A Moment with my Daughter

It was a momentary pause at the edge of the continent, my daughter and I hanging onto each other for warmth. It was not long before the too-chilly ocean breeze pushed us back to reality.

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Pacify Me! Pacify Me!

When will we realize as parents that constant entertainment is a disservice to our children? Teaching a child to be still, even for a short time, is a great gift that a parent can give a child.

As I sat in church this evening, I became aware of a familiar scent that I could not place. I looked to my left to see a nearby child munching nacho cheese Doritos. A few rows ahead, two boys were making quite a ruckus trying to wrestle Club Penguin comic books from one other. A pounding sound drew my attention to my right, where a young girl was frantically trying to shoot aliens on an iPad with her finger action. Mind you, these were not toddlers. These were not even preschoolers. These children ranged in age from six to ten.

This is not a diatribe on children disrupting church. I love children. I do not mind them making noise in church. It happens. I was there once; I remember the heat of embarrassment crawling up my body as I realized that my whining toddler was not going to stop, and a scene must be made as I gathered the child, the diaper bag, and any siblings to retire to the cry room.

No, this is a comment on the lack of the willingness of parents to require their children to sit quietly, without entertainment, for one hour a week. This is a plea to parents to buck up and stop being afraid of disciplining their children, for heaven's sake. And it starts in the cry room, where parents let their children run wild instead of using the opportunity to teach them to start learning to be still for longer than 30 seconds.

Oh, easy for me to say, my children must have been angels. Well, no. But my children never had food or toys in church, except for milk and a pacifier when their age was still counted in months. I confess I missed being in the actual church sanctuary enough to move forward from the cry room sooner than I should have. My kids made age-appropriate noise and probably bothered people on occasion, but we entered a blissful state when my son discovered that napping under the pew was something a three-year-old could do without being too conspicuous. It was a welcome relief for me, and humorous for the row behind us. But as he was closing in on school-age, even that had to stop.

Then my son started resting on my lap, or trying to stretch out on the pew. I had varying degrees of patience with that for a few years while he was smaller. But lying on my lap ended at some point, and now even at twelve he knows that his head on my shoulder is only sometimes tolerated. I know it's hard for kids sometimes to understand what is going on, but religion aside, I hold the firm belief that there is value alone in just learning to be still.

My sister has two sets of twins, eight and three. She can take all four of them to church and sit in the sanctuary. Sometimes she will have a rabble-rouser with a younger monkey, and have to leave for a bit, but mostly they are fine. I have taken the older two to church on several occasions over the past few years and have been remarkably impressed with their quiet, respectful behavior. And my nephew is as rambunctious and boy-like as they come. These children have just been taught to be still for an hour without the aid of entertainment. My sister is not afraid of her children, nor is she in need of the crutch of an iPad.

As I returned to my pew after communion today, trying to avoid stepping on the mess of Doritos on the carpet, I became increasingly disturbed by how many parents give up so easily. When junk food, comic books, and technology are pacifiers for school-age children, we are not allowing our children to grow up. And this does not even begin to address the message that is being sent to these children about the importance of their religion. I am not even going to go there. As a Sunday school teacher, I see parents all the time that expect me to instill the love of God in their children in one hour a week--unless of course there is worship at a soccer game that week.

Parents are the first and primary educators of their children. We must embrace that power and not give it away to pacifiers. Teaching a child to be still in the presence of God is a gift to them, not a punishment. As a dear friend, an elderly gentleman, once said to me about attending church, "With all God gives you, you can't give Him an hour?" My children know they will hear that if they ever complain about going to church, and they know that their pacifier is a stern look from mom. As my son rests his head on my shoulder even tonight, I allow it, remembering how tough it is even for adults to pay attention sometimes. But you quietly sit through those tough times, so you are there and available for the times that are truly meaningful. So to the mom of the seven-year-old banging on the iPad, leave it in the car next time as a reward for sitting quietly in church.

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Easter Reflections

Budmeister

To no longer be awakened at the crack of dawn on Easter morning by two exuberant little children is both a good thing and a bad thing.  It is a good thing because the Easter Bunny is not quite ready, and it is a bad thing because it feels like all that tradition and fun is gone by.

We even forgot to dye eggs this year.  We do it every year on Holy Thursday.  I did eventually buy the eggs and dye, but the package has been sitting on the counter for two days without anyone mentioning it.

I suppose I could be sad about the loss of the expectancy and innocence, but I'm considering skipping that.  For every little thing that I notice has passed, there is something to be thankful for to take its place.  For example, getting enough sleep. Or having time to put the last minute touches (okay, start puttting together) the baskets.  If my children were still bounding in to wake me at their age and size, I think I would be worried.

I look at other people's babies and small children and I smile.  I tweak their toes and googoo at them.  I enjoy their existence without needing one of my own.  (I happen to feel that way about dogs too.)  While my younger friends are frantically looking for a sitter, I am enjoying my freedom to come and go.  I am counting down the days when my daughter has her license, so I can send her out for Mexican food.  I have paid my dues; I have enjoyed that innocent time.  Now it is time for the next phase.

Until grandchildren.
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Winning Spirit

My son's basketball team is quickly proving themselves to be the worst in the league. I say that with pride, because I tell my son that they surely have learned the most of any team these last few months. But I also agree with him that losing sucks.

It's not that we don't have a couple of talented players who hustle and score. But many have little experience, and they have never played as a team before. We have one tall player, my son, and with that height comes expectations. I watch him improving and getting more comfortable, but basically he's a nice kid with little experience.

At this game, the opposing team had four very tall players, one of whom was a man-boy who looked like he should be in high school and shaving instead of in fifth or sixth grade. The coach had obviously grilled these boys to be piranhas. They were mean and lean. And all their shorts matched.

While they were making score after score, and foul after foul, our boys were ducking and crawling to keep from being injured. Watching a thirteen-year-old pubescent shove backwards into a small ten-year-old boy made you want to go down on the court with a large handbag.

We had some bad juju going on too. Even our wiry guys were off today. If I had a nickel for every shot that traveled around the rim and flew out, I would have had enough for a large Gucci knockoff. It was a blessing the scoreboard was on the fritz today, because the score was something like GNP to zip.

Our team has played together enough to know who scores. The other players respect that hierarchy, and have dramatically improved their passing skills. My son gets the ball now and again, being tall, and has gotten good at passing. But just once, for him, I would like to see him go for a shot. Or at least have one of his teammates pass to him on purpose.

To my delight, one time when he had the ball and we were not yet on the board, he took that shot. The ball arced beautifully towards the hoop and licked the lips of the rim, but bad juju made it fly out again. Dang. I saw the word on his face.

Sometime in the second half, after the sympathetic referee froze the other team's score, we got on the board. My son even went for a second shot with similar results as the first. We scored a couple of times, with parents going ballistic with every shot. The parents on the other team were barely watching, chatting on cel phones and with each other.

Then something interesting happened. One of our players made a shot and the ball landed on top of the backboard and stuck fast. The referee called for another ball--not to keep playing, but to get the first ball down.

A couple of our teammates took a few shots to knock it down, but wires and poles kept it from contacting the ball. Even the referee tried a couple times. My son tried once, and kissed the ball, but it didn't budge. Still, I could see his mind working.

That look on his face is one I have seen a hundred times. We have nine mature trees in our front yard which have been home to errant remote control planes, kites, paper airplanes, sticks, ropes, hats, and even a pair of scissors once. Our homes also have some low elevation roof lines which have served the same purpose as the trees: to challenge a little boy looking upwards and wondering how he's going to get his boomerang down.

I could see that look on his face now. He had no step ladder, no grabber, no extending pole for changing light bulbs. He just had a basketball.

Finally, his outstretched hands received the ball from a teammate, and my son walked around to the side of the backboard. He cooly assessed the distance, aimed, and shot. The ball bounced off the other, which started to roll slowly along the backboard. In slow motion, the ball made its way to the other end and fell off to the ground.

The parents cheered as if the winning point were dunked. "Ten-pointer!" Even the other side put down their phones for a moment. A couple of my son's teammates congratulated him. But more beautiful than seeing that ball drop was the expression on my son's face as he loped off. There was his big smile with maybe a hint of embarrassment in the pink of his cheeks. But overall, there was the distinct look of pride.

Epilogue: The last game of the season was quite exciting, with a fingernail-biting spread of no more than two points the entire game. We were up by two when the buzzer sounded, and our team and the crowd went wild. Finally, to know what it feels like to win. Very cool.

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Christmas Card 2010

Cool Blue Holly Christmas Card

Create modern Christmas cards at Shutterfly.

View the entire collection of cards.

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Teaming Up for Fun

In a never-ending quest to team up and share our gifts with one another, my dear girlfriend Peg Windisch and I worked together to create an article about her non-profit organization, We Are Coaches. The organization is committed to "help empower children to grow the kind of wings that will serve them, and the world, in adulthood." The article appeared as the community non-profit spotlight in the August 2010 issue of Natural Awakenings magazine, a local San Diego publication. The article can be read here.

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Melt Me

So my ten-year-old guy says to me this morning as he's buttoning his shirt, "Mom, you make my life easier." Then he counts with his fingers, "You wash my clothes, you give me food, and you just love me." As we're hugging he says, "You just help me get through life."

Wherever you are, my future daughter-in-law, you're one lucky girl.

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Right in the Kisser

My ten-year-old comes into the room and plunks on the bed. After a heavy sigh, he says, "My insides feel lonely."

I love the images this child brings up when he tries to express himself in words the best way he can. I immediately turn to him, trying to read the emotion in his face.

Again, he laments, "My heart feels empty." Oh, the saga of a sad little boy. I stand up to go to him, wanting to take him into my arms and hold him, filling up all those empty spaces with the totality of motherly love.

I lie down next to him, and start to draw him close to me. He pulls away and says, "The computer always makes me feel better. Can I go on it?"

R-i-i-i-p the gentle music.

After some wrestling and laughter, he is sent to finish up his chores before getting on the computer. I lie there thinking, "What have we come to?" I know I am not replaceable, but it still makes me want to take a fist to our technology.

"One of these days, Alice. Pow! Right in the kisser!"

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Leave the Light On

As he often does, my ten-year-old son asked that I leave his light on low as he climbed into bed. I told him I was tired and did not want to have to turn it off after he was asleep, but still I complied.

As he settled in, he mused, "I don't know what I am going to do when I am a grownup. I'll have to get a timer or something."

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Dear Abby

Dear Abby,
Why do I put my attention to the trivial, while the important stuff gets lost? Why do I spend time with people whom I hardly know, and let time pass without hailing those I love the most? I am like a horse with blinders on, seeing only the immediate steps in front of me, losing the landscape around me. Do you know why, dear Abby?
Stymied in the Southwest

It is so much easier to attend to that which is in front of my face, than to continually examine what is important in my life and attend to it accordingly. I can think of no other reason why I do not pick up the phone or mail a quick note more often to the people I love.

Blessed are we who are fortunate enough to have loved ones willing to carry the load. I have several of these forgiving souls in my landscape. They reach out to me, and put themselves in front of my eyes, and get my attention. I prance and whinny, and playfully step along with them awhile, until they recede again, leaving me to focus once again on the brambles under my feet.

There was this particular little girl. I first met her as she peeked around from behind her father, big dark eyes full of uncertainty. She was six then. Not long afterwards, we found ourselves at a restaurant. Her father was apologetic as his daughter was defiant and rude. I understood that she did not want to share her Daddy with this strange woman. I got it. After dinner, we went to sit at the beach, and rudeness gave way to giggles as we sat and drew pictures on each other with the charcoal bits from a beach fire. Our relationship began.

Within a year, this little girl became part of my daily life, as her father did. We were a team, the three of us, exploring the landscape of the county. We often found ourselves in nature since we were young and broke, and the countryside was free. Our favorite path through meadows and gullies is now a freeway corridor. But I'll never forget our secret waterfall where we would picnic and navigate the boulders barefoot. We were becoming a family.

Snippets of memories. New Year's Eve at the Sycamore Inn. (She and I made a country inn at my apartment, complete with check-in and dinner. We spent all day setting it up. Her dad rolled his eyes at our goofiness, but bless his heart, he played along when we were all ready.) For her eighth birthday, I bought her Lee Press-On Nails. She might as well have won the lottery.

At nine, this little girl became defiant again. Maybe it was the ring that made me act differently. Maybe the prospect of actually becoming her mother made me think that I was supposed to be in control. Her ninth birthday with all her little friends around was not a proud moment for us. She was rebelling and I did not know what to do about it. I felt a child myself. What did I know about being a mother of a soon-to-be preteen? As it was, I never found out.

Love does not conquer all. Or maybe it does, but he and I did not possess that kind of love. Our team of three became two and one again. But I could not bear leaving behind this sweet dark-eyed little girl. Her father and I remained friends, and she and I evolved to have our own relationship, separate and unique. I drove miles to pick her up from her grandmother on weekends. We would have girl chats and do each other's nails. I yearned to teach her, my first feeling of homeschooling I imagine. I can still hear her chanting her multiplication doubles and state capitals. "Shy Anne, Why Owe Me!" I even taught my own daughter years later, "What is the capital of Alaska?" She would answer as my dark-eyed little girl once did, "I dunno. D'you know?"

She and I continued to be close through the next few years, as I developed a relationship with the man I would actually marry. I told him that this little girl would be a part of our lives, and he always supported that. He knew that I had promised that if anything happened to her father, I would become her legal guardian if she asked. We had that understanding as we planned our wedding with our twelve-year-old flower girl.

As it were, she made it to adulthood without incident. Soon after we were married, my little girl moved a short plane flight away and proceeded to grow up. I was able to visit quite often because my work took me there quite a bit. She also flew down to see her grandmother, so I was able to see her then. We continued along.

I think my blinders went on when I had a daughter of my own. Not that my daughter replaced my little dark-eyed girl. There was room enough for both in my heart. It's just that when the life is being sucked from you, you tend to get distracted. Then I had another child. My life was full of joy and brambles. I never forgot a birthday or a Christmas, but there was so much to do, what with applesauce and diapers, and later with schooling and playdates. I was so thankful that my dark-eyed girl continued to visit about once a year when she would come down to see her grandmother. Through her efforts, she developed a relationship with my two children, and they adore her.

Just last night, in fact, she was here. She had come down to be a bridesmaid in a wedding, and had taken the effort to spend time with me and my family. I was stunned by her beauty. She has grown into a gorgeous woman of twenty-eight, as lovely on the inside as out. But something about this visit was different. She thought maybe I was different. Or maybe it was seeing her and my daughter the same height, acting like sisters. Whatever the difference, I saw my dark-eyed little girl as a full-grown woman, and we connected as we have never connected before. It was a wonderful but short visit, since she had to drive off by four in the morning to catch her plane. So we said our goodbyes before going to bed. When I awoke, I found that she had left her bridesmaid's bouquet for us, three dozen white roses.

She is embarking on beginning her own family, with a lovely diamond on her finger. She is full of hopes and dreams and self-examination and growth. I want to walk beside her as she enters this stage of her life, and I am so thankful that we have come to this point together.

The blinders will be coming off so I can see the love around me, instead of worrying about the brambles underfoot. Thank you, my dark-eyed girl, for being one of those forgiving souls in my landscape.

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Reflections on a Mother's Worth

I remember asking my mother a question when I was still in awe of my new baby daughter, "Mom, did you love me as much as I love my baby?"

I have replayed her answer often these past years. "Of course I did." Simple as that. But I am still comprehending the magnitude of that answer. It tempts me to truly feel worthy.

How pleasant it must be to be in the position of a grandmother. The mother labors to dig a path for her children, struggling to keep pace in front of them, every once in awhile turning around to corral them back on the path. Meanwhile, the grandmother is strolling alongside the children, holding hands and picking flowers. Every once in awhile, the grandmother provides advice on the shoveling technique, but no gloves are offered. When the mother complains about the toil and hardship, the grandmother holds up her palm to show her own hardened calluses in sympathy.

So why is it so difficult to understand that my mother loved me as much as I love my children, and as much as I see that she loves her grandchildren? Perhaps it is because I have come so far in life without truly appreciating what my mother has done for me. Maybe it is easier to question that love than to feel the guilt. But there comes a time when every mother must face the truth: that indeed, her own mother felt that love, lived that love, and suffered that love.

It is necessary for young children to be ignorant of their mother's sacrifice. If our children comprehended how much they put us out, they would probably implode with guilt. That is why motherhood has acquired the reputation for being a thankless job. But as adults, we can and need to understand. It is part of the maturing process that every woman must go through, whether she has children of her own or not. It is just that having children forces the issue.

No wonder a grandmother loves her grandchildren so much. She knows that those children are responsible for the newly-formed painful calluses that cause her daughter to finally look back at her mother with understanding, forgiveness and true appreciation.

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First Class Boy

There was a time when my children provided me with all sorts of humorous fodder to fold into a story that grandparents would find amusing. Now that my children are older, these opportunities are fewer. My nine-year-old son, however, being the innocent constitution that he is, will probably give me a few more years of laughter.

Oh how excited he was to receive a package from a stranger. He opened it to reveal the contents, showing me a small bag of about a dozen flat yellow Legos.

"Daddy got me the Legos I needed!"

Not sure why he would be so excited about these generic Legos, I asked him what he was going to do with them. He proceeded to explain all about something concerning something. My husband and son have a super secret Lego thing going. I rarely ask.

He was still talking about his package as we pulled the garbage bins in from the curb. He told me how Daddy had the man who sent them write his name on the package.

"And Daddy even had him send it FIRST CLASS!"
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Prattle of the Preteen

I can’t just pick up the phone anymore. I used to be able to pick it up at any old time, dial, and speak. That privilege is no longer in my life as of the last month.

My preteen daughter has discovered the telephone as a communication device. It is not enough to have playdates (do we call them that anymore?) and email. Even IM (instant messenger for those of you not tech-hip) leaves the voice intonations lacking. No, the telephone rings constantly now.

Fortunately it is still just girls calling, talking about boys I imagine. And for some reason, the phone rings three or four different times during one conversation. Not sure if it is potty breaks or what. So I have learned to not answer the phone. It’s rarely for me anymore.

I have patience so far. I remember being in seventh grade with the receiver hanging off my ear. I have an image of myself lying on the pistachio-green carpet in the formal dining room with my feet up on the wall, chatting with Debbie about absolutely nothing, twirling the phone cord through my fingers. It was connection; it was society. I will not deny that of my daughter. But it’s only been a month.

Earlier today she asked if she could walk down to the store with her friend this afternoon. Here she is, almost a teenager, and she has never walked out of our neighborhood unescorted by an adult. She's traveled on her own with her class trip, but not to the store around the corner. That is not unusual. When put against my peers, I am no more protective about such things than any of them. My daughter has a friend who lives nearby (but across a busy intersection) and we as mothers still walk our girls back and forth. And the other girl is almost as tall as me. It is less a sign of overprotection and more a sign of the times.

In response to her request to go to the store, I told her I had to think about it and talk to her father. What am I afraid of? Let me count the fears. I am afraid of the white van pulling up to two attractive young girls and being off with them. I am afraid of her running across the busy street and miscalculating oncoming traffic. Pretty much the same things that I was afraid of when she was two. Nothing much different there.

Maybe it is time. I am open to her growing up. It allows me more freedom to discover myself again outside the role of being a mother. I do trust her judgment in crossing the street. And the odds of that white van being along the quarter-mile distance during the five minutes they are walking is arguably slim.

She is still waiting for my permission. Mainly because I am unable to call her father since she is still on the phone.


Epilogue: Dad made the call with a decisive, "No way! I don't want some creep in a van picking them up." I suppose I needed a few things at the store anyway. They can disappear on their own while I shop. Baby steps.

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Water, Water, Everywhere

I knew I was in trouble when the body aches started. My husband had just left for a two week business trip across the country. Within a day, I was in bed with a full-blown flu, the kind that makes the room spin if you attempt to stand.

My daughter was eight, and my son five. All the grandparents were out of state, and my close friends had children of their own that they did not want to get sick. So we were pretty much on our own. Even though my kids were quite independent, I was a little worried about how they would feed themselves for a couple of days. Turns out it wasn't my children I should have been concerned about.

It was all I could do to crawl to the bathroom and back. There was no way that I could navigate the stairs, nor attempt to fix myself something to eat once I got to the kitchen. I needed to rely on my children for sustenance.

I knew from the sound emanating from downstairs that my kids were taking full advantage of my weakened state to watch marathon television. My beleaguered throat would not allow me to call out to them, so I waited for what seemed hours for one of them to check on me. When that time finally came, rather, when one of them walked by the door, I croaked out something incoherent.

My daughter poked her head in. I whispered hoarsely, "Water...please."

I heard her shout down to her brother to bring me up some water. Then she disappeared. I waited. And waited. About an hour later, my son bounded in and jumped on the bed. His bouncing shook my very existence. I begged him, "Please, honey, stop bouncing. Please bring me some water. Please."

"Sure, Mommy." He bounced away and blessedly returned moments later. In his hand was a small Bob the Builder cup, half-filled with lukewarm water. I grabbed it and drank it in one swallow. It merely teased my parched mouth.

My daughter walked in then. I took hold of her arm tightly, and implored her through tears. I told her I had not eaten in a day and a half. I needed an entire jug of water, and some kind of food. I told her I needed her to check on me at least once an hour. I was sobbing by this point. Bless her heart, she finally got it. She finally understood that her mother was truly ill and needed assistance. She got to work.

She enlisted her brother's help, and from the sounds coming from the kitchen, they were making Thanksgiving dinner. I wondered if I should have suggested a bowl of cereal.

They appeared at the door a half-hour later with a tray, announcing that they had made pancakes. I was confused since they were not allowed to turn on the gas stove. I attempted to sit up as I questioned how they made pancakes.

My son smiled and exclaimed, "Oh, easy! We made them in the microwave!"

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British Biscuit Blunder

It was one of those opportunities that could not be passed. My young daughter blinked at me with big eyes, after she looked at her fairy book with recipes and drawings of the magical moment. Can we have a tea party right now? With her little brother interested as well, I relented. We chose one of the several recipes of which I was sure we had all the ingredients. (I was not too interested in dipping violet petals in sugar water and eating them, even if we'd had any violet petals handy.)

Looking at the recipes, I noticed the primary measurements were in metric, so figured the book was probably from England. One glance at the back proved the first price to be in U.K. pounds. We also noticed they recommended "caster" sugar, of which I was unfamiliar. My daughter guessed it might be confectioner's sugar, so I thought we best look it up. Sure enough, it was "chiefly British," but ended up being finely granulated sugar. So with our translations in hand (using the cup measurements in parentheses), we headed for the kitchen to make "Shaped Biscuits." I figured we could have them with butter and jam. I love flaky biscuits, and thought it might be fun making them from scratch for the first time instead of using Bisquick or one of those pop cans.

I had one of those rare moments of complete mother patience as I allowed my children to make not only the biscuits, but quite a mess as well. They cooperated well, taking turns measuring and stirring, while I interjected teaspoons of wisdom here and there: Use the half measuring cup three times instead of getting out the one-cup and half-cup. Use the back of a knife to swipe off the top of the cup. Yes, one-third two times is two-thirds. Hot water rinses off grease better than cold water. Give your brother a turn. No, we only use the sifter for flour.

The children rolled out the stiff dough, and I pulled out the cookie cutters. I figured different shaped biscuits might be more fun than just round ones, so I helped them choose larger simple designs that might have a chance of being recognizable after the biscuits rose and fluffed out. My daughter chose flowers and butterflies to go with the theme, and my son chose a teapot and a sun. They rolled and stamped and rolled again. They rolled the dough quite thin, but I figured I would just watch the oven so the thinner ones did not burn. As we placed them on the pan, I reminded the children that they were biscuits and not cookies, even though they quite resembled cookies after using the cutters. They reassured me that they knew.

I cleaned up some while the children worked on a second batch of biscuits, shaping more butterflies and a Pooh bear with eyeballs. One of my son's suns broke in half as I transferred it to the second pan, and he cried out in dismay. Quickly turning it broken-side down, I said, "It's a setting sun!" He smiled in agreement. Crisis averted.

I checked the oven a few times, but the biscuits were not rising or changing shape at all. I knew we had followed the recipe exactly, so I figured the children must have just rolled them too thin, just over a quarter-inch. I took them out when they started to look a little dry and figured I would just have to explain to the children that sometimes it is the process, not the product. We had enjoyed ourselves making them after all. So our biscuits were little bricks. Maybe we could dunk them in peppermint tea to soften them. I broke off a corner of the setting sun and put it in my mouth. It immediately melted like soft butter, infusing a gentle sweetness like a light breeze on a spring day. It brought me back to my early days on my own, when I would bake my favorite shortbread recipe and drink Earl Grey...

Then it hit me like the swift heel of a hand on my forehead. I turned to my daughter with big eyes and said, "The British call cookies biscuits!"

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Little Bits of Soul

Sometimes I wonder if I lost myself along the way since becoming a mother. I know I have forgotten bits and pieces of myself. I assume it is a necessary part of motherhood, handing out little bits of your soul each day to nurture growing beings. I used to feel physically sucked dry when they nursed. But I did not care, and I still would not change it. My mothering instinct is alive and thriving as I kill for my cubs to feed them dinner. I get irritated sometimes and need peace, yet when I am alone, I rattle about the house unsure of what to do next. These children compose the bulk of what I use to define my purpose in life. As time briskly passes, I fear the future when they are grown. I like being the mother of small children.

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Top of My Game

The child who could name all the Dragon Tales characters before he was two was having trouble with his color association. I even went so far as to research the existence of color-blindness in my family. My toddler always said the color names, but when you asked him the color of the green block, he would say, “yellow.” In fact, he went through a yellow period, then a green period, then a blue period.

As time went on, he did hit the right color now and then, and just like a man, he was quite sure of black, brown and white. Blue was also a pretty good bet. But try yellow, red, green, orange or purple, and it was a toss up. The really frustrating thing was that when you held up a banana and asked its color, he said purple, and then when you said “No, it is yellow” and ask again, he said red and grinned. He knew you wanted him to perform, and he enjoyed his power. It was like he was playing with you.

Then one day I sat my toddler down, and held up a brown M&M. I asked him what color it was, and he answered correctly. I responded by putting the candy in his mouth. While he was chewing, I held up a blue M&M and asked again. He was again rewarded. I repeated the procedure with a few more blue and brown M&M’s, until his mouth and lips were wet with chocolate and he was looking for more. Then I held up a red M&M and asked him its color.

“Yellow,” he said.

“No, it’s red.” I responded, and popped the M&M into my mouth. The confused look on his face was priceless. I held up another red M&M and asked its color.

“Red,” he said desperately, and I rewarded him by pushing it between his lips.

I held up a yellow one and asked him. “Green,” he responded.

“No, it’s yellow.” I ate it. Again, that furrowed brow.

Another yellow one. “Yellow,” he said, keen to the game now—my game this time, my rules.

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Femininity in Marriage

At this time in my life, I am seeking knowledge about my role as a wife and mother. I find that even though I am home with my children, I am conflicted about what I am all about as a woman. I was raised an independent woman with feminist ideals, one who would never be dependent on anyone, least of all a man. I am a child of divorced parents, and that child will always be within me. I am conflicted, and I am searching for the truth.

I find that my mind has been opened to truths that even in the recent past I would have scoffed. These truths roll around in my mind like pebbles in a polisher, chipping away the cultural rough spots that have coated the inside of my mind over the years of my life. When the polishing is done, hopefully by the time I die an old woman, the revealed surface will be the true me, not a changed me—although outwardly I will appear a changed woman. I am motivated at this time to speed up the process, as I watch the mother-me coat the inside of my daughter’s mind. I want to give her pebbles, not rough spots.

One pebble that I would offer my daughter is to not strive to be equal to a man, but rise to be equal to her femininity. Perhaps if she knew this truth as a child, she would never have to spend years searching for herself, only to end up looping back to where she started, living the years of internal conflict in between. I spent so many years trying to be equal to men that I had no idea how to be a woman. I swore to never be dependent on anyone, emotionally or otherwise, and that I would always take care of myself. This self-absorbed attitude protected me well as a single person, but caused nothing but conflict in the sacrament of marriage. It caused further pain within parenthood. I found myself resenting taking care of others, angry over any perceived inequality with housework or parenting tasks, or time for myself. If I was not getting what I perceived I needed, I certainly would not give anything back. I did not know the role that I was supposed to fulfill, yet expected those around me to fulfill theirs with precision and grace.

I am learning that my husband was not given to me to fulfill my needs. My marriage does not exist for the sole purpose of providing me with a constant supply of intimacy, romance, and companionship.  I am praying that I can internalize the truth that I am my husband's helper, and that together we can create a ministry whose product is a testament to God's love through our unity and through our children, whole and complete.  When I am patient and kind to my husband, he esteems me. When I am patient and kind to my children, they esteem me. When I selflessly turn my energy to completing the tasks within my care, I am rewarded with the satisfaction and nobility of purpose to which every woman is endowed.

I am cleaved to my husband, and could no more choose another as I could my right arm. If we inherited one jewel from our Catholic marriage preparation, it was the sense of no turning back. The only thing that got us through our difficult first year of marriage was the thought that “well, we’re stuck with each other—we might as well make the best of it.” And make the best of it we did, and still do. We do not succumb to the American belief of the disposable marriage. Popular culture has sold us a bill of goods by first making us believe that a marriage must be defined by passion, intimacy, and romance, and then by making us believe that there is always an out if all else fails. Of course it will fail by that definition, because that is the description of a good Saturday night date, not the basis of marriage. True passion, intimacy, and romance are merely the occasional results of a solid marriage.

Marriage is defined by commitment to God and to each other. This commitment means following the natural law in our role as women. Marriage is carried by patience and kindness. Marriage is fulfilled through the blessings of unity and any children who come along.

I am finding that in the infancy of my living these truths, happiness follows. It’s funny, when I sought self-fulfillment and my own version of direct happiness, I attained self satisfaction and internal conflict. As I begin to seek to do what God has prescribed for me as a woman, I find resistance from cultural norms, fear of coloring outside the lines, and a strange sense of peace and wholeness. Maybe that’s happiness. All I know is that whatever it is, I want more of it.

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