motherhood

Big enough dreams: Part 2

“Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.”

Well, I got what I wished for…I was accepted to the Listen to Your Mother Metro Detroit show! You can see the official cast announcement here.

Holy buckets! I am so nervous I might barf. I am so excited I can’t sit still. It is an honor to be chosen from among the almost 50 women who auditioned. It is a great privilege to be able to share our journey through #childhoodcancer and how it has influenced how I think of myself as a mother.

When I told S the good news, I said “I think I am becoming a writer.” He said, “You have always been a writer. Now, you are writing.”

Gulp.

How do you teach a six year old about love?

Tonight at bedtime with C:

Something happened at school today, Mommy, but I don’t want to tell you about it.

Why honey?

Because I don’t want you to get mad at me.

I won’t get mad. You can tell me honey, its okay.

Even if I do something bad?

Even if you do something bad, baby.

It doesn’t feel like it when you get angry with me.

I raise my voice sometimes honey because I get frustrated. But I always love you.

If it’s doubly bad?

Even then sweet pea. Honey, I will always love you. I love who you are, not what you do.

What if it’s quadruple bad?

Yes, bugaboo. Always. That’s the magic of moms. We always love our babies. I promise.

I am not ready to tell you yet. Can we stop talking about it? Let’s do butterfly kisses, Mommy.

Okay, baby.

Why are they called butterfly kisses? Oh, I get it. Like if a butterfly’s wings are on your cheek?

When did my baby grow up and how is he so mature that he can recognize when he is ready to talk about something and when he isn’t? I’m 38 and I have yet to master that skill.

And more important, how do I tell my son that my love is forever? That I will never, ever, stop loving him? That there is nothing that I would not do for him? How do you teach a six year old about love?

As a mother, I learn something new about love every day. Today, I learned that I cannot teach my son about love. I have to show him. I have to never stop loving. Never stop showing him my love, in word, in action, in thought, and prayer.

The wonderful thing about being a mom is that we forget everything and nothing. I will forget what he did at school today. I will always remember his sweet face under his blue blanky as he asks me to rub his back.

C, I will always love you. Always and all ways.

The kind of mother I am

Today was a snow day for our whole family. Over coffee I started to ask my husband about the laundry list of projects (in my head) that need to get done in our house. I’d like to continue to organize the boys’ bedrooms, donate old books and clothes, tear down wallpaper (who wallpapers a heating vent?), take out the old rounded baseboards and put in the more current, squared off taller stuff, crown molding in the living room. When I start these conversations, I can feel my wheels spinning and see my husband’s eyes glaze over as he tunes me out. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He works hard to maintain our home. He just has other priorities. I asked him if he ever got overwhelmed by the amount of work that needs to be done. His answer was simple. “No. I know we are going to live here a long time and there is nothing that needs to get done tomorrow to make this house liveable.” Here I am beating myself up because I want my living room to look like a Pottery Barn catalog and my boys to be able to find toys when they want them and my husband is enjoying his coffee and his snow day.

I often think to myself, “What kind of mother am I?” This morning, it was 5 degrees. At their request, I bundled the boys up and helped them trek outside, but I didn’t go myself. Too cold. But I sat inside bathing in mom guilt because I had the day off and I didn’t take advantage of the time with them and play in the snow. Maybe I am not the kind of mom who does those things.

Maybe I am, I just wasn’t that kind of mom today.

For me, the biggest battle of motherhood has been with myself. Some of it is internal wiring. Some of it is my upbringing and the pressure put on me by myself and others to always be striving for more, to achieve, achieve, achieve. I don’t judge my husband, my sons, my parents, or my friends by one choice that they make on any given day, so why am I holding myself to that standard?

Motherhood isn’t about one decision on one day. One decision does not define me. But, a lifetime of decisions, does. And, as long as the cumulative effect of my decisions is positive, then I will have done right by them. That’s always the goal, right? To leave the world better than I found it. I hope to leave the world two men who will go on to do their own good in the world.

I was still in my pajamas when a friend texted to arrange a play date between her two sons and mine. At my house. Granted, I had offered the night before, so it wasn’t a total surprise. But, I was still in my pajamas! What kind of mother does that? At 2pm on a Monday? I never showered so fast in my life.

When all four boys were playing, I got inspired to organize the drawers in my nightstand. I’m still in purging mode. In with the pens (how many pens do I need in there?), chapstick, and Aveda hand lotion (the best, and completely necessary in Michigan winters), I found my prayer journals, some books, and piles and piles of little notes. I knew the notes were in there, I had just forgotten how many. There were hundreds of them, written on old sticky notes, receipts, vouchers for the parking garage at the hospital where our son was treated, on the wrappers of tea bags (?).

My sons’ childhoods on little pieces of paper.

When they slept through the night, rolled over, sat up. How many words they knew at a certain age. Funny things they said. Stories about what happened at school on a particular day. Recountings of dreams and nightmares. Fear of the dark and thunder because “it makes me sad.” Hugging me and my husband “because you are two people and I have two arms for hugging.”

Most of the notes were dated and labeled with who said it. (Go me!) I spent the afternoon sorting them into piles and then putting each pile into a folder. Some day I will give each son his own file folder full of little scraps of paper. They are memories. My memories of them and how they are growing before my eyes.

Looking at the piles that covered my bed, I thought about what kind of mother I am and what that means for my sons. Today, I was not the kind of mother who bundled up and went outside. Today, I was the kind of mom who raced to the shower so I wasn’t embarrassed when a friend showed up to play. Hopefully my sons won’t remember those things. Those are just the things I did today.

Hopefully they will remember me as a woman of courage who worked to quiet her inner critics. Hopefully they will remember me as the kind of mother who remembers to write down the quirky stories and the funny things they said. Hopefully they will remember me as a writer and a keeper of memories. That is the kind of mother I am.

Parent “helper”

Last week I volunteered in my son’s second grade classroom for the “one-room schoolhouse event.” Since September, they have been learning about life in the Pioneer days- think Little House on the Prairie, covered wagons, and no electricity or running water. That day, the entire second grade pod was transformed. The teachers wore long skirts, white aprons and bonnets. The children were asked to dress up as well and bring their non-processed lunches in brown paper bags, baskets, or wrapped in napkins. The lights were off and they weren’t allowed to use the water fountain. Each classroom became a one-room schoolhouse, with multiple grades of students in each room. L. wasn’t too thrilled about being demoted to first-grade for the morning, but he made the most of it. It was impressive and very, very organized! It was obvious that the four teachers had worked long and hard to transform their classrooms so the students could go back in time. And you know, actually learn something.

I arrived early and waited outside my son’s classroom for my assignment. As I was standing there, several other parents arrived. I was stunned to observe how loud and disruptive they were. I have a natural awe of and deference toward teachers that when I see such overt disregard for their work, I am stunned speechless. It’s totally fine and completely natural to want to chit-chat with your fellow mom-friends and parents of your child’s peers. I actually crave that time. It makes me feel normal and not so isolated.

Usually, people are aware enough to keep it to a slow murmur. Not that day. There were three grown women standing right outside a classroom door, talking and laughing at full pitch. One of the teachers came out and closed her door. That should have been the first clue. Then, one of the teachers whose door was already closed, came out, and spoke with them. She asked them very politely to please keep it down. She said something to the effect of: “We have a lot to get through and it would be helpful if you could keep it down out here. Then, we I am ready I will come out to explain the rotations to all the parent helpers.”

That didn’t go over very well. As soon as that door closed the Chatty Cathys reamed her. They absolutely ripped into her. And they weren’t even trying to be quiet about it. They started twittering and making faces and rolling their eyes. Kind of like a second-grader would. Then, right after that a fourth mother arrived and shouted at them from the other end of the hallway, across all four classrooms: “Hey, why aren’t you all dressed up, too?” The three who had just been scolded, said something like, “Shhhhh! We just got yelled at for talking!” I wish I could write how high-pitched and nasaly they sounded. Then they walked down the hall laughing and snickering. (I am assuming they came back eventually to help, but I honestly don’t know.)

Seriously? Who does that?

I wish I were making this up. It felt like a bad dream from grade school.

I understand the desire to chat with other moms. But, these women were there, in theory, to be parent helpers. After multiple messages went out from all four teachers indicating how much help they needed to make the day happen for the kids. (80 second graders, rotating through 4 stations of 30 minutes each) Chatting outside a classroom door is not helpful. And, that teacher had every right to say something to protect her time with her students, her lesson, and the learning environment that all four of them were trying to create.

If Chatty Cathy wants to be social, do it in the parking lot, or in your car, or at lunch after you are done volunteering. As a parent helper, I believe it is my role to be there to be helpful. I am perfectly wiling to be bossed around by teachers who are either younger than me, or old enough to be my mother. It’s not social hour. It is precious time that I get a window into my sons’ classrooms, where they spend more time every day than they do at home. I get to observe the teacher in action. How does she interact with the children? How do my son’s respond to her? Are they helpful, good listeners? Are they focused on the lessons and working hard? Are they struggling? And if so, where? Who are their friends?

Maybe those women were having a bad day. Maybe I am over-sensitive. Maybe these women are the exception and most parents don’t act like second-graders. I am not so sure. I have been on enough field trips to have witnessed some interesting cell phone usage.

Maybe I am right, though. Isn’t this where our children get it? If parents don’t have at least a modicum of respect for teachers, why should their children? Teachers work too long and too hard to have to battle parents, too.

The good news is that the kids are fine. They really are. They are kind, helpful, smart, energetic, messy (oh boy! The boys, my son included, were all a hot mess!), funny, eager, and wanting to be loved, by their teachers and by us.

Down with the Elf!

Someone really needs to convince me that the stupid Elf on the Shelf thing is not just pure bribery. Shouldn’t we teach and then expect that our children know how to behave? Because that is the right thing to do, not because some creepy elf is watching and they will get something in return?

When did we as parents, and mothers in particular, start thinking so little of our children that we decided we needed to start bribing them? When did we start thinking so little of our own parenting abilities that we stopped trusting ourselves to teach, address, and correct our children’s behavior?

I don’t get it.

Beginnings

The day before Thanksgiving my husband and I were able to visit the institution where we each got our start in student affairs and where we met and fell in love. The trip provided an opportunity to reflect on all we have been through, professionally and personally.

Residence life at a small, private institution was a great place to start my professional career. It was my first time supervising. I learned how to physically manage a new-construction building and all its idiosyncrasies. I served as a judicial hearing officer for the most “active” residence hall on campus and thus, had the largest caseload of all my colleagues. As a young and energetic professional, I also volunteered for any and all assignments that would give me experiences and skills outside of my functional area. As such, I advised funding board and several student organizations. I can budget with the best of them. Because of these experiences I was able to transition to student activities| leadership when I moved to my second professional position. For three years, I worked long and hard hours. I said yes, a lot. I created new programs and events and I took risks.

In the span of a career, three years isn’t that much. But it’s not nothing. Visiting the institution where I got my start reminded me of all of these things. It was wonderful to visit with colleagues and mentors and to chat with the VP| Dean who saw something in me and offered me that first job. I think too often in my work, I am so focused on the next step, the next move, that I underestimate what it took to get where I am today. I would guess that I am not alone in this. Life’s messages seem to be telling us that more is better, that to strive for something different or higher or more prestigious is “the” way to be. It is good to have goals. But, in working towards those goals, I think it’s important to take the time to reflect on where I’ve been.

Nice to meet you! Name tags & lanyards from a career well-lived

We all have beginnings. I am grateful that my beginning in this profession was a good one. I look back at that time fondly and with gratitude. I would love to hear about your beginnings. Where did you start? How has that position shaped who you are today?

In the second year of my first professional job I fell in love with a coworker. We worked together, we were both Catholic, and he made me laugh. He still makes me laugh. Every day. Since that first date in September of 2000, we’ve been through a lot. More than most couples our age. We dated for two years while under the microscope of a full-time, live-in position. We survived a long-distance engagement and job search process. We have survived eight job changes, graduate school, unemployment, and parenthood. We shepherded our son through a major health crisis, all while staying married and keeping our younger son healthy and normal.

When we began though, we were young, excited, and full of hope. When you think about it, really, we knew very little about each other. I think this is the case for most people. In the span of a married life, there is no way to predict what will come your way. I certainly never thought that I would mother a child through cancer. The only thing that indicates future behavior is past behavior. I think we are lucky and grateful that our past, our beginning, was a good one. We are loyal, honest and we like being with each other. That’s how we started and that is what we keep working for now.

Driving through the small town where we shopped for a coffee table (that we still have), had our first kiss, first fight, first jobs, first everything reminded me of our sweet beginning.

Five year olds really know best

While snuggling with my sick five year old son this weekend, we started to chat about the upcoming Thanksgiving festivities. I asked him what his favorite part of the holiday was. He said, “Giving thanks!” He said it with such confidence that it was like, “duh Mom. Of course that is the best part.” He then proceeded to tell me what he is most thankful for:

Willy (his cat)

Mommy

Daddy

My house

Food

My blankets and stuffies

Cousins

Aunts

Uncles

Grandma

Papa

After this list I said, “C. you are very wise.” To which he replied, “You mean like Obi Kenobi?”

And there you have it. The simple things are not things. They are the best “things.”

Snuggle with a five year old every chance you get. You will be better for it.

It’s okay that it’s hard

I have written very little on this blog about my work in higher eduction and academic advising. I think this is mostly because I fear being honest in such a public forum. In my personal and professional experiences, I have found that really, really honest people such as myself are usually labeled as negative, or nay-sayers, or resistant to change, or blockers. Or, I think people are going to ask, “why do you do what you do if you don’t like it?” Or, they have actually said that to me.

I am reading Glennon Melton’s book, Carry On, Warrior. I cannot put it down. Yesterday, I read this gem:

“I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to bed and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Wife Swap and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write something like this, readers suggest that I’m being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times: G, if you can’t handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth? That one always stings, and I don’t think it’s quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is that the second a mother admits that it’s hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she’s not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn’t add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it’s so hard means she IS doing right, in her own way, and she happens to be honest.”

(Melton, 2013, p. 113)

BAM! YES! I totally and completely agree with everything she writes about parenthood in this passage. And, all I have to do is substitute “student affairs” or “higher education” or “academic advising” or “being a working parent” for “parenting” and it describes most of what I have been feeling as a professional.

I don’t particularly get my students right now. They are frustrating to me. I think it is completely inappropriate that they come to appointments with me totally unprepared.”Tell me about your program” they say. So, I smile, launch into my spiel and do my job. But on the inside, I am saying to myself, “That’s not a question. Please come back when you are really ready for this meeting.”

Or, they are so prepared that all they do is recite the website back to me and then ask me if the content of the website is true. Seriously? Like I have the time, energy, or forethought to make stuff up on our website because I want to trick you and make more work for myself. I am not quite sure what all that is about. I am constantly evaluating and thinking about that. Generational differences? I have unrealistic expectations of student behavior? All of the above? None of the above?

I think right now my job is hard because I am not saying everything I think. I am not being honest. I am biting my tongue so hard I am surprised it hasn’t fallen off. Somehow in this profession, honest got translated as mean and being developmental means treating students like Faberge eggs. And, my frustration is that in student affairs I perceive that there is pressure to looooooooove what you do, all the time, all day every day.
Via Twitter and Facebook and professional organizations, I am constantly barraged with messages that professional frustration equates to unprofessionalism or lack of fit. I wonder if I am alone in this? I wonder if my colleagues- especially my fellow working-parent, mid-career, dual-career couple colleagues- feel the same way?

I would love to hear from you. What are your experiences with your job? Are you frustrated? It’s okay if you are. It’s okay if you aren’t. Are you allowing yourself to feel that way? Why or why not? Reading about another mother’s experience gave me space to confess that right now, it’s hard. It’s okay that it’s hard. It wasn’t always this way. It won’t stay this way.

When did we start thinking so little of our children and ourselves?

A few days ago, I stumbled across Mrs. Hall’s FYI letter to young girls. I don’t even remember where I saw it first. Facebook, maybe. I clicked on it. I read it. I re-read it. At first, truthfully, I thought it was a joke. Then I saw the comments on her blog and all the re-posts and re-tweets and realized she was in fact quite serious.

As the mother to two boys, I was….confused by her post. As a woman and a feminist (gasp!), I was enraged. I could not believe that this woman, who also parents a daughter, had these thoughts about young girls and their sexual identities (on-line or otherwise). That this mother believes that the best way to teach her young sons how to be men is to shame women for being sexual creatures. In the process, she is denying that her own children are also sexual beings and abdicates them from any responsibility for whatever decisions they have/will make. I really thought we were past the whole “women are temptresses out to snag a man” and “men are visual beings who cannot be trusted because they think with their penises” stuff.

I am very very new to the “blogging” world. But as I am writing and tweeting more, I am also finding more and more blogs, especially by other sassy mommas that I really enjoy and find quite hilarious. Several of those bloggers posted responses to Mrs. Hall. (Google it. There are too many to list here.) I read along and thought to myself, “right on!” I even wanted to post a snarky one myself with the same condescendingly self-righteous tone that Mrs. Hall invoked in her original post.

Something stopped me though and I am glad I waited. Because although I think Mrs. Hall is wrong in both her message and her tone, me being snarky back accomplishes very little, other than to make me feel better. And the truth is, I don’t feel better. I am sad. I am deeply disturbed by the message that her post sends to both boys and girls.

For days now I have been wondering why we think so little of our own children? Why do we think so little of ourselves and our abilities to raise them well? When did we stop raising our children to handle the tough stuff that life will teach them? The tough stuff that we are morally, socially, ethically obligated to teach and show them as their parents? Children come out of the womb innocent. They are pure. They are raised to be jerks or bigots or brats or alpha males. Behavior is learned. Maybe that is what is so scary to so many of us parents. We are so afraid of doing it wrong that instead, we do nothing and throw up our hands. Or, as Mrs. Hall did, blame the pretty girls for tempting her innocent, pure-of-heart-and-mind-boys.

What I read in her post is fear and mistrust. (My original comments about that are still posted on my facebook timeline.) She is afraid of the world that her children will enter. She does not trust herself. She does not trust her children to think for themselves, to remember the values that she has taught them. Clearly she thinks that boys cannot be trusted to their own devices and that pretty young girls are only out to corrupt them along the way. Why are we so afraid? And why do we trust our children so little?

In the process of formulating my own response to her post, I came across this post from Kristen Howerton. She blogs at http://www.rageagainstheminivan.com. Check it out. Really, really good stuff.

http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2013/09/on-respect-responsibility-and-mrs-halls.html

Her post really says it all and says it very well. “But when it comes to our sons we need to focus on teaching our boys to manage their own thoughts and to extend respect to every woman, regardless of how she is dressed.”

We need to trust ourselves as parents. We need to teach our children. And then, we need to trust that they have learned well.

The post I didn’t mean to write, but needed to

I intended to post a picture of the cucumbers and beans that my son & husband harvested from our garden yesterday. Then, I was going to say something cute like, “lesson learned, never give up!” Then, the hypocrisy of that post stopped me and I wrote this one instead. I had nothing to do with the garden. But, I have everything to do with this. So here it is.

“It only takes one person to change your life: You.”

“Tips for a powerful brand”

“Realize your full talent potential!”

“I just posted a ______ mile run with Map My Run!”

“I worked out this morning!”

“I nailed a run. #beastmode”

“You can be anything you want, you just have to choose.”

“Believe you can do anything at least once a day.”

As someone who wrestles with anxiety and depression, these incessant messages feel like I am being pelted with… criticism. It feels like noise. Blah, blah, blah. Talking heads with really long skinny fingers pointing at me. “You are not enough. You should be doing more.” Noise, noise, noise. The messages make me jealous, more anxious, and paralyzed by the fear of doing something wrong, trapped by perfectionism.

I haven’t blogged in too long and I have yet to make significant progress on my journal article.

I feel ashamed that I have fallen off the exercise wagon and yet to get back on. I can’t remember the last time I went for a run. I did a few 5Ks in early spring. I even ran in the mornings for about two weeks. I went running on vacation?! Then, I got sick and I stopped. Although my cold is gone, I have not fully recovered.

I know that people who tweet and post encouraging messages don’t know that I feel this way. I also know that the intent of these messages is not to make anyone feel bad or to shame anyone into exercising, or writing, or updating their LinkedIn profile. If anything, these posts serve to encourage others. And they do. I have witnessed many friends get on the exercise bandwagon, update resumes, add skills to their profiles, etc., etc., etc. And sometimes, they encourage me, too. And other times, these overtly positive messages feel threatening.

The thing with depression too is that it makes me lose sight of what I have accomplished. This weekend, I did six loads of laundry; went shopping for home décor; then came home and fixed an old nightstand with a new knob and picture frames; put my son’s artwork into a new frame and hung it in the living room; and painted an entryway in our house with a spiritual saying, with a stone cross in the middle of it (take THAT Pinterest! I came up with that idea all on my own!). Not bad! And, I did it all by myself. Doing this alone is also a huge feat for me, as my anxiety can sometimes make being alone feel like loneliness.

But, I didn’t go running. I didn’t exercise once all weekend. I didn’t call my grandmother. I texted my sister on her birthday instead of calling her. I didn’t, I didn’t. I didn’t…..Noise. Noise. Noise.

It’s not that I don’t want to work out, or write thank you notes, or clean my house. It’s not that I can’t.

It’s that the cycle of inertia, shame, and more inertia fueled by that shame, is really, really hard to break. Hitting the reset button is necessary. I know that I need to. I know that I want to. It’s just that taking the first step to actually doing it feels momentous.

This is part of me that I never knew before; I have only recently learned that how I feel had a name. Truth is, I have always wrestled with these issues. Looking back on my late 20s and early 30s, I can now see patterns of behavior. Periods of incredible activity and productivity, followed or proceeded by valleys of exhaustion and inactivity. When in the valley of depression it feels as if everything is fuzzy, like someone is shouting at me but I am under water. I can see and hear them and I want to claw my way out and break the surface but, I end up treading water instead.

I even have dreams about my depression. In my dreams, I have been wronged, shamed, or thrown under the bus by someone, almost always in a public setting. I try to speak up for myself and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I am shouting inside my head but, only I can hear it. The people around me are staring at me. This leads to more and more frustration and more shouting, but no results.

I also dream that I am running but nothing ever happens. My legs get shorter and my abdomen collapses like an accordion and I get physically smaller. Then, my legs start to sink into the pavement and I am no longer running, just staying in one place. Interesting that my dreams are about running. Huh.

I read once that the author J.K. Rowling struggles with depression and that the dementors in Harry Potter are her version of that struggle. This is the best image I can think of to represent depression and it’s after effects. I can feel its presence, its cold breath on my neck. There are times when I can swallow the doubts and fears, choke them back like gravel in my throat. And then, there are other times when I must embrace the darkness. Let its waves crash over me and run their course. Then, I will rise up again. Battered and bruised, but still here.

I am absolutely terrified to post this. I fear what you will think. But, I am choosing #optimism and doing it anyway.

I am learning that none of this makes me weak. This does not make me less-than. Some days are easier than others.By being vulnerable about my imperfections, my crosses, I can name them, address them, and even embrace them without shame because they make me who I am.

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