggles.) They will become personal
friends that take center stage in your conversations with other mothers of
young children. It’s sick, I know! You never thought that day would ever
come, but it does! Oh, yes, it
does!
#5 Phone conversations with other
moms who have kids underfoot all day will be different, too. But these are amusing, if you pay
attention. They usually go something
like this:
“Hey, Jen, how are you doing? I was just (Hey, put that down!) calling to
say ‘Hi.’ I wanted to (I said stop
hitting him . . . and put your pants back on) remind you . . . (Where are your
pants anyway? Why did you take them
off?) Sorry, Jen, hold on a second. I’m putting R.’s pants back on. Okay, there!
Anyway, do you think that you could . . . (Don’t pull on the phone
cord! Get out of here please, and go
watch TV for two minutes so I can talk.
No! I am not giving you a snack
right now. When I am OFF THE
PHONE!) What was I saying? Oh, yeah, this weekend, I was thinking, (No,
NO SNACK! Hey, where’d you get that
from? Fine, just go eat it in the other
room.) did you want to visit with all of us and the families sometime where we
may get to. . . what’s the word . . . visit without the kids invading us, I
mean, interrupting us all the time?
(WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? Hey, you, D.? ... H.? ... J? ... you
know who I’m talking to! You in the
blue, get over here!) You know, dinner
this weekend?”
See! Your ability
to speak does go. But it’s especially
fun when it’s happening to the other person and you get to listen to it.
#6 Get in the habit of writing
things down. Before I had kids, I could
remember all the phone numbers, and what was happening when and with whom. Now, if I’m simply asked what day it is, I
stare blankly with a confused look on my face.
Day? What is ‘day’? Honestly, the wheels are spinning, but
nothing is coming to the surface. Same
thing when someone asks me how old I am.
(I have to ask my husband, or figure out how old he is and subtract a
year, or recall what year I was born and count up. Isn’t that pathetic?) I used to hear that you lose your memory when
you have kids. But I think that you
still have the same amount of memory, it just gets spread a lot thinner. So it’s basically useless. Write it down!
#7 Cereal is an acceptable dinner
occasionally. No guilt allowed!
#8 Shoes and socks are optional in
the yard. Or more accurately, they’re
near impossible to keep on some wild children.
Lately, every time I open the door, running around the yard in nothing
but a diaper is a muddy, screaming, feral animal that looks an awful lot like
the fully-clothed two-year-old that I just let outside a little while ago. And speaking of socks, mismatched socks are
okay. Who is going to tell when your kid
has on one of his socks and one of his older brother’s socks? His pants hang low enough to cover . . .
sometimes.
#9 Now, this is one that I really
believe in: Let kids get good and filthy
in the yard! I think it’s good for their
immune systems (as long as your yard is chemical-free) and good for their
souls. Kids were made for the
outdoors. I love watching my kids
getting dirty in the yard while enjoying God’s creation. Nothing is as simple and pure as that. It’s what childhood should be made of!
And it’s sad because I actually had to teach my kids that
it’s okay to get dirty. My husband’s
first reaction when they played was always, “Stay out of the mud! Get out of the puddle! Don’t get your clothes dirty!” But I come from a different view. I was the muddy, tree-climbing,
outside-till-dark kind of kid. My
greatest memories were (and still are) outdoor ones. (Think about it! God made us to be outside in gardens . . .
naked! That must explain the phase R. is going through!)
I was always making mud-pies, mixing “cake batter” made
with sticks and berries, or raking the fallen leaves into “houses” to play
in. But the thing that I loved doing the
most was climbing trees. You can learn a
lot from being outdoors. And one thing
that climbing trees taught me was that I was remarkably good at falling out of
them and that I can have an incredible lack of judgment sometimes.
When I was a kid, I thought it was be a good idea to
climb to the top of the maple tree in our backyard to collect leaves, even
though it had just rained. I was making
my neighbor a decoration. I had taken
one leaf and began inserting the stems of other leaves through it so that I
could make a . . .a? . . .a pile of leaves.
And the large, pretty leaves were at the top of the tree. So I grabbed a metal lawn chair and placed it
under the tree to reach the bottom branch.
Then I began my long, arduous climb to the top. I made it, too. And I sat up there filling up my leaf bouquet
until it was full and beautiful.
Then I started the trip down. Well, as anyone who has ever climbed trees
knows, the trip down is a lot harder than the trip up. And I had to maneuver carefully because I had
a fragile decoration in my hands.
However, like any child that lives in the moment, I forgot all about the
rain. And the second my foot hit the
first branch down, it slipped off.
Now, I do not know how this happened because it happened
so fast; but somehow I managed to fall from the top of the tree in a standing
position, with my legs spread apart, and I didn’t hit one branch before I
landed square on top of the chair and bent it in half between my legs. And I didn’t drop the decoration!
Another time, I had the brilliant idea to hang upside
down from the branch of that tree, holding only the ends of a towel that was
draped over it. I wanted to see if I could
hang all the way upside-down in a standing position. (Yeah, I know . . . Where was my
mother?) So I grabbed a towel and threw
it over the lowest branch. Then holding
one end of the towel in each hand, I began walking my feet up the tree trunk
until I was basically upside-down.
Any adult would know that they could not possibly keep a
tight grip on the ends of the towel with all their body weight pulling on
it. But I was smarter than an
adult. I was a ten-year-old! Sure enough, the towel slipped from my hands
and I crashed to the ground on my head (the natural consequence of being
upside-down). It really rang my
bell. My head pounded and spun for a few
minutes, as I sat there dazed and confused.
When the spinning stopped and I figured out where I was
and what happened, it dawned on me: This
was not a good idea . . . not without a helmet! I ran to the garage and crammed my little
brother’s way-too-small, plastic football helmet on my head and tried
again. How I made it to adulthood is a
miracle! (But not surprisingly, I did
have my fair share of trips to the emergency room. I must have been a parent’s nightmare.)
These
experiences and my fond memories of mud have helped me formulate my
theory: “If they are not dirty enough,
then they weren’t having enough fun.”
And that is something I have taught my boys! In fact, I send them back outside again if
they are not dirty enough. (They can
always take baths. When we remember
to!) Although, I am out there all the
time yelling things like, “Don’t stand on the slide, you could get hurt!” “Don’t run with that stick, you could get
hurt!” “Don’t run in the driveway, you
could get hurt!”
I know you may think that’s an overreaction. But let me tell you this story. When Jen’s husband, Jon, was a kid, his mom
used to tell him and his brothers not to run on the sidewalk or else
they could fall and break their wrists.
Well, one day, Jon’s brother was running on the sidewalk, and Jon
reminded him not to do that. And then in
an over-exaggerated, mocking demonstration of what not to do, Jon ran
down the sidewalk saying something like, “See, we’re not supposed to run down
the sidewalk because we might . . .” and then he fell and broke his
wrists. Both of them! See, we mothers do know a thing or two! (And, Jon, I’ve told you before and I’ll tell
you again, I love that story!
Sorry for your wrists, but it is so poetically sit-comish! A classic!)
Anyway, my memories of falling out of trees have also
helped me to be a little more understanding of the childish things that kids do
that completely defy reason and explanation.
You know, those What-on-earth-were-you-thinking moments. Honestly, when I was walking up that tree, I
can say that I was thinking - just in my own, ten-year-old, “I have to
learn about the laws of physics for myself” way.
#10 So remember that you were once
a kid, too. Go easy on your children
when they do foolish things. I’m
remembering a time when I was able to see a little of myself in my firstborn. We were all outside in the backyard, and
someone was flying away on the swing-set glider. I have to say, those things have always
scared me. They are the perfect height
and velocity to do some real damage to someone’s face.
I was very pregnant and resting on the back steps
watching the children play. D. came
over to me to give me a little kiss, as he often does. (He is a touchy-feely kind of kid. I love that!)
And then he turned around and made a bee-line directly for the
glider. I could see it in slow
motion. It was as if some mysterious
force was pulling him right to it, and I watched the glider fly full force into
his face.
I jumped up just as it hit and began running across the
yard to him. Now, you know how people
look when they run the bat race; you run down, put your forehead on the bat,
spin around three times and then try to run back. It’s great fun to watch! Especially when it’s a hugely pregnant, very
short woman running in sheer terror!
Because of my huge belly, my center of gravity was so off that I zigged
and zagged in drunken, bat-race fashion across the yard. I was a five-foot tall Weeble wobbling all
over as the weight of my belly propelled my top-half forward faster than my
legs could catch up. But I didn’t fall
down. (My husband said it was amazing to
watch!)
When I got to him, I began examining his face and I said
what every good, concerned mother says, “WHAT ON EARTH were you thinking? You ran right for it! What were you trying to do, D.? You could have smashed your teeth out!”
And the whole time he was saying, “Sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.” When it dawned
on me that he was apologizing to me for getting his face smashed, and when I
could tell that he was amazingly alright (it hit him in the top lip - a
half-inch higher would have broken his nose and a half-inch lower would have
bust his teeth out. Thank you, Lord!), I
changed my tune.
“D., you don’t have to apologize to me. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I was just so scared that you were hurt. You are not in trouble for anything. I’m just so glad you are alright.”
He told me that he was running to his brother on the
glider, and that he did not realize that while it was swinging away from him as
he ran toward it, it would meet him square in the face on its return trip
back. After I caught my breath, my head
stopped spinning, and my vision returned to normal, I told him about my story
of climbing and falling out of that tree.
I could relate to the sheer lack of thinking things through. I wanted him to realize that we all do things
like that. It’s a part of growing up and
learning those pesky laws of physics.
(Honestly, though, I always thought it would be a younger
child who wasn’t paying attention that would get hit by the glider. Not an older one running right for it. Kids are surprising like that! Remember . . . Expect the Unexpected! Oh, and with boys especially, you should be
praying this daily, “Lord, protect them from themselves!” Example:
Jason had installed little hooks on the end of the boys’ bunk-bed so
that they could hang up their jackets.
And one day, I walked into the room to find R. sitting in a laundry
basket that was HANGING from one of the hooks by a belt that he had attached to
it. I was amazed at his ingenuity, but
he was told to never do that
again!)
#11 If the balance of power is
rather equal and they are not bleeding, then let them handle it. Don’t step in and fight all their battles for
them. (But don’t allow name calling and other
kinds a disrespectful talk. That’s just
not right! You wouldn’t believe how many
disrespectful, naughty children there are on the playgrounds. Seriously, if parents don’t correct
children’s misbehavior, they won’t learn.)
In fact, it is a very wise thing to pick your battles
carefully. This is a lesson that only a
broken, tired, humbled mother can understand.
If I didn’t pick my battles, I would find myself fighting all day long
over the littlest things, especially when my third is so willing to fight me on
everything.
It’s so embarrassing to admit this, but I’ve actually
gotten to the point where I can convince myself that I am still in control
while R. laughs at me from his position of King-of-the-Hill. I’ll tell him to do something; “R., pick
up these toys or you cannot watch TV!”
And I’ll see him start to bristle, ready for a fight.
So I’ll back off a little; “R., pick up these toys
while you watch TV.” Not good enough for
him. He’ll begin to whine and fight
it. And I’m usually right in the middle
of doing something and can’t stop to battle a toddler. (Maybe I should pick my timing better,
too?)
So I’ll back down a little more, but I’ll make it sound
firmer and with a more serious tone-of-voice, “R., put that one toy away
that’s in your hand RIGHT NOW, and then go back to watching TV.” That is basically all he was going to do in
the first place, anyway. So he happily
complies, and I convince myself that I really asserted my authority that
time. (Wow! Is that pathetic or what? If he turns out to be a monster, I can’t
really ever wonder why! Honestly,
though, I’ve really only done this a couple of times . . . okay, a handful of
times. I’m working on it. This is more like advice of what not to
do!)
Back when I had it “all together,” I never thought that
I’d see the day when my kids would be screaming like wild animals, grabbing
handfuls of hair, fighting about something or other . . . and I would be
sitting there peacefully (or exhausted) in the chair and doing nothing to
intervene. Just watching! (Trust me!
If I’m that exhausted, it’s probably better that I don’t intervene. Totally flies in the face of my “correct
their misbehavior” advice. Sorry!)
Besides, if I just sit here long enough, Daddy might hear
the fighting and see that I am doing nothing, and he’ll step in to deal with
it. Seriously! The first parent to make a move to intervene
or ask what’s going on is the one who has to do something about it. (Same with whoever notices the poopy diaper
first.) So, if you can just wait him
out, your husband might just have to jump in and take care of it. (You don’t learn that kind of advice in a
parenting book, either. It’s just the
kind of thing that comes with experience - and a severe lack of sleep.)
#12 Matthew 5:37: “Simply let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No’ . .
.” I totally agree with this, but
this is a tricky one because children speak a different language than parents
do. Let’s say they ask for something. Here are some of the things we say and (what
they hear):
“Yes!” (Absolutely!
I will jump up this very minute and do your bidding.)
“No!” (Ask again in a few minutes.)
“I don’t know?
We’ll see.” (Yes, but ask again
in a few minutes.)
“Give me a minute.
Will Ya?” (Stand there for three seconds, swaying back and forth, and
then ask me again.)
“In a little while!” (As soon as you ask me again a few
more times.)
“Not right now!
I’m busy, can’t you see!” (I
don’t have time, so ask faster.)
“I said stop asking me about it!” (Forgive me, for I must
not be understanding you properly; so ask louder and with more whine.)
Parents, you know I’m not exaggerating! I found that a good way to stop the endless
pestering is just to say “no” right off the bat. And say it firmly, with the added note, “If
you ask again, it will definitely be a no!”
(Redundant, huh? But kids don’t
get that. They can, however, smell
indecisiveness. So put on your best
poker-face.) Then when I’m ready, I can
just say, “I changed my mind. Now I’m ready!”
This,
of course, has its own pitfall because it only works the first time. And, of course, it isn’t really letting your
“yes” be yes and your “no” be no. Kids
will quickly learn that “no” really means “Yes, in a few minutes.” But, ironically, if you had just said “Yes,
in a few minutes,” they would hear, “Ask me again in about fifteen seconds or I
might forget.” It’s a learning
experience. Good luck with it. I still haven’t figured it all out.
A friend of mine, Corrie, once gave me a piece of good
advice that her mom told her. “Say ‘Yes’
as much as you can, so that when you say ‘No’ it means something.” I love that.
It makes perfect sense.
Especially when I see how my way of saying ‘no’ right off the bat
doesn’t really work anyway.
There are so many times that my first reaction to any
request is to say “no.” And then, when I
think about the request again, I realize that there was really no good reason
to say “no.” Why not “yes”? Usually, if I’m honest with myself, it’s just
because I’m too tired or busy to process what they are asking, or I just don’t
feel like it. Usually, saying “yes”
entails some work or effort on my part.
But I’m trying to remember to think about their request before I
answer. It’s a lot better than changing
my answer after spontaneously reacting with “no.”
#13 Just like we have to know how
to speak their language, we also have to learn to anticipate how they think so
that we can be one step ahead of them, head them off at the pass. I did something once that was quite
stupid. In an attempt to try to educate
my child with a fascinating experiment, I called H. over to me and said . .
. (Well, first of all, you have to remember that H. likes mischief and
danger a little more than D. does. He likes
trying to see what he can get away with and how far he can push the envelope.)
. . . anyway, I said, “Hey, wanna see what I can do with a magnifying glass and
a dry leaf?”
That’s right! I
was gonna show him how to burn a hole in a leaf as an experiment on the power
of concentrated sunlight. But what I saw
as an educational experiment, he saw as great, evil-genius power. I could see it in his eyes as I showed him
how the sunlight burns a hole in the leaf.
You know, as I was asking him if he’d like to see the experiment, my
brain was telling my mouth, “Abort mission!
Abort mission! Not the right
child to show this to!” But I didn’t listen.
As I finished the experiment and walked away, I could
feel the glee emanating from him. I
could hear the anticipation in his voice as he sweetly said, "Mom, can you go into the house, please?", waiting for me to leave
him alone with the magnifying glass. And
I realized the horrible, evil-genius power that I had just unleashed in
him. And I knew that if I didn’t do
something, we would end up with a flaming backyard.
Well, I knew that if I banned him from it completely, he
might be tempted to try it while I was not looking. And so I had to make sure that didn’t
happen. I went outside and said,
“H., do not ever try this on your own.
You could start a fire. But if
you ever do want to try it, come get me and I will watch you do it.”
I don’t think that he ever tried it without me. (At least, we have never had any fires.) But the lesson I learned here was to
anticipate what might be going through the child’s head and stay one step ahead
of them at all times. Oh, and I learned
to be more careful with putting the wrong kind of power in the wrong
hands.
#14 Don’t take everything so
seriously. Sometimes we have
opportunities to have a little fun with our children. And that’s okay. It’s beneficial, even. Proverbs
15:13: “A happy heart makes the face cheerful . . .”
One time, when D. was two years old, he came to me with
a messy diaper. In a flash of genius,
the jar of chocolate pudding in the fridge came to my mind. I secretly got the jar, stuck my finger into
the pudding and brought out a big glob of it.
Then acting like I was checking his diaper, I pretended to dip my finger
into the mess. I held my pudding finger
up in the air, showed my son and went, “Oh, eewww, poopy diaper.” Then I stuck my finger in my mouth and licked
it off with dramatic flair.
My sweet, innocent two-year-old (who probably thought the
world of his mother) screamed in horror and clawed his way backward across the
couch, yelling, “No, poopies! OH,
NO! POOPIES!” I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t finish
the joke. Oh, the things we do for our
own amusement sometimes. Of course, then
I had to give him a little speech about how it was really just pudding,
and we don’t eat real poopies, just in case.
(I’m twisted, I know! But he
loves hearing that story to this day!
Laughs so hard that he cries.)
#15 You won’t just do crazy things
with your kids, but you’ll do crazy things for your kids. The yard directly behind ours is a complete
mass of vicious, monster, black raspberry vines which have crawled over into
our yard. Surrounding them like a
barricade (on our side of the property line) are these horrible, mutant weeds
which are (no joke) twelve-feet tall and form a thicket so bad that there isn’t
the tiniest bit of a path to get through to the raspberries.
One super-hot day in the middle of the summer, I fought a
massive army of mosquitoes to get a few berries from the outermost edges. A tiny handful was all I could do. I had donated enough blood to the bugs and
vines! I brought them inside, and
gallantly presented them to R. and H..
Well, they loved the berries so much that I felt this incredible urge to
do everything I could to make sure that they had as many of them as I could
possibly get my hands on. And so I
prepared for battle!!
So, it’s like ninety degrees outside, the mosquitoes are
hungry, and the raspberry vines are just plain mean! I put on the thickest pair of black jeans
that I had and a hooded gray sweatshirt to protect my arms. Then I pull the hood up over my baseball cap
and tighten it around my face to keep the bugs off. If they were bad at the edge of the “jungle,”
I can only imagine how bad they would be deep inside of it.
I headed to the backyard with a measuring cup, hacked my
way through the weeds, and literally disappeared into the jungle. And there I was, completely bundled up in the
sweltering heat, “stealing” the berries at the property line. But I wasn’t in there for more than two
minutes before little mosquito brains went, Oh, fresh meat! And they began systematically devouring
my flesh with massive, razor-sharp teeth.
(I didn’t know mosquitoes had teeth like that.)
I began to suffocate on the bugs, and I had to get out of
there fast! But I had precariously
tiptoed this way and that to get through the weeds and to avoid the nasty
thorns on the vines, so there was no way to get out fast. I had to carefully maneuver around to find
the hidden path, slowly moving one foot at a time to avoid getting more
entangled. And all the while, I’m
furiously swatting bugs from my legs and face and yelling, “No! Get away from me! Get back, you terrible beasts!” And the faster I try to move and swat, the
more entangled I become in the vines.
Eventually, with scratches and welts, I emerge from the
weeds carrying my precious one cup of
pilfered berries. And as I’m scurrying
back to the house, with the tip of my nose being the only flesh visible on this
scalding day, it suddenly dawns on me, I really hope no one was watching me! For all I knew, my neighbors were on their
back porch enjoying their cup of coffee and watching the crazy lady in the
burglar-gear fight the bugs and thorns as she stealthily and strenuously tried
to gather as many berries as possible over the yard line, without technically
crossing into the other person’s yard.
And I’d always be known as “The Berry Burglar.” It was a long trip back to the house as I
kept my head down and walked as fast as I could.
Back in the kitchen, I proudly present my gift to the
boys. They, of course, gobbled them up
within a minute, completely unaware that this little gift cost me my blood and
my dignity! And I chuckled at myself for
the next hour or two, as I avoided any eye contact with my neighbors for the
rest of the day! Oh, the things we do
for our children!
#16 If there is one thing that I
know for certain, it’s that, with children, there will be spots. Get comfortable with spots on your
clothes. When you have young children,
you can expect spots of all kinds, from coffee to spaghetti sauce to spit-up to
snot. (Body fluids don’t scare you as
much after having children!)
And how is it that when I’m mixing batter and one drop flies out of a bowl, it lands square
on my shirt in a spot that I don’t really want people staring at? Despite the fact that it had about 270 other
degrees it could have gone? That, or it
will hit me right in the eye, going around the glasses that I’m wearing. That always amazes me! I am not kidding, the other night during
dinner, R. was sitting three feet away from me. Three feet!
When he said something, a large piece of food shot out of his mouth,
flew around my glasses, and hit me right in the inside corner of my eye, where it
proceeded to bother me for an hour. How
in the world?
And remember that you can always tell another mother of
young children by the spots on her disheveled, wrinkled clothes. There’s no point in being overly embarrassed
by them. (Gina worked at a camp one
summer and told me this story. One of
the little girls in her cabin was crying about something, and Gina was trying
to comfort her. As this little girl
cried, snot began running down her face.
And you know what she did? She
grabbed the end of Gina’s shirt, that she was still wearing, and blew
her nose all over it. With kids, spots
happen!)
#17 Don’t be too concerned, either,
about toys and stuff all over the house when you have young ones. Remember that you’re only one person and
something has to slide. (I say this
mostly to comfort myself!) You know what
I’ve learned anyway? If you wait long
enough, the mess usually reaches a certain plateau and doesn’t get much messier
than that (probably because it can’t).
So, why try to kill yourself fighting it?
I have tried time and time again to explain this to my
husband when he wonders why I can’t keep up with the mess. And lately, he has been cleaning up a lot
around the house. And I have had the
sadistic pleasure of overhearing him muttering to himself while cleaning the
kitchen, “No matter how much I clean up around here, it’s still just as
messy. It doesn’t even look like I’ve
done any work at all. Why do I bother? I may as well just leave it because no matter
how much work I do, it doesn’t get any cleaner.” (Thank You, Lord! Thank
You, thank You for letting me overhear that!)
But you know the amazing part? I still can’t convince him that it’s
the natural order of things when you have young children in a very small space
all day. So, bless his heart, he still
keeps trying. Now, I know he’ll be upset
if I don’t add this: I do need to teach
the kids to pick up after themselves more.
That is part of the reason the house is such a disaster. (But, honestly, that is just as much work as
doing it myself.)
#18 By all means, don’t wait until
the house is spotless to have company over, especially when company has young
kids of their own. They probably have a
house that’s just as messy (although you’ll never know it because it’s always
cleaned up for company). Be brave! Be the first one to admit, “This is how the
house normally looks. So if you don’t
mind the mess, you’re more than welcome to come over.”
When we were just getting to know Jon and Amy, the
neighbors across the street from our first house, they invited us over to
visit. And when we walked in, their
house looked lived-in . . . normal. And
Jon said something that I just loved. He
said, “If we wait till the house is spotless, we may never have company
over. I’d rather just have company come
over.” I thought that was so real, so
great. (And for the record, their
“lived-in” look was still a lot cleaner than ours. And even more so lately. One of these days, I’ll get there.)
I used to get pretty upset when people would pop over
without calling first, embarrassed by the mess.
My in-laws had of way of doing this.
And, usually, they would show up before I’ve been able to brush my hair,
change out of my pajamas and get the kids dressed. (So what if it was 10 a.m.?) I can’t think of a time that they have come
over when the house looked respectably clean.
I’d even settle for not-quite-a-disaster. It used to embarrass me and I would try to
come up with some half-truths to explain the mess.
“Oh, sorry about the mess. We are going through our bins and switching
clothes for the season.” (Umm, yeah!
It’s the middle of the summer.)
Or “It was clean over the weekend, but we just had company over and it
got destroyed again.” (Two weekends ago!)
Or my favorite, “I’m going through everything to weed stuff out.” (Which I’ve been doing for three years
now. And that is really not a
lie!)
At some point, I just got tired of apologizing for the
mess. Now when they come over
unexpectedly, I just say, “The place is a disaster because . . . well, because
it always is. Just kick the toys aside
and, if you can find them, pick up the couch cushions and put them back on the
couch so you can sit down.” I figure
they should know me by now. I’m not
fooling anyone.
I’ve learned to not judge others by the mess in their
house. And when I am tempted to be
shocked at someone else’s messy house, it dawns on me, “Oh, wait! This is exactly how my house
looks.” And suddenly, I feel a certain
camaraderie with them and the mess doesn’t seem so disturbing. I just enjoy the visit. After all, as Corrie graciously told me on
her first visit to my house, when I apologized for the mess, “Well, It’s a good
thing I came to see you and not your house.”
Thank you! Thank you very much!
#19 Always remember , “Coffee is
your friend!” And when all else goes
wrong, “Chocolate never fails!” Just
make sure that you have enough for the kids, too, unless you eat it in a
soundproof, airtight room.
However,
I would like to add a caution. If you
are not a coffee drinker, then don’t start.
Coffee may be a friend, but sometimes that friend is like a giant,
belligerent gorilla that you willingly strap yourself to with a heavy,
fifteen-foot-long chain. Sure, you can go
about business as usual, but only within sight of this demanding beast. You will go from a happy, relaxed
sunshine-greeter to a sullen, foggy-eyed grunter doing the zombie-walk to pay
homage to your ape friend first thing in the morning, before he gets angry and
begins ruthlessly whipping that chain around.
Then you’ll be sorry! So I really
can’t, in good conscience, recommend this to non-coffee drinkers. Fair Warning!
#20 (We’re almost to the end!) Here’s one that you only learn way after the
fact. Never - ever - comment on or
criticize another person’s kids. I
promise you, it will come back around.
Never say, “Wow, look at the giant head on that kid,” unless you want
Humpty Dumpty for a son. (Now, I don’t
have a Humpty Dumpty, but my oldest was in adult hats by the time he was
five.) Don’t say, “Man, So-and-So’s kid
is a terror.” That particular one led to
the Lord blessing us with feisty child #2 and wild child #3. (Alright, Lord! I get it already!) Or there was the time that I commented on how
loud someone else’s kid was. Just a
comment, not a criticism! Well, yes . .
. again may I introduce you to R.?
(That poor kid! He’s really a
delight in so many ways. But he does
have his . . . um . . . quirks.)
I truly think that if I had just kept my mouth shut about
other people, I might just have had quiet, clean children who willingly help
with cleaning my already spotless house, and my hair would get brushed before
Jason comes home from work. But I’m
learning!
#21 And lastly, never get too comfortable
or too sure of yourself as a parent.
Kids throw curveballs, and they usually do so in front of other
people. We were at Jellystone in
Wisconsin Dells for a family vacation one year, and it was time to line up for
the “Hey” Ride. We stood there, just
minding our own business, with a lot of other families who were just minding
theirs. There was some time to
kill. (I love campgrounds! There’s such a closeness with others:
community bathrooms, wearing a swimsuit around other people after having children,
eating meals and scolding children in front of the neighbors, and singing the
“Hey Ride” song way off-key together.
Seriously, we all sound like a bunch of drunk sailors. It’s great fun!)
Well, we sat there in line with our three kids, trying
not to zone out and watch anyone else too closely. There was nothing else to do but wait. Everyone was so quiet. Everyone . . . except R.. And R., for some reason, kept sticking his
finger in his nose. Ok, so he’s only a
few years old and that’s expected. But
it doesn’t look good and it’s not hygienic.
“R., keep your finger out of your nose.” We didn’t want other families to notice as we
had to pull his finger out of his nose a couple more times.
Then, even better, he starts to dig in his pants. “R.!
What are you doing? Get
your hands out of your pants,” I hissed.
But he starts howling, “Owww, my butt hurts.” Casting an embarrassed, apologetic smile at
the other parents, I shush him and adjust his underwear. It doesn’t work. Then, as if that is not enough, he begins
trying to fight me to get his hand back in his underwear and keeps yelling,
“Oww, my buttcwack! It hurts! It hurts!
Oww! Oww! My buttcwack!”
My face begins to get hot, as I can only imagine what
others must be thinking. So I do my best
to look like a normal, decent person, and say, “You must have wiped too hard or
not well enough.” And I take him to the
bathroom to remedy the situation.
When I come out, I feel like everyone’s eyes are on me
because they now think that my child is a grimy, little, non-butt-wiper. And I begin to wonder if we have just a
little more space in line. Hey, he did
just wash his hands, and so did I. But I
wouldn’t even want my kids near him right now if he wasn’t mine. So we resumed our waiting, feeling about two
inches big. I would be rolling my
eyes and raising my eyebrows at us right now.
We just get R. settled, and then I look down to see
one of my older sons (who shall remain nameless!) squatting and fiddling with
something in his pants. (Oh, yes,
folks! It gets worse! How long is this wait?) Now, I knew that he just won some bouncy
balls, and that they were in his pocket.
But as he squatted there, with his hands outside of his pants and
fiddling with them through the clothes, it didn’t look appropriate. We already had the nose picking and butt-digging
episode. We didn’t need this mark
against us, too. So I leaned down and
discreetly began to whisper, “Honey, you need to stop doing that because it
looks like . . .”
He, however, cuts me off and belts out in protest, “I’m
just playing with my balls,
MOM!” My shoulders slumped, my head
dropped in shame! I was laughing
hysterically, of course, but I wanted to crawl in a hole. But there was nowhere to go and it was
pointless to try to defend myself again.
And so I resumed avoiding eye-contact until the stinkin’ Hey ride
finally pulled up.
These are the kinds of things that kids will do in front
of other people. When I used to hear
kids screaming in the store (before I had my own), I would think, What is
wrong with the discipline in that house?
Why can’t you control your child?
Now I think, Thank God it isn’t mine right now. Poor mother!
It’s like there’s this big mud-pit called Motherhood. It’s a good mud-pit! But it’s deep and messy and slippery; full of
embarrassing and humbling moments and endless tasks like meals, dirty laundry,
dirty dishes, runny noses, dirty diapers, sticky fridges, sticky tables, sticky
little faces, and piles and piles of unsolicited junk mail. (What a waste of trees!)
Before you have kids, you are standing at the top and
looking down at all the tired, weary mothers trying to claw their ways out of
their slippery messes. Some are
continually trying to tidy up their little space in the mud-hole, looking like
they have it all together. (Some
actually do have it all together. God
bless them!) Some are running around
chasing little ones and can’t be bothered by the mud. Some have given up, laid down, and made their
peace with the mud. And some are sifting
through the mud looking for their marbles.
You shake your head and “TSK-TSK” in pity as you make mental notes of
all the ways you think they could do better.
And you utter the infamous words, “When I have kids, I’m never going to
. . .”
Then, one day, you welcome a screaming, little, blue or
pink dictator into the world. And before
you know it, the solid ground beneath your feet gives way, and you start
sliding down a slippery, muddy slope into the pit with the rest of them - “the
Mothers.” At first, you try to look cool
and collected.
“Yeah, I don’t mind being down here. It’s just where I wanted to be. I can do all of this with ease and perfectly
manicured nails, too. And I’m going to
do it better than all the other mothers.”
(And for the record, I’ve never had manicured nails. I’m more of a
garden-dirt-under-my-fingernails kind of person.)
Now with one kid, you eventually find yourself thinking, Hmmm,
It’s not quite as easy as I thought to keep up with everything. But it’s not that hard, either. Just a small
adjustment. And, oh, is that a little
mud under my polished pink fingernail?
And you flick it away. It’s just
a little bit.
Then you have two kids.
With two kids, you begin finding mud in places you didn’t expect: on
your elbows, in your hair, up to your knees.
But every so often, you can get it cleaned off enough to look pretty
well pulled-together. (At least when
company’s coming over.) It’s not too
long, though, until you notice spots of it again. “And I just cleaned it off!” But your hair still looks good.
But with three kids, (Oh, yes! Three! It sounds like such a small number,
doesn’t it?) you find yourself and the children rolling around on the
ground, covered head to toe in mud, as you claw at giant handfuls of brown
slop, slinging them in any direction just to get your tiny spot in the mud-pit
clean for a moment. “I just want to see
it clean for thirty minutes. Thirty
minutes! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO
ASK?” (Umm, yes! It is!)
But try as you might, you can’t get it clean because
someone else is slinging slop back at you from their spot. So you desperately begin grasping at the
walls, looking for a foothold to climb out to higher, cleaner ground. They give way! And you frantically throw your body up against
them to fight the onslaught of mud that keeps pouring down the sides of the
pit. And so it goes all day long!
And when you’ve pointlessly exhausted yourself, you give
up and you slide down to the ground and sit there defeated in a pile of
unfinished things. And as your eyes
gloss over, you begin humming a wishful tune, something about everybody,
everywhere, helping clean up, everybody doing their share.
And then you look up and you see someone standing at the
edge of the pit high above you. She
doesn’t have kids yet. And she’s looking
down at you and your mud-hole with eyes full of judgment and pity. And you hear it: “TSK-TSK.
When I have kids, I’ll never . . .”
And you want to stand up tall, brush back your matted
hair with a filthy hand, stick out your defiant, sweat-streaked chin, and raise
a mud-encrusted fist and yell, “Just wait until it happens to you! It’s not as easy as it looks! I’m trying!
I’m really trying! And I know you
can’t tell, but I’m actually doing a really good job!”
But you don’t. You
just swallow your pride, keep on doing what you’re doing, and you wait for God
to bless them with a little dictator of their own. And then when they slide down into the pit
next to you and give you that bewildered, anxious, How-did-I-get-here look, you
can put your arm around their exhausted shoulders, pat their back and say,
“That’s okay. We all understand. We’ll all get through this together.” Ahh, motherhood! It really is a wonderful, wonderful
adventure! (And for the record . . .
I’ve always loved playing in the mud!)
I don’t always have it together. But I try.
And I keep trying, hoping, and praying for the best. My house may be a wreck, and I can’t keep up
with all the piles of laundry, papers, and dirty dishes. But my family is well-fed, hugged, loved, and
enjoyed. Children won’t be young
forever. I try to make sure that I don’t
waste this precious time that I can never get back on what doesn’t really
matter. (Just come look at my house and
you’ll see that I’m telling the truth.
On second thought, please don’t.)
(Oh, and one more piece of advice for the women out there
who have given birth to children: Cross
your legs when you sneeze!)
