One of these days, I’m going to write about something really chipper. Just not today. Today I’m going to write about my friends’ 13-year-old son who has terminal brain cancer. Yeah, not exactly chipper. Except that this family’s journey through cancer has been filled with such growth, such hope, such faith, that it’s impacted all of us who have been along for the ride.
Ian was diagnosed with cancer on Superbowl Sunday 2008. He endured intense chemotherapy for a year. By the time the Steelers eeked out their win over the Chargers last month, it looked like Ian was finally out of the woods. About that time, I signed a contract with NavPress to help Ian’s dad tell their story, a beautiful story called Don’t Waste the Pain, to be published early next year.
About a week after Ian was declared cancer-free, strange symptoms started appearing. At first the doctors attributed it to lingering chemo effects, but a test of his spinal fluid soon determined that the cancer was back—in his spine and brain. These parents of seven then got the most horrific words a parent can ever hear: “Four to eight weeks.”
I have watched these parents do what any of the rest of us would do—seek any treatment, try any experimental drug, apply for any clinical trial, plead for their son’s life, and try to make it as normal as possible. I’ve also watched them say things like this (from one of their CaringBridge entries): “We’ve taught each of our children how to make a respectful appeal to those in authority over them. That is, “I want you to know that I’ll submit to whatever you decide. But with your permission I’d like to present my case.” That’s the best way I can explain our posture before God right now.”
As I pray for Ian, sometimes I wonder if I’m trying to hold him back from paradise. Where he’s going—either in a few weeks or in 60 or 70 years—is the place we all want for our children and ourselves. What we’re really asking for is a delayed departure. Thirteen seems too young. Surely he needs more time on earth. That’s what our minds and our culture tell us, but God’s Word tells us this:
“We know that if the earthly tent we live in [our bodies] is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling” (2 Cor. 5:1–2).
I struggle to understand much of what Paul writes in the New Testament, and this passage is no different. But I think the gist is that on earth, our bodies moan and grown, deteriorate and die—sometimes even at the age of thirteen. That’s because we’re not made for this temporal home. We’re made for heaven, confident, as Paul goes on to write, that we would “prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (verse 8).
I pray for Ian’s healing. Every day. I pray we will be witnesses to a miracle, and I won’t be the least bit surprised if it happens. I pray that his family’s faith will not waver. But I also pray that if God’s answer is, “Come, my child,” that we will smile—even as we grieve—that this boy was chosen to go Home for good.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Dreams and Altars
The house I’ve been dreaming of sold last Friday, and it wasn’t to us. Someone else will live across the street from the elementary school that has captured my heart. Maybe they’re the ones who will open their house up to hungry kids on Friday nights or provide a safe place for latchkey kids after school. But maybe not. Maybe they just liked the powder-blue bathroom and the metal cabinets in the kitchen.
Three weeks ago, this was so much more than a house to me. It was a dream. It was the answer to my family’s gnawing call to live among the poor. I envisioned throngs of kids running through that door. I imagined power trips to Sam’s to feed them all. I had the trampoline and the air hockey table set up in my mind; Kevin pictured basketball games in our oversized driveway. My mind had already renovated the apartment above the garage that would one day house a single mom and her kids. Or the Navigator college students who would spend their summer volunteering with Elevate at the school across the street. Hard to let go of these dreams.
But the house didn’t sell three weeks ago. It sold last week. It sold a few days after I listened to an audio message called “Death of a Dream.” The speaker was Phil Vischer, the outrageous genius who started VeggieTales, was on his way to becoming the next Walt Disney, and then watched it all crumble before his eyes. A few hours before I listened to the CD, I asked God to give me His perspective. We knew the house was under contract, and I was becoming neurotic at the thought of losing it. Later that day, as I went through the previous day’s mail, I saw a package of CDs mailed to me by a friend. Always curious about Phil Vischer’s story, I popped it in.
He said a lot of things, but this is what he said specifically to me: What’s more important to you? Loving God or loving your dream? Is it the dream you’re pursuing with all your heart, or is it your Creator? And no, it doesn’t matter if your dream involves following your God-given calling and doing all sorts of great things for Him. He doesn’t want or need your great things. He wants your heart, every bit of it, and He’s not willing to share it with your grand dreams.
Abraham had the grandest dream of all. It was more than a dream; it was actually a promise. From God Himself. God told Abraham he would have a son from whom nations would descend. Abraham surely assumed God had the wrong guy, because he didn’t have a single child. And he—and even more important, his wife—were about six decades past their child-bearing years. But God worked around that small detail and gave them a son named Isaac. And then, when Isaac was nearly grown, God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, to literally kill his dreams with his own hands. We all know how the story ends. Abraham didn’t have to kill his son, but he had to be willing to. He had to put his dream on the altar and decide, “God, you’re more important to me than anything—even this boy and all he represents to me.”
What a relief that the only thing I had to lay on the altar was a not-at-all-beautiful house built in 1952. So I did. God answered my prayer for perspective quickly and unquestionably, and I got more focused on the one I love instead of on the plans I love.
The hardest part of losing the house is that I still have to park in front of it once a week when I volunteer at the school. I still have to leave all those kids to play alone on the icy sidewalk for an hour or more while they wait for someone to come pick them up. I have to accept that God’s answer for me today is, “No, not your assignment. Not now,” and I get in my car and drive away. But it’s not all bad having the altar right there in front of me. It reminds me of the one I’m waiting on, and His plans are well worth the wait.
Three weeks ago, this was so much more than a house to me. It was a dream. It was the answer to my family’s gnawing call to live among the poor. I envisioned throngs of kids running through that door. I imagined power trips to Sam’s to feed them all. I had the trampoline and the air hockey table set up in my mind; Kevin pictured basketball games in our oversized driveway. My mind had already renovated the apartment above the garage that would one day house a single mom and her kids. Or the Navigator college students who would spend their summer volunteering with Elevate at the school across the street. Hard to let go of these dreams.
But the house didn’t sell three weeks ago. It sold last week. It sold a few days after I listened to an audio message called “Death of a Dream.” The speaker was Phil Vischer, the outrageous genius who started VeggieTales, was on his way to becoming the next Walt Disney, and then watched it all crumble before his eyes. A few hours before I listened to the CD, I asked God to give me His perspective. We knew the house was under contract, and I was becoming neurotic at the thought of losing it. Later that day, as I went through the previous day’s mail, I saw a package of CDs mailed to me by a friend. Always curious about Phil Vischer’s story, I popped it in.
He said a lot of things, but this is what he said specifically to me: What’s more important to you? Loving God or loving your dream? Is it the dream you’re pursuing with all your heart, or is it your Creator? And no, it doesn’t matter if your dream involves following your God-given calling and doing all sorts of great things for Him. He doesn’t want or need your great things. He wants your heart, every bit of it, and He’s not willing to share it with your grand dreams.
Abraham had the grandest dream of all. It was more than a dream; it was actually a promise. From God Himself. God told Abraham he would have a son from whom nations would descend. Abraham surely assumed God had the wrong guy, because he didn’t have a single child. And he—and even more important, his wife—were about six decades past their child-bearing years. But God worked around that small detail and gave them a son named Isaac. And then, when Isaac was nearly grown, God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, to literally kill his dreams with his own hands. We all know how the story ends. Abraham didn’t have to kill his son, but he had to be willing to. He had to put his dream on the altar and decide, “God, you’re more important to me than anything—even this boy and all he represents to me.”
What a relief that the only thing I had to lay on the altar was a not-at-all-beautiful house built in 1952. So I did. God answered my prayer for perspective quickly and unquestionably, and I got more focused on the one I love instead of on the plans I love.
The hardest part of losing the house is that I still have to park in front of it once a week when I volunteer at the school. I still have to leave all those kids to play alone on the icy sidewalk for an hour or more while they wait for someone to come pick them up. I have to accept that God’s answer for me today is, “No, not your assignment. Not now,” and I get in my car and drive away. But it’s not all bad having the altar right there in front of me. It reminds me of the one I’m waiting on, and His plans are well worth the wait.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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).
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.
Monday, February 2, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
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.
“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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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.
• 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.
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