progress report (July 18, 2013)

Now is about the time to ask: “So, how is that all working out for you, Michelle? All that appreciating your body, letting your kids be kids, ceasing to compare?”

Well, not so great. I’ve hit the exact day in summer when SAH moms really don’t know if they can spend another single day with their kids. You’re tapped out of creative ideas, it’s blistering hot outside, and their favorite pastime has become irritating each other. I might have also simultaneously hit the exact day in my eight-year SAH career when I wonder if there is much Michelle left at all. She may have been completely swallowed up by her other identity: Mom.

I am a blessed woman; that is for sure. But I am not a balanced person. Not right now. My current personhood is too heavily skewed toward the service of people eight years old and younger. And one of those people is a maniacal tyrant – an adorable, blonde, 30-lb tyrant – but a tyrant nonetheless.

So, yeah, I’ve totally failed on the “letting kids be kids” front. Apparently, I squeezed my oldest son’s wrist a little too hard last Sunday when he and his sister were being squirrelly hooligans in church – attracting far more attention to our row than I’d like. He actually produced big, fat tears on his cheeks, making me feel like that much worse of a mother. Inner monologue: “Great! Not only have you hurt your child in church, but others have now noticed both their unruly behavior and your ghastly response to it!” Mother of the Year!

Miss E was bored and wanted to play the baby, sitting on my lap facing front, then facing back, resting her head on one of my shoulders, then the other. Sucking her fingers. Playing with my hair. E is not a lap child. She is 3' 9" and weighs 44 lbs. With every movement, she would knee me somewhere sensitive and shove my skirt higher on my thighs. Awesome. IMO asked me every other minute if the sermon was over and was also clandestinely driven to touch portions of my body at all times. If you were to have gazed in my direction last Sunday, you would’ve witnessed these two medium-sized lumps playing Twister with me for 58 minutes while remaining partially seated. Hence, the Wrist Squeeze. Ugh.

I realize it is my fault. Who expects a 4-year-old and 8-year-old to make it through an hour-long service without being fidgety? My husband had to work and I’d (thankfully) dropped off Baby S with the childcare angels downstairs. These same two children have done okay in this service, but this particular Sunday they could not hold it together. For the grand finale, Miss E spilled her full cup of lemonade on the carpet in the Friendship Room. Not to be outdone, Baby S overturned his cup on the carpet, too, laughing like a hyena.    

I’ve also used my scary, goblin voice in the last week. I’m not proud of that. I’ve silently cursed my cellulite. I’ve felt envy. But I’ve also experienced triumph and joy. Miss E has completed four swimming lessons without freaking out! We didn't see that coming. And I could not stop smiling when Baby S tried to sing "Happy Birthday" today – messing up both the lyrics and the tune but singing with his whole heart. When he was done, he offered me a piece of his plastic “happy cake.” Thank God for these moments. Had it been real cake, I would’ve eaten every single bite while loving my body and not comparing myself against others :)    

Comparison robs you of joy

This phrase has been on my mind ever since I heard it during a sermon a few weeks ago. “Comparison robs you of joy.”

Here is a quick example: Know the feeling you have after you thumb through a magazine filled with gorgeous, slender, worldly, presumably wealthy women? Women in expensive clothes, drinking expensive drinks, sharing jokes with chiseled gentlemen who also possess shockingly-white teeth? You feel “less than.” You feel un-beautiful. You might even feel unfulfilled, unloved. Comparison robs you of joy.

I realized (once again) that magazines=depression at the salon where I had gone to get a haircut and, therefore, feel better about my appearance. Going to the salon is a huge treat! But ten minutes into the magazine I started feeling hopeless. Even the best haircut in the world wouldn’t make me look like Charlize Theron. Comparison robs you of joy.

Another example: My mom treated my sister and I to a fancy-home tour during the Christmas season. For a fee, you are allowed entry into these insanely beautiful, spacious homes decorated to the hilt for the holidays. Think: crackling fires in imported Italian fireplaces. They smell like leather and Balsam fir. I’ve always enjoyed interior design and architecture. But when I returned home, our house (which I love) looked drab and dated. Our Christmas tree looked chintzy. Nothing was shiny or historic. All I could see were the stains on the couch and chipped dishes in the sink. I felt pouty because we don’t have guest quarters. Comparison robs you of joy.
 
It’s so obvious. Yet we compare. Unwittingly. We compare every single day.

The sermon examined Matthew 20:1-16, also referred to as the “Workers in the Vineyard” story. https://bible.org/seriespage/workers-vineyard-matthew-201-16

To sum it up: A landowner gathered and employed men to work in his vineyards for the day – some began their day early, some began their toil much later. Yet, the boss paid everyone the same wage when the day was over. The ones who had worked the longest grumbled saying they had been treated unjustly even though they were compensated with the agreed-upon amount. It became “unfair” when they learned how much the generous landowner paid their cohorts. Comparison robs you of joy.

How do we stop comparing? How can we rid ourselves of the sour taste of envy? Is it as simple as gratitude? Or flat-out avoidance? If the homes of the rich and famous leave you feeling blue, take a tour on the other side of town, or, don't go. Sick of chicken nuggets (again) for dinner? Serve a meal for people who rarely get a hot meal. Read The Glass Castle, a memoir by Jeanette Walls, about her (and her siblings’) childhood, fending for themselves, picking through garbage to survive. Don’t read Glamour or Us Weekly. Don’t spend too much time at the gym, or worse, the pool at the gym, where it seems everybody is eyeing each other in a silent “who-is-the-fittest?” contest. Are the walls really lined with mirrors so we can check out our form? Or to measure ourselves against the others?

I’m going to start by recognizing comparison when it creeps in and calling it out. Keep the phrase handy in your mind: “Comparison robs you of joy.” Humans will never stop comparing. But we can put our inner brats in timeout. Then open the door wide for gratitude and joy.

 

car wash

Baby S hates the automated kind, but he loved doing it old-school with his Daddy.



in his own happy world

letting kids be kids

I'm trying to be the mom who reacts positively when her daughter shortens a dress with scissors (“Oh, she will be a fashion designer some day!”) but, honestly, it’s more, “What the h__ were you thinking?” She would've been wise to try this in the first half of the day. Shenanigans look more like treachery after 6:00 p.m.

Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God for fresh starts.

My children gift me with more smiles and laughter than I have ever known, but they also excel at getting  under my skin. Several times per day, I  breathe deep and remind myself that they are “just kids.”

Like when IMO, inspired by science camp, asked for an empty pump bottle so he could mix Sprite and soap. He claimed this potion would heal stubbed toes. I cringed as he dribbled it all over the counter and floor and proceeded to rub the sticky, foamy substance on his foot. Some mothers would not become unglued by this. But, sadly, I couldn’t see past the mess I was going to clean up later.

You’d be amazed how many times a day I have this conversation:

Me: “Is that food?”
Child: “No.”
Me: “Well, then, it shouldn’t be in your mouth. Only food and drink go in your mouth.”

My children will probably etch that last sentence on my grave.

I told a dear friend that I wasn’t sure that I was cut out for this job. I love order. I crave a quiet house. I hate stains. Some aspects of motherhood came naturally to me, but many others did not.

On my worst days, I fear that I enjoy babies more than I enjoy kids. Which means I will probably pack up and leave when they reach their teens. No one has a sweet, newlywed moment where you turn to your spouse, peer deep into his/her eyes, and say, “Honey, let’s have a tween.” No, we get warm and fuzzy over babies. And they grow up to do the things that bug us most about own personalities. Ever recognize your bad habits and quirks in your children? I do.

IMO obsesses over things. (Right now, the flavor of the week is Pokemon). He cannot change the channel. He perseverates. My poor Mom also had to deal with a relentless child with a one-track mind: me. Now I have one. Pay back.

Miss E is fiercely independent. We know that most kids go through this phase, but hers is here to stay. In an attempt to keep her from flipping out, I admit that I’ll undo something I’ve already done so she can do it herself. So it’s no surprise that I decline help even when I need it because I want to “do it myself.” As adults, we’re called Control Freaks. (Hmm, note to self: re-brand that.)

It might be too soon to tell what mannerisms we’ll see in Baby S. I will say that he is the bossiest and the most polite baby you’ve ever met… barking orders like a dictator but showering you with affection and gratitude once you’ve filled his need.

I don’t exactly know where I want to take this post from here. I just needed to write. But I’ll leave you with this quote from an incredible Huffington Post article by Steve Wiens, a pastor and writer:

“Maybe it's time to embrace being the kind of parent who says sorry when you yell. Who models what it's like to take time for yourself. Who asks God to help you to be a better version of the person that you actually are, not for more strength to be an ideal parent.”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/steve-wiens/let-me-be-the-one-who-says-it-out-loud_b_3209305.html

Amen to that. I'm also asking God to help me see the magic in their messes and find joy in the chaos. They are not mini adults, after all; they are children. Perfectly imperfect children. And our house will be quiet soon enough.