Who's In Charge Here?

Last time I wrote about the myriad of things we don’t get to pick about our kids. But there’s a lot we do get to influence. I’ve been inspired and motivated recently by the parenting classes I attend. The directors of my daughter’s preschool, who lead the classes, have made it their personal crusade to remind parents that we’re in charge and that we hold the most power and influence over our kids—not their schools, their friends, the media, or any other part of our culture.

Parents of teenagers complain that their kids do nothing but text. Parents of 10-year-olds are concerned that all they want to do is play video games; they never go outside anymore. Parents of 4-year-olds show up at work exhausted after spending yet another night sharing their bed with a little squirmer who just won’t stay in her own bed. We’ve all been there, whether in these exact circumstances or something similar.

It’s easy to feel helpless in these circumstances, like a bystander watching their sweet children fall prey to bad habits. There’s a kind of momentary amnesia that strikes us all at one time or another. It makes us forget that we’re the grown-ups, that we worked hard to rise to that rank, and we’re in charge.

Every once in awhile we need a good jolt out of our passive acceptance of the direction our children seem to be heading. We need to realize our power to change their course. God has given parents authority over their children. (Of course that authority can be horribly abused, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. I mean the kind of healthy authority that is exercised by loving parents.) One of the most important jobs we parents have is to help our kids learn how to recognize and respond appropriately to the authority figures in their lives. While there may not be a whole lot we can do about a 1-year-old’s public tantrums (and I’ve experienced enough of these lately to wonder if Target will ban us from its stores nationwide), we don’t just have to lie down and accept the societal mantra that all middle-schoolers think their parents are idiots and all teenagers are rebellious and disrespectful. We can fight against that cultural tide. We can muster up the strength and energy and use all the power in our parental arsenals to point our children in the direction of doing good, giving respect, dying to selfishness. Who’s the one who bought the cell phone and pays for the minutes? Who’s the one who allowed the video games in the house to begin with? Who decided that it’s OK for preschoolers to get out of their beds? We have the power to take away everything we allow, even if it won’t be easy.

One recommendation from parent time was that the first time—the first time!—we see the roll of our children’s eyes directed toward us, we respond with a severe consequence. We’re tempted to argue, “Hey, that’s only a 2 or 3 on the scale of offenses,” but they advised us to respond with a 9 or 10 consequence. Helping our children recognize disrespectful behavior—and the consequences that it brings—is one of our hardest jobs. Kind, respectful, mature behavior doesn't come naturally; it has to be taught. It also has to be modeled—even when we're tired, overwhelmed, distracted (which pretty much summarizes my general state). 

I am humbled daily by the magnitude of doing this job well, and amused that God thinks I’m up to the task.

You Can Pick Your Nose, But Not Your Kids

Shortly after actor Matthew McConaughey’s son was born, he told People magazine that he couldn’t wait to teach his boy how to surf so they could be shirtless surfer dudes together. Or something to that effect. People also quoted actress Kate Hudson’s response to this. With a handful of parenting years already behind her, Kate said something like, “Yeah, that’s what he thinks. His son will probably grow up to be a preppy chess player.”

Her comment got a chuckle and a big nod out of me. We get to pick our kids’ names, their haircuts and clothes (for a little while), and sometimes, like me, even their birthdays. But we don’t get to pick much of anything else.

A dear friend of mine just had a baby last week, and she didn’t get to pick much about the way he entered the world or the first 48 hours of his life. Pretty much nothing went the way she would have chosen. I watch my husband try to talk our son into playing ball in the yard, but he’s rarely interested. Regardless of what we envisioned for him, we don’t get to pick his interests. We don’t get to decide that he likes footballs and basketballs more than bullwhips and cap guns. He gets to pick.

I don’t think I would’ve picked four c-sections or to have three teenage girls the year I turn 50. (Yeah, I’m gonna need a big party that year.) I probably wouldn’t pick sensitive children who cry for no apparent reason or fanatical rule-followers who won’t even sneak a pack of fruit snacks into a gym that says “No food allowed.”

But when I think about it, they may not have picked a mom who snarls at the thought of Play-Doh or homemade necklaces. They may not have picked to live in a cluttery house where occasionally their mom can't even unearth the phone. And what if MY parents had been able to pick out all the finer details of my life? I’d be an arthritic 300-pound lineman right now. My father probably shook his head more times than I know at the 13-year-old female creature who spent way too much time fussing with her hair and reading V.C. Andrews books.

I’ve gotta think this is all for the best. If we really got to pick our children’s personalities and interests, wouldn’t we all just be raising much-improved clones of ourselves? How boring would that be? I’d be missing out on pipecleaner art and nonstop tiger trivia—not to mention bullwhips and cap guns.

So, uh, good luck with that surfing thing, Matthew McConaughey. Better brush up on your chess game just in case.

Things That Make Me Go "Hmmm"

Here’s something a little different for today—a quote I heard last week, and minimal commentary from me. It’s just something I’m chewing on, and I invite you to chew with me. I’m paraphrasing, but the gist of it is this:

“If you’re a follower of Christ and someone asks where you see yourself in five years, your answer should be, ‘I don’t know. It’s none of my business.’”

If that doesn’t spit in the face of all America holds dear.

To add to my chewing, I heard someone else today talk about “living life open-handedly on life’s terms,” meaning we don’t control our lives. We don’t chart our destinies, as much as we like to think we do. Life gets in the way of our plans. I’m not sure I’d even want to chart my own destiny if I could. I’d probably be a TV journalist living in a big city, childless, on my third husband and second facelift, lonely as anything.

The “none-of-my-business” part is pretty radical. I think the point is not so much to bash the idea of plan-making, but to realize that God has His own plans for us, and they may look quite a bit different from what we had in mind. “Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and your plans will succeed,” Solomon wrote. My translation: The best plan I can make is to be open to His plans—and then live life on life’s terms.

And All I Wanted Was a Sandwich

Last week I witnessed a carjacking. I was the only customer at Quizno’s, waiting for my sandwiches to shoot out of the toaster oven. There were two female employees, and the male employee was the one doing my toasting. The guy looked out the open side door and said, “Hey! Is that your car driving off?” to one of the girls. She ran out, started screaming every profanity in the book—and some original creations—opened the car door (the last thing I would’ve done), was immediately flung to the ground, and laid there shouting another round of profanities.

The male employee ran out to help her, and the other girl grabbed her cell phone to call 911. I heard the victim yell out, “It was a girl and two guys,” which made me assume that these were strangers to her, not just a former boyfriend who bought her the car and then had a change of heart. Yep, a bona fide carjacking, right there at Quizno’s.

While chaos ensued and my sandwiches toasted away, every imaginable scenario played through my mind. I looked for something I could duck under to dodge the spray of gunfire I imagined coming through the store’s giant windows. I imagined myself brave and helpful, running to the girl’s rescue, as clearly I was the only legal adult on hand. I quickly played back everything that had happened so I could put the story together for the police who would surely want my mature, non-hysterical account.

But within this cacophony of sensory input, only one thing really stood out. It was the little hand that squeezed firmly into mine. It was Brooka’s hand, and at that moment, it was the most important thing in my universe and controlled my every action. I looked out, saw the girl screaming, but uninjured, saw the car circling out of the parking lot, grabbed my four-year-old, and dashed to my van. Didn’t look back, didn’t offer any assistance, didn’t wait for my extra-toasty sandwiches. Didn’t even buckle my daughter in until we were blocks away. She knew something weird was happening but was smart enough to figure out it was a bad time to ask questions. She willingly followed me and assumed I knew what I was doing. No explanation needed. Her blind faith in me had never been more obvious. 

Being trapped in a dangerous situation with my child (or children) is the most terrifying thing I can imagine. One of my favorite movies, Life is Beautiful, tells the mind-boggling story of a father making a game of their concentration-camp imprisonment for his little boy just so he won't be terrified of the truth. (Remember Roberto Benigni jumping on his chair before collecting his Oscar in 1998—long before Tom Cruise made such activities popular?) Talk about the blind faith of a child.

So, let's see here. Just following the one who sees the Big Picture with no fussing or whining? (But what about my sandwich?!) Willingly following without questions or complaints? Hmmm. Is Someone trying to show me something? OK, OK, I'm listening. No more carjackings, please.

Lessons Learned from a Year in Sweatpants

I’ve officially been unemployed for a year. Here are some of the things I’ve learned from my year in sweatpants.

• Every day is what you make it. This is true for everyone, but I’m noticing it more as a stay-at-home mom. Your day can be cleaning and laundry, parceling out fruit snacks, and brokering arguments, or it can be making order out of chaos, growing amazing little humans, and teaching social skills that will last a lifetime. It’s all in how you look at it. I have to work hard to see the Big Picture, but when I catch a glimpse of it, it keeps me going another day, another pile, another grilled-cheese sandwich.

• My shower schedule has never been more erratic. Never do I shower at the same time twice in one week.

• I thought it was hard to avoid office food. It’s even harder to avoid Cheetos and old Halloween candy that only a toddler can see you eating.

• My sense of contribution was deeply tied in to my compensation. When I recently totaled up how much money I made freelancing in 2008, I was horrified. Even worse, I spent nearly as much as I made on childcare, bringing me to the startling conclusion that what I’ve got going here is essentially just a hobby. The momentary devastation this caused helped me realize that a great deal of my self-worth came from my contribution to the family income, and even more than that, my participation in the “working world.” God’s working hard to shake up my definition of “contribution”—so that it goes beyond a paycheck, a performance review, or my latest slick, glossy project.

• The more I’m at home, the more I become a homebody. There are actually times when I don’t feel like going out—even someplace fun. Never thought I’d see the day.

• On some level, at some point, no woman feels like she really fits in. (Maybe this is common to men, too?) Older moms feel too old, younger ones too young. Working moms feel guilty around the professional room moms; stay-at-home moms are intimidated by working moms. My friend who doesn’t shave her legs (enough) or paint her toenails feels out there on the fringes, as do I, the Mom Who Doesn’t Craft or Decorate. I’ve met moms of six or seven who feel like the odd-man out and those with only one child who are pestered by awkward comments. And the married 40-year-old without children? She may be the president of this “where-do-I-fit?” club. Maybe there are some women out there enraptured in their feeling of acceptance, but I don’t know any of them.

• Am I a better mom now than when I was working? That’s an overstatement, but quantity is every bit as important as quality, and I was fooling myself to think any differently. And I can say assuredly that I’m a better wife. I recently read, “Great career, functional family, happy husband: Pick two.” I completely agree. My choices have changed, and there’s a whole lot to be said for a happy husband.

Life Beyond the Keyboard

I’m starting 2009 with a resolution that makes me a freak to the rest of the civilized world.

I’m committed to avoiding Facebook for another year.

It’s not because I don’t think it’s the coolest idea. Ever. I could’ve invented it (technology notwithstanding). I have spent my life staying connected with people from the past. My adolescent years included four schools in five years and long summers spent writing letters to friends left behind. Keeping in touch is what I do. It’s also not that I’m not curious about the people who have moved in and out of my life. The problem is that I’m too curious. And too hungry for relationships. But the kind of relationships I desire are flesh and blood, face to face—and the good is the enemy of the best.

I attend weekly parenting classes at my daughter’s preschool, and a lot of the ideas I write about here were sparked by conversations there. One of those was, “Do not put any effort into nurturing relationships with screens; those will happen automatically. Instead, help your children build real relationships with real people.” Any good parent knows this instinctively, but it’s not bad advice for adults, too. I have a very limited amount of time to devote to relationships with people beyond those who live in my house. I can use those precious few moments to catch up with someone I didn’t even really enjoy twenty years ago, or I can call that woman I’m getting to know from my small group. The one with all the pain. The one who seems like she could really use a friend.

It’s a lot easier to “be there” for the cancer-stricken girl who used to sit next to me in eight-grade English than the cancer-stricken lady in the house next door. One is distant and noncommittal; the other is messy and in my face. That’s the problem with flesh-and-blood relationships: they get my hands all dirty. That’s why I’ve got to be committed to them; otherwise, I’ll just avoid them.

I have other issues with Facebook and its online-social-networking cousins—the ease with which people can portray themselves differently than they are in real life, hours lost at the computer, temptation to get sucked back into old, bad relationships—but it’s the idea of contentment with virtual relationships that really frightens me away. (What’s next? Virtual marriages? Virtual parenting?) It’s also what’s most tempting. What better way to cure my loneliness than to chat with 142 “friends” from the past—all in my jammies while the kids nap? It seems so perfect. Yet for me, it would just be a distraction, an anesthetic from my loneliness, instead of an actual cure. It would also trap me in my house, forcing my children to look at the back of my head for hours, and isolating me from the kind of life-on-life relationships I live for.

So, you Facebookers out there, get all caught up and share your Christmas pictures with that college roommate you never dreamed you’d hear from again. I envy you. And who knows, maybe some day I’ll join you. But for now, I’m resolved to avoid what for me is a very slippery slope.

Cheers

The end of the year is hard for us historical types. You free-spirited day-to-day types can just write it off as another day and an opportunity to stay up late and drink bubbly beverages. Not me. I have work to do. Journals have to be reviewed, thoughts have to be processed, growth has to be measured. And it all comes at a time when I’m already feeling a little glum from Christmas let-down. Oh to be a day-to-day, bubbly-beverage kind of girl.

It never fails that as I pull the stockings off the mantle and repack the ornaments, my mind wanders to, “What will life look like the next time I pull these out?” (Can you day-to-dayers just mindlessly toss them in a box?) For years my biggest curiosity was whether or not there would be one more stocking joining the others, with a newborn to go with it. My newborn days are over, so this year I’m wondering where our six stockings will hang next year. Will it be in the house we’ve already mentally moved into, the one with the monkey tree in the backyard and the mail that gets delivered through a slot right into the foyer? Will I hang the Christmas decorations in preparation for a huge children’s party I dream of having—for kids who may not know Jesus came just for them—or will they hang for just the six of us to enjoy? Will I have new friends who haven’t known me for ten years? Will I have friends who think and look much different from me? Will I be different? Will I just be overwhelmed with change?

And what if there is no change? What if I’m right here next year, hanging the stockings on the same mantle? How will I respond if God says “no” or “not yet”? “No” is so hard to hear, but I think it’s easier than “not yet,” at least for me. “Not yet” requires patience and contentment and sitting—not things I’m comfortable with. At least when you get a “no,” you have something definitive to work with. (Have I mentioned how much I value closure? A million times?) But it seems God is more interested in developing my character than catering to my preferences.

I know how I want to respond. Graciously. Hopefully. Full of hope that no matter what I’ve dreamed up for myself, His plan beats mine hands down every time. (And lucky me, I’m historical enough that I’ve got the journals to prove it.) Most of all, I want to respond willingly. I’m willing to move into a new neighborhood and live in a completely new way with completely new people. Or I’m willing to stay here and change my attitudes rather than my surroundings. Either way, sounds like a lot of processing and journaling await me between now and the next time I pull out the stockings. Makes my head hurt. Better go get myself a bubbly beverage. Happy New Year!