My children were not planned. I always wanted to be a mother, but I had pictured it as a more controlled endeavor, all the way around.
In no way is motherhood, in my experience, a controlled endeavor.
This began with the knowledge of the existence of my first child. Kelly was the first of my sisters and I to have a baby, and I distinctly remember announcing to my mother at the preparations for Kelly's baby shower that I would not be attempting motherhood for a very long time. I had so much to work on before I dove in.
I pretty much found out I was expecting Molly the day that Kelly's son was born.
So much for that. I stumbled my way through the first months of pregnancy in a very sick daze and assumed that I would just, at the end of 9 months, deliver a healthy baby. Instead, lots of hospital time but months before her due date, my daughter came the color purple and weighing 1 pound, 10 oz. She lived her first month in a little plastic house at the hospital and connected to beeping machines. I spent every minute I could parked outside that isolette, trying to be a good mom, whatever that was, because I loved that baby so much and I thought I would die if she did. I tried not to make her heart rate spike and her O2 rate drop and willed her to get fatter and I tried to simultaneously obey the nurses and assert my independence as a mother.
3 months later, a day that still ranks at my top 10 best ever, my husband and I proudly carried home a 4 lb 3 oz peanut packed into an infant carseat that was still much too big for her. We spent the first weeks taking turns watching her constantly, and at some point began our descent into our style of laissez-faire parenting. We assumed every baby slept as much and cried as little and was content to sleep anywhere including the movie theater. She was healthy and perfect and we did not give that much thought.
3 years later, I decided I very much wanted another baby. 2 years later than that, I gave up on the idea that I would ever produce another child. It wasn't that simple, but not unlike many other disappointments that come with the territory of motherhood. And like those, I survived. I pursued a career in nursing, partly so that I could be one of the understanding nurses in the NICU who help bewildered mothers feel better and not worse.
Then I discovered I was expecting another baby and would not be completing nursing school on time. My doctor ordered me to bedrest and no clinicals. And my healthy, roly-poly, very loud and very hungry second child was born with a very much black hair and a personality very unlike her sisters'. This daughter showed me that babies can ingest endless amounts of breast milk, crawl and walk too early, ignore the word "no," bite other human beings, throw fits in every store in town, not want to do anything that you want to do, and still be impossibly adorable in spite of all that. I spent every minute worrying that she would be a holy terror, trying to be a good mom, whatever that was, because I loved that girl enough to forfeit my own life. Which is what I felt I did for the first years of her life until at some point I began my descent into my style of laissez-faire parenting.
Both girls are growing into lovely young women now. Yesterday, my husband and I attended our youngest's children's theater performance. It was an impressive show and she had been working hard. We had been told that "the big kids got the main roles." So we were surprised when our 8 year old seemed to still be one of the major characters with solos, while several older children did not have the same privilege. She delivered a great performance, and when she sang her solo we looked at each other in amazement. Wow!
Later that day, my husband and I tried to figure out how we managed to get two fabulous kids. They are fun. They are smart. They are talented. They have good hearts. We know there are many better parents out there, but we are pretty certain there aren't too many better kids. It's really a miracle.
If you are a mother, I am guessing you feel much the same way. You look at these little people running around your house sometimes and wonder how in the world you ended up so lucky. (Or maybe you only wonder that when they are all snuggled in bed asleep - I've been there too). If you are one of those mothers that is convinced that your children are products of your superb parenting skills and perfect planning, then we probably don't have much in common. I know myself, and I know the greatness of my children is something that in my most honest moments I view as something I should say a prayer of "phew...thanks...I didn't deserve this...." about. There are moments I try so hard I think I will faint and others that I don't and I'm not sure which benefit my children more.
I love them. I get mad at them. I love them. I have fun with them. I love them. I am amazed they are mine. I love them. I love being a mom, whatever that means.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
It's Not That Easy
There are three immense, looming obstacles to financial security I have been observing the people I work with bump into. One of them is student loan debt. It not only messes up credit in ways that can seem hopeless, but it prevents them from going back to school, the very thing that supposedly will help them over the poverty line.
Somehow I found myself at this article. It is a story that weaves elements from those of people I work with. It also, with one twist of choice and a different demographic or two, would be my story. Which may be why I had the urge to cry when I read it.
It is another tale from the neverending story of girls from low socioeconomic brackets and minority groups, clawing their way up from the bottom of the pile while the rest of us think we are "helping."
"They just need an education" is second only to "why don't they just get a job" on my "Most Irritating Things People Say to Try to Fix Poor Women" list.
Somehow I found myself at this article. It is a story that weaves elements from those of people I work with. It also, with one twist of choice and a different demographic or two, would be my story. Which may be why I had the urge to cry when I read it.
It is another tale from the neverending story of girls from low socioeconomic brackets and minority groups, clawing their way up from the bottom of the pile while the rest of us think we are "helping."
"They just need an education" is second only to "why don't they just get a job" on my "Most Irritating Things People Say to Try to Fix Poor Women" list.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Transcending Talent
Lots of giggling, talking freshmen surrounded me in the auditorium. Good kids, basically, but inconsiderate as freshmen can be. Mine sat quietly in the second row. Next to an odd girl that no one else wanted to associate with.
Lots of pretty but over-done girls wearing ultra short shirts. Mine wore her hair down and just washed and brushed, no make-up, flared knee length skirt, all grey white and black.
Lots of girls singing popular songs. Mine would be the only one to play a classic instrumental solo.
As the time for her to play her violin drew near, weirdly, a panic climbed from my chest to my throat, threatening to choke me. What if she bombs this, poor thing? What if people laugh at her or think it's odd that she's playing this piece? And the violin? And that she didn't spend hours primping?And that she's not wearing a black mini skirt in size 3T? Do people like her? Is there a strange connection between maternal instinct and high-school survival instinct that conjured this succession of irrational thoughts? Something about the way she was about to make herself vulnerable at a high school talent show reached in and dragged this nonsense out.
She arrived on stage, fussing the way violinists do before they play, due to the touchiness of an instrument that can never be counted upon to stay in tune. It seemed like a long time, too long, too pregnant with possibilities of bad things to happen, until one of her loyal and dear friends called out, "Go Molly!" A round of clapping and whistling flared up briefly. The clapping died as the lights dimmed.
She sat on a lone chair in the middle of the stage, spotlight shining on her blonde head. Her long arm drew the bow across the first note of Meditation from Thais and the atmosphere of the room transformed. You could have heard a pin drop in the audience. She played gorgeously, expressively, causing the strings to whisper and sing and cry. No freshman laughed or talked during this performance. I willed myself to tear my eyes away from her to sneak a peak at the formerly goofing-off kids and noted that all eyes were on her. I took a look in the other direction to see adults swaying, eyes closed...enchanted?
As soon as her arm stilled with the whispers of the last note fading, the audience erupted into whistling and clapping and shouts of her name. She flashed a pleased grin, stood, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Lots of pretty but over-done girls wearing ultra short shirts. Mine wore her hair down and just washed and brushed, no make-up, flared knee length skirt, all grey white and black.
Lots of girls singing popular songs. Mine would be the only one to play a classic instrumental solo.
As the time for her to play her violin drew near, weirdly, a panic climbed from my chest to my throat, threatening to choke me. What if she bombs this, poor thing? What if people laugh at her or think it's odd that she's playing this piece? And the violin? And that she didn't spend hours primping?And that she's not wearing a black mini skirt in size 3T? Do people like her? Is there a strange connection between maternal instinct and high-school survival instinct that conjured this succession of irrational thoughts? Something about the way she was about to make herself vulnerable at a high school talent show reached in and dragged this nonsense out.
She arrived on stage, fussing the way violinists do before they play, due to the touchiness of an instrument that can never be counted upon to stay in tune. It seemed like a long time, too long, too pregnant with possibilities of bad things to happen, until one of her loyal and dear friends called out, "Go Molly!" A round of clapping and whistling flared up briefly. The clapping died as the lights dimmed.
She sat on a lone chair in the middle of the stage, spotlight shining on her blonde head. Her long arm drew the bow across the first note of Meditation from Thais and the atmosphere of the room transformed. You could have heard a pin drop in the audience. She played gorgeously, expressively, causing the strings to whisper and sing and cry. No freshman laughed or talked during this performance. I willed myself to tear my eyes away from her to sneak a peak at the formerly goofing-off kids and noted that all eyes were on her. I took a look in the other direction to see adults swaying, eyes closed...enchanted?
As soon as her arm stilled with the whispers of the last note fading, the audience erupted into whistling and clapping and shouts of her name. She flashed a pleased grin, stood, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Sapphira and Me
Ananias and Sapphira. Don't they just have the worst reputation in Christian circles?! What deceivers, deliberately lying (to God!) about the price of the property they sold. Clearly the moral of that story is that you should not lie about what you are giving to God. It's a shame they wound up dead. Tsk, tsk.
It's a wonder, then, that I am walking around. Don't I want to be part of radical, amazing work? Don't I want to give it all? And don't I always keep back a little bit for insurance. I mean, what if God really can't be trusted? If the sacrificial living thing turns out to be a bust... might be nice to have a Plan B.
Obviously, I am alive to blog about this. But I probably err if I think I am off the hook - Jesus said in order to find your life you first have to lose it. Is that why so many of us are trying to find ourselves? Is that why despite our unprecedented material excess and physical comfort we are dissatisfied and depressed and searching? The joy that goes with surrender, with giving ourselves to the common cause, apparently cannot be replicated unless all chips are cashed in - maybe that's the loss we experience.
It strikes me that in fighting poverty, in building community, no progress is made if people do not unite across divides. Left and right. Black and white. Protestant and Catholic. Government and the people. Rich and poor. It is one thing to approach a school board about ridiculous bus policies on behalf of clients or "the poor." It is entirely different if my kid is affected by those bus policies - I problem solve on a whole other level with a helluva lot more energy. Until I process, internalize, and accept who my neighbor is, I will never be able to truly build community, or the kingdom of God.
I suspect that it will always be part of human struggle to make decisions balancing what is best for us personally and what is best for the common good. (Most of us) vaccinate our children, but (most of us) send our children to the best schools we possibly can. I confess that I have never put a child of mine in the worst-performing school in the area in order to be better able to promote change there. And I probably never will. (And that was not a statement inviting argument or defense of that). I have bought property in a blighted neighborhood in hopes of being an agent of change there, and in the end sold that house with an exhausted sigh of relief, never to live in a city again (until - now?). That seems a failed experiment on many, many levels. I kept a job when I no longer believed the organization was working for the best interests of people it served because I knew it was a good paycheck. My fingers are clutched around so many things. I want to let go. I may never be able to, and I do so with the knowledge that my hands will never be free until I do.
None of that is said to judge anyone. It is statement of my reality; I need to acknowledge what is in my own heart. And I think that's the point. I can't lie, and that starts with to myself. I can't pretend to be a better person than I am if I want to be who I was meant to become.
It's a wonder, then, that I am walking around. Don't I want to be part of radical, amazing work? Don't I want to give it all? And don't I always keep back a little bit for insurance. I mean, what if God really can't be trusted? If the sacrificial living thing turns out to be a bust... might be nice to have a Plan B.
Obviously, I am alive to blog about this. But I probably err if I think I am off the hook - Jesus said in order to find your life you first have to lose it. Is that why so many of us are trying to find ourselves? Is that why despite our unprecedented material excess and physical comfort we are dissatisfied and depressed and searching? The joy that goes with surrender, with giving ourselves to the common cause, apparently cannot be replicated unless all chips are cashed in - maybe that's the loss we experience.
It strikes me that in fighting poverty, in building community, no progress is made if people do not unite across divides. Left and right. Black and white. Protestant and Catholic. Government and the people. Rich and poor. It is one thing to approach a school board about ridiculous bus policies on behalf of clients or "the poor." It is entirely different if my kid is affected by those bus policies - I problem solve on a whole other level with a helluva lot more energy. Until I process, internalize, and accept who my neighbor is, I will never be able to truly build community, or the kingdom of God.
I suspect that it will always be part of human struggle to make decisions balancing what is best for us personally and what is best for the common good. (Most of us) vaccinate our children, but (most of us) send our children to the best schools we possibly can. I confess that I have never put a child of mine in the worst-performing school in the area in order to be better able to promote change there. And I probably never will. (And that was not a statement inviting argument or defense of that). I have bought property in a blighted neighborhood in hopes of being an agent of change there, and in the end sold that house with an exhausted sigh of relief, never to live in a city again (until - now?). That seems a failed experiment on many, many levels. I kept a job when I no longer believed the organization was working for the best interests of people it served because I knew it was a good paycheck. My fingers are clutched around so many things. I want to let go. I may never be able to, and I do so with the knowledge that my hands will never be free until I do.
None of that is said to judge anyone. It is statement of my reality; I need to acknowledge what is in my own heart. And I think that's the point. I can't lie, and that starts with to myself. I can't pretend to be a better person than I am if I want to be who I was meant to become.
Monday, February 25, 2013
The Deadly Side
My husband's book group is reading something with an intriguing title: Jesus Wants to Save Christians, a not-recent book by a guy whose viewpoint I always find intriguing. (Rob Bell). I stole the book from my husband on a recent business trip. Poor guy thought he lost it.
The trip was a national conference about ending poverty. One of the keynote speakers was Jeanette Pai-Espinosa, president of the Crittenton Foundation. One of the most inspiring speakers I have heard in awhile. Her organization seeks to reach young girls who have been hurt, usually sexually, and set them on the path to thriving. I was so intrigued by Jeanette's work that I browsed the website at lunch, also casually searching for any Crittenton agencies in oh, say, Philadelphia....
In my browsing, I came across this article.
When the Super Bowl rolled around this year, there was a lot of chatter about the half-time show and commercials that I chose to stay away from. The above article felt like something that was just not a choice to ignore. It may be unpopular to say, but our culture has a deadly side and we are subtly poisoned in so many ways. The Super Bowl is so fun, so All-American - the party of the year! As an American, I continue to unexpectedly find myself connected to things that are oppressing others in propogation of my fun/comfort/etc. And as a Christian, feminist - whatever - whoever I am is not comfortable with that. I don't always know what to do with what I find. Is it because I don't want to know what to do? (Because it might mean looking like a stick-in-the-mud, or being uncomfortable...)
The link between all of the above is that my mind and heart have been radically challenged. Which means, blog readers, that I dump all of this challenging material out for you to help me sort through as well;) Maybe it's because I will be making fresh starts in many ways very soon that causes me to explore. You do not have to explore with me or help me sort anything out. If you find this conversation interesting, I welcome your thoughts.
The trip was a national conference about ending poverty. One of the keynote speakers was Jeanette Pai-Espinosa, president of the Crittenton Foundation. One of the most inspiring speakers I have heard in awhile. Her organization seeks to reach young girls who have been hurt, usually sexually, and set them on the path to thriving. I was so intrigued by Jeanette's work that I browsed the website at lunch, also casually searching for any Crittenton agencies in oh, say, Philadelphia....
In my browsing, I came across this article.
When the Super Bowl rolled around this year, there was a lot of chatter about the half-time show and commercials that I chose to stay away from. The above article felt like something that was just not a choice to ignore. It may be unpopular to say, but our culture has a deadly side and we are subtly poisoned in so many ways. The Super Bowl is so fun, so All-American - the party of the year! As an American, I continue to unexpectedly find myself connected to things that are oppressing others in propogation of my fun/comfort/etc. And as a Christian, feminist - whatever - whoever I am is not comfortable with that. I don't always know what to do with what I find. Is it because I don't want to know what to do? (Because it might mean looking like a stick-in-the-mud, or being uncomfortable...)
The link between all of the above is that my mind and heart have been radically challenged. Which means, blog readers, that I dump all of this challenging material out for you to help me sort through as well;) Maybe it's because I will be making fresh starts in many ways very soon that causes me to explore. You do not have to explore with me or help me sort anything out. If you find this conversation interesting, I welcome your thoughts.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Soul Groanings
But the Holy Spirit prays for us with
groanings that cannot be expressed in words. Romans 8:26 NLT
This verse pretty much sums up my prayer life. I am not a Biblical scholar and it would not shock anyone if I pulled a verse from Romans out of context, but I think this is one of the most descriptive statements in the Bible about spiritual life. It is very, very soothing to me that I can just throw out feelings, thoughts, or essence of thoughts and feelings in a prayerful way and they will get sorted somehow by Divine power.
This is parallel, to my odd way of thinking, to when someone is trying to express something to me by handing me a favorite book. After reading the book, my soul connects to the other on a plane that words could not capture. My daughter brought me a book by her favorite author, Sharon Creech, called Bloomability shortly after the news broke that we would, once again, be moving.
Reading Sharon Creech novels causes me to want to write a book of my own in very strong ways. Which is probably not relevant. Her characters and settings are so charming, though. Her adolescents' views are precious reminders of an age I forget to remember with fondness. There were no overt messages my daughter was trying to send me. She was simply inviting me to join her in feeling a certain current swirling around her. It swirled around me and I somehow understood something.
There were many ways I thought of writing here about moving from Syracuse, NY to Moorestown, NJ (which is really Philadelphia). Should I talk about the anxiety of making a perfectly wonderful daughter start her sophmore year in a new place? Should I discuss how wonderful the career move is for my husband but how I have to start my career all over again? Should I share the hope that things might be better for my little one in a fabulous school district with a gifted program? Should I whine about the hassle of buying and selling houses? Should I convey anger? worry? excitement?
But in the spirit of Sharon Creech and Molly and Romans and the Holy Ghost, I am just sort of eliciting a soul groan because there is so much that cannot be expressed in words.
This verse pretty much sums up my prayer life. I am not a Biblical scholar and it would not shock anyone if I pulled a verse from Romans out of context, but I think this is one of the most descriptive statements in the Bible about spiritual life. It is very, very soothing to me that I can just throw out feelings, thoughts, or essence of thoughts and feelings in a prayerful way and they will get sorted somehow by Divine power.
This is parallel, to my odd way of thinking, to when someone is trying to express something to me by handing me a favorite book. After reading the book, my soul connects to the other on a plane that words could not capture. My daughter brought me a book by her favorite author, Sharon Creech, called Bloomability shortly after the news broke that we would, once again, be moving.
Reading Sharon Creech novels causes me to want to write a book of my own in very strong ways. Which is probably not relevant. Her characters and settings are so charming, though. Her adolescents' views are precious reminders of an age I forget to remember with fondness. There were no overt messages my daughter was trying to send me. She was simply inviting me to join her in feeling a certain current swirling around her. It swirled around me and I somehow understood something.
There were many ways I thought of writing here about moving from Syracuse, NY to Moorestown, NJ (which is really Philadelphia). Should I talk about the anxiety of making a perfectly wonderful daughter start her sophmore year in a new place? Should I discuss how wonderful the career move is for my husband but how I have to start my career all over again? Should I share the hope that things might be better for my little one in a fabulous school district with a gifted program? Should I whine about the hassle of buying and selling houses? Should I convey anger? worry? excitement?
But in the spirit of Sharon Creech and Molly and Romans and the Holy Ghost, I am just sort of eliciting a soul groan because there is so much that cannot be expressed in words.
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