motherhood

How do you teach a six year old about love?

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Tonight at bedtime with C:

Something happened at school today, Mommy, but I don’t want to tell you about it.

Why honey?

Because I don’t want you to get mad at me.

I won’t get mad. You can tell me honey, its okay.

Even if I do something bad?

Even if you do something bad, baby.

It doesn’t feel like it when you get angry with me.

I raise my voice sometimes honey because I get frustrated. But I always love you.

If it’s doubly bad?

Even then sweet pea. Honey, I will always love you. I love who you are, not what you do.

What if it’s quadruple bad?

Yes, bugaboo. Always. That’s the magic of moms. We always love our babies. I promise.

I am not ready to tell you yet. Can we stop talking about it? Let’s do butterfly kisses, Mommy.

Okay, baby.

Why are they called butterfly kisses? Oh, I get it. Like if a butterfly’s wings are on your cheek?

When did my baby grow up and how is he so mature that he can recognize when he is ready to talk about something and when he isn’t? I’m 38 and I have yet to master that skill.

And more important, how do I tell my son that my love is forever? That I will never, ever, stop loving him? That there is nothing that I would not do for him? How do you teach a six year old about love?

As a mother, I learn something new about love every day. Today, I learned that I cannot teach my son about love. I have to show him. I have to never stop loving. Never stop showing him my love, in word, in action, in thought, and prayer.

The wonderful thing about being a mom is that we forget everything and nothing. I will forget what he did at school today. I will always remember his sweet face under his blue blanky as he asks me to rub his back.

C, I will always love you. Always and all ways.

The kind of mother I am

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Today was a snow day for our whole family. Over coffee I started to ask my husband about the laundry list of projects (in my head) that need to get done in our house. I’d like to continue to organize the boys’ bedrooms, donate old books and clothes, tear down wallpaper (who wallpapers a heating vent?), take out the old rounded baseboards and put in the more current, squared off taller stuff, crown molding in the living room. When I start these conversations, I can feel my wheels spinning and see my husband’s eyes glaze over as he tunes me out. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He works hard to maintain our home. He just has other priorities. I asked him if he ever got overwhelmed by the amount of work that needs to be done. His answer was simple. “No. I know we are going to live here a long time and there is nothing that needs to get done tomorrow to make this house liveable.” Here I am beating myself up because I want my living room to look like a Pottery Barn catalog and my boys to be able to find toys when they want them and my husband is enjoying his coffee and his snow day.

I often think to myself, “What kind of mother am I?” This morning, it was 5 degrees. At their request, I bundled the boys up and helped them trek outside, but I didn’t go myself. Too cold. But I sat inside bathing in mom guilt because I had the day off and I didn’t take advantage of the time with them and play in the snow. Maybe I am not the kind of mom who does those things.

Maybe I am, I just wasn’t that kind of mom today.

For me, the biggest battle of motherhood has been with myself. Some of it is internal wiring. Some of it is my upbringing and the pressure put on me by myself and others to always be striving for more, to achieve, achieve, achieve. I don’t judge my husband, my sons, my parents, or my friends by one choice that they make on any given day, so why am I holding myself to that standard?

Motherhood isn’t about one decision on one day. One decision does not define me. But, a lifetime of decisions, does. And, as long as the cumulative effect of my decisions is positive, then I will have done right by them. That’s always the goal, right? To leave the world better than I found it. I hope to leave the world two men who will go on to do their own good in the world.

I was still in my pajamas when a friend texted to arrange a play date between her two sons and mine. At my house. Granted, I had offered the night before, so it wasn’t a total surprise. But, I was still in my pajamas! What kind of mother does that? At 2pm on a Monday? I never showered so fast in my life.

When all four boys were playing, I got inspired to organize the drawers in my nightstand. I’m still in purging mode. In with the pens (how many pens do I need in there?), chapstick, and Aveda hand lotion (the best, and completely necessary in Michigan winters), I found my prayer journals, some books, and piles and piles of little notes. I knew the notes were in there, I had just forgotten how many. There were hundreds of them, written on old sticky notes, receipts, vouchers for the parking garage at the hospital where our son was treated, on the wrappers of tea bags (?).

My sons’ childhoods on little pieces of paper.

When they slept through the night, rolled over, sat up. How many words they knew at a certain age. Funny things they said. Stories about what happened at school on a particular day. Recountings of dreams and nightmares. Fear of the dark and thunder because “it makes me sad.” Hugging me and my husband “because you are two people and I have two arms for hugging.”

Most of the notes were dated and labeled with who said it. (Go me!) I spent the afternoon sorting them into piles and then putting each pile into a folder. Some day I will give each son his own file folder full of little scraps of paper. They are memories. My memories of them and how they are growing before my eyes.

Love letters

Journals full of prayers

Journals full of prayers

Memories on post-its

Memories on post-its

Looking at the piles that covered my bed, I thought about what kind of mother I am and what that means for my sons. Today, I was not the kind of mother who bundled up and went outside. Today, I was the kind of mom who raced to the shower so I wasn’t embarrassed when a friend showed up to play. Hopefully my sons won’t remember those things. Those are just the things I did today.

Hopefully they will remember me as a woman of courage who worked to quiet her inner critics. Hopefully they will remember me as the kind of mother who remembers to write down the quirky stories and the funny things they said. Hopefully they will remember me as a writer and a keeper of memories. That is the kind of mother I am.

Parent “helper”

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Last week I volunteered in my son’s second grade classroom for the “one-room schoolhouse event.” Since September, they have been learning about life in the Pioneer days- think Little House on the Prairie, covered wagons, and no electricity or running water. That day, the entire second grade pod was transformed. The teachers wore long skirts, white aprons and bonnets. The children were asked to dress up as well and bring their non-processed lunches in brown paper bags, baskets, or wrapped in napkins. The lights were off and they weren’t allowed to use the water fountain. Each classroom became a one-room schoolhouse, with multiple grades of students in each room. L. wasn’t too thrilled about being demoted to first-grade for the morning, but he made the most of it. It was impressive and very, very organized! It was obvious that the four teachers had worked long and hard to transform their classrooms so the students could go back in time. And you know, actually learn something.

I arrived early and waited outside my son’s classroom for my assignment. As I was standing there, several other parents arrived. I was stunned to observe how loud and disruptive they were. I have a natural awe of and deference toward teachers that when I see such overt disregard for their work, I am stunned speechless. It’s totally fine and completely natural to want to chit-chat with your fellow mom-friends and parents of your child’s peers. I actually crave that time. It makes me feel normal and not so isolated.

Usually, people are aware enough to keep it to a slow murmur. Not that day. There were three grown women standing right outside a classroom door, talking and laughing at full pitch. One of the teachers came out and closed her door. That should have been the first clue. Then, one of the teachers whose door was already closed, came out, and spoke with them. She asked them very politely to please keep it down. She said something to the effect of: “We have a lot to get through and it would be helpful if you could keep it down out here. Then, we I am ready I will come out to explain the rotations to all the parent helpers.”

That didn’t go over very well. As soon as that door closed the Chatty Cathys reamed her. They absolutely ripped into her. And they weren’t even trying to be quiet about it. They started twittering and making faces and rolling their eyes. Kind of like a second-grader would. Then, right after that a fourth mother arrived and shouted at them from the other end of the hallway, across all four classrooms: “Hey, why aren’t you all dressed up, too?” The three who had just been scolded, said something like, “Shhhhh! We just got yelled at for talking!” I wish I could write how high-pitched and nasaly they sounded. Then they walked down the hall laughing and snickering. (I am assuming they came back eventually to help, but I honestly don’t know.)

Seriously? Who does that?

I wish I were making this up. It felt like a bad dream from grade school.

I understand the desire to chat with other moms. But, these women were there, in theory, to be parent helpers. After multiple messages went out from all four teachers indicating how much help they needed to make the day happen for the kids. (80 second graders, rotating through 4 stations of 30 minutes each) Chatting outside a classroom door is not helpful. And, that teacher had every right to say something to protect her time with her students, her lesson, and the learning environment that all four of them were trying to create.

If Chatty Cathy wants to be social, do it in the parking lot, or in your car, or at lunch after you are done volunteering. As a parent helper, I believe it is my role to be there to be helpful. I am perfectly wiling to be bossed around by teachers who are either younger than me, or old enough to be my mother. It’s not social hour. It is precious time that I get a window into my sons’ classrooms, where they spend more time every day than they do at home. I get to observe the teacher in action. How does she interact with the children? How do my son’s respond to her? Are they helpful, good listeners? Are they focused on the lessons and working hard? Are they struggling? And if so, where? Who are their friends?

Maybe those women were having a bad day. Maybe I am over-sensitive. Maybe these women are the exception and most parents don’t act like second-graders. I am not so sure. I have been on enough field trips to have witnessed some interesting cell phone usage.

Maybe I am right, though. Isn’t this where our children get it? If parents don’t have at least a modicum of respect for teachers, why should their children? Teachers work too long and too hard to have to battle parents, too.

The good news is that the kids are fine. They really are. They are kind, helpful, smart, energetic, messy (oh boy! The boys, my son included, were all a hot mess!), funny, eager, and wanting to be loved, by their teachers and by us.