Best Laid Plans of Parenting

Here I sit. Thinking back over my day. The day where life took over and turned in lots of ways I didn’t mean for them to turn. Like that moment when my middle son peed on his box spring in front of his friends. Yes, peed, people. Peed. Or, when my toddler and middle son pulled all the toilet paper out of the bathroom and tore it into little pieces all over the floor. When asked what they were doing, my middle son replied, “making a mess.” Of course, that makes complete sense.

Or, when my daughter who is obsessed with getting water and ice from the frig makes a huge pool on the hardwood floors.  Although I have told her no, made her sit in time out, and taken away her cup she still insist that “I do it, mama” like she’s 22 already and doesn’t need me anymore. Great. Not that I really want to help which is why instead of disciplining her I am sitting at the kitchen table wishing discipline would magically happen and that I didn’t actually have to move my tired body out of my chair, away from my morning coffee that I’m still trying to drink even though its 3:30pm, and reprimand her so this habit doesn’t stay a habit. Fail. It’s a habit.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck with inaction. I cannot move. I cannot discipline. I keep wanting to discipline, be the “strict” mama I was when my oldest son was little. He would turn his head, stop whatever he was doing, and look at me in the eyes when I would clap my hands. When I write that he sounds like a puppy in training which in actuality, toddlers and puppies are not all that different. Reward for good behavior, punish for bad. Teach them to potty on their own, sleep in their own beds, and obey. Yes, pretty much the same. But, I’m not that person anymore.

I keep thinking it will get better at the new house. New rhythm, new routine, new boundaries. No more stress of trying to sale our house, no more moving boxes, but finally a steady routine in a home that is not going to change. But, the changing that has happened is within me. My circumstances have dictated what kind of mother I have become. For some reason, I see that as a failure. I had a set of ideals that I thoughts regardless of how many children we have, where we live or what goes on in our life, I can stick to them. They will obey most of the time, respect me as their mother, respect the things and people around them, listen to what I say, be kind, think smartly and show love to those around them.

But, as I watched my children today, I didn’t see that behavior flowing from their hearts. They were unkind to the neighbor kids, acting out to get my attention, not obeying or listening, and taking advantage of freedoms. I have created a crazy army in my own home that climbs on the table, squirts toothpaste on the carpet, fights with any object that can be used as a toy gun, throws temper tantrums and whines and complains. All the while, I’m sitting, stuck in my own world drowning from exhaustion.

My twins will be two on Friday. My friend whose kids my kids were being unkind to, said, “you’ve made it two years with twins!” It’s been a hard two years. I had and have a lot of support but having children, small children, is just hard. But, as I re-read the list of things my children did today, I’m struck by the fact that those are things children do. They are learning to be productive, kind, smart adults who care about others and make a difference in this world. They are only 2, 2, 4 and 6.

Here’s me preaching to myself: I’m a mama to littles and things aren’t going to look perfect. They are a work in progress and so am I. God knew exactly all that would happen over the last two years and how that would affect me as a mama and specifically a mama to the four under my roof. I need to remind myself of that. Give them grace. Give myself grace. The time will come when I am not as exhausted as I am now. Moving will be over, our new house will be unpacked, and a new routine will ensue. But, I don’t want to wait for that to accept the grace offer by Christ and hear him say,

“its OK, you are not alone in parenting your children. I have a plan and purpose for your children. I knew exactly what they needed in a mama and I chose you to care for them. You have everything you need in me.”

Please let this wash over me tonight. Let me know its going to be ok and that I am not failing as a parent. My best laid plans of mothering one child is not the same mother I have become to four children 6 years later. And, really, I hope in 6 years, I am not the same mama to them then as I am now. May I be wiser, kinder, and more gracious to myself and those around me and especially to my sweet children under my roof who will be 8, 8, 10, and 12. There, mamas, breathe with me. It’s going to be OK.

Jaws and Christmas Carols

Right now I am thinking about how deeply sad I am. My heart just aches. Like, actually aches. I can feel it. I felt it tonight when my husband turned on the Christmas station and the song came on that the carolers sing in the Jaws movie. Both, Christmas and the Jaws movie make me think of my dad. I had to walk out of the room. My escape? The laundry room. Because we know no one else in my family is going to willingly go in there. I cried. A. Lot. I wiped my face with a baby wipe and returned to the rest of dinner clean up while the kids rough housed with Jeremiah.

Grief doesn’t give you a warning or wait until you are prepared to be sad, until you have taken off your non-water proof mascara. But, luckily, I haven’t worn make up except to church in months. The summer tan is no longer saving me. Henry said tonight, mom, why is your face so red? Jeremiah said, honey, you looked tired. Sadness, four children, moving in 3 days, and general aging is taking its toll.

Maybe I need to at least put the waterproof mascara on and some pressed powder. You would think that really wouldn’t be that hard. Two minutes tops right? Then, why isn’t it happening? I remember a few years ago, pre-twins, I even put those two items, along with some lip-gloss in my car hoping that could encourage the habit. Once the kids are buckled, I will certainly do it. Bert’s Bees is about it. Fail. But, my dad always thought I was beautiful. He told me every.single.time. he saw me. In gym clothes, 9 months pregnant with twins, my wedding day, his face looked the same. I was adored. He really was my first love. There is no one I felt better around. I enjoyed myself the most with him.

He showed me what it meant to be comfortable in my skin, to take a compliment, and that kindness mattered. I wanted many more years with him to learn that even more; to see him walk out his days in such kindness, such beauty, such friendship. I wanted my children to see it. I wanted my husband to see it. There was just not enough time.

He would have loved this weekend coming up. I’m literally going crazy with stress but I can picture him walking up my huge front steps with his blue Duke sweatshirt on and khaki pants, saying “its all going to be ok.” He would hug Henry and Callaway, and kiss Lindley and Mills wishing them a happy second birthday. He would have loved to hold them, see them blow out their candles, and open their presents. He would have loved our new house, seeing our life unfold at my “big girl house” as my mom called it. He would have played with the kids in the back yard while mom and I arranged pictures and moved furniture so many different places. He would have been so happy because we were happy.

I don’t know why he isn’t still here with us. I don’t know why he left us so early. God’s timing is perfect even when it is not the perfect time for me. I am trying to remember that and not cry through every Christmas song that plays from now until the New Year.

1 Down, Many to Go

“Can Daddoc come to my birthday party?” Callaway asked.

“Well, no,” I explained. “Once you get to Heaven, you stay there.”

“Maybe God will give him a piece of cake, then.”

“I bet so”

Just last year at Callaway’s third birthday party, my dad was the first one here. He wore a superman shirt for the Super Hero birthday party and was happy as could be for Callaway’s big day. As November 2^nd approached this year, I knew it was going to be hard. It was our first real family celebration since dad died. Did I just say that? Dad died. It just still feels like I am writing someone else’s story. But, I’m not. This is my story. Our story. I still don’t want it to be my story but it is nonetheless. So, here we are. Celebrating Callaway the best way we can without all losing it that my dad is not here with us.

My mom arrives and the second we hug, we cry. We know it isn’t right. He would have given anything to be there to sing to Callaway and share in his hyper newly 4 year old energy. We let go of our hug, wipe away our tears and sigh. We can do this. We can make it through this day. And we just might have some joy. For joy is exactly what dad would have wanted for Callaway.

Mom and I took a special treat to Callaway’s preschool. My parents have come up for many holidays at the preschool watching Henry perform as a pilgrim and the boys march together in a Halloween parade. The place is not neutral to my mom even in Richmond. We sing, take pictures, we are trying to be normal.

Later, friends join us, we eat pizza and cut into a rainbow cake filled with m&m’s and skittles. Callaway is ecstatic and probably overdosed on sugar. And, maybe the sugar helped us too. We were filled with joy, we did enjoy the day, and we were excited for Callaway. It was almost normal. But, the normal is just sad. So sad for us who remain and want to spend another birthday with my dad. Remaining here on Earth is so beautiful and yet so tragic at the same time. The love that makes my heart cringe in sadness over how much I miss my dad is the same love that makes me kiss my boys 50x a day.

1 holiday down, many to go. I was almost relieved when the day was over. Whew. November 2^nd, done. But, I don’t want to rush through the special holidays and merely survive without my dad but thrive, love deeply and enjoy each moment being together. He would have certainly done that and as he is eating his rainbow cake with m&m’s and skittles in Heaven, I’m sure he’s encouraging us to do that same.

Grief is the New Mono

When I was 15 years old, I got mono. I missed school for a month and lay on the floral sofa in my parents’ sunken den for more than a month. My dad said my tonsils were the largest he’d ever seen and I had the second worst case of mono he’d ever seen. His pharmacist best friend made me a gargling solution called magic mouthwash and I took my grandfather’s extra pain medication. The pain was awful. The tiredness, unbelievable. I took a shower one day and fell back asleep before I could dry my hair.

I thought the tiredness would never go away. Even when the mono was over my body felt swollen, weak and like I had actually become a different person. I feel like that today. My body is tired, my eyes are swollen and my heart is broken. Grief is the new mono. It hit like a powerful wave that propels your feet from under you. Your hands have nothing to grasp and air escapes you. I am different. I will be different, everyone says so. The tiredness will subside; the tears will be less often. I see the picture of my puffy face at my 16^th birthday party. The mono had changed me. Vulnerable, weak, slow, tired. My eyes showed it. Grief shows it now too.  There is a heaviness that is almost palatable.

That feeling reminds of a book I once read where the main character has autism. He is a teenager and while he can be high functioning, he has moments when his emotions overtake his actions into a full-blown fit. His mother has made him a weighted quilt that I imagine feels like a larger version of those vest you wear when getting and x-ray. The boy would run into his bed and cover himself with the blanket. Later he would emerge, calm and back to normal.

Grief feels like that blanket; like a thick, heavy, dark quilt that is permanently fixed upon me. People can’t see the blanket but they can see the effects. It is there adding weight to the life I was already medicating through. It makes me move slowly through the grocery store overwhelmed by the noise and unable to buy anything but cheese pizza and diet Pepsi. It makes me short, snippy with my children. Can’t they see my blanket, my extra sorry sorrow and stop whining, stop waking early from their nap. It makes me wish I could escape even temporarily in my bed for I don’t have the energy for any other escape.

But the pizza, the children, the rest are all reminders of the man I lost. The dad that would comfort me, remind me of what a good mom I am and put his hand in mine and stay its going to be OK.  I made it through the mono thanks to the wonderful care of my parents and their friends. And, I will make it through this as well. I will be changed but that change seems necessary. His love and care was so great, so full, that the loss must be that overwhelming as well. My eyes may be puffy, my heart may be broken, but I am not without hope. In the vulnerable, weak, slow moments, I am reminded of my dad’s comfort, His faith in a great Savior, and the covering of Christ’s grace that I know.

The Breakers

I actually really like to do laundry. And, by that, I mean, of household chores that is the one I enjoy the most. I enjoy the process and the completeness of it. I do laundry every Wednesday. Each Wednesday morning the big boys make a “laundry train” of the laundry baskets from each of the bedrooms lined up in the upstairs hallway. I carry them downstairs to our laundry room and begin to sort. I have one bin for dark colors, whites and lights. Once all baskets are sorted, I start the first load. Usually whites first to get the bleach out of the way while I still only have on my pajamas. And, in all honesty, I love the smell of bleach. And the sorting, and the folding and the smell of dried laundry. I love holding the clothes, looking at them and thinking of the day my little one had in it, remembering how they used to wear the smaller clothes that are now in their little brother’s pile. I like the neat piles of clothes each in a line for its owner. After 5-6 loads, laundry is complete. At least until the next “water play” that really turns into “mud play” or until next Wednesday. Whites, lights, darks, towels, extras. All folded, returned to the owner’s bin and carried to their room. The clothes are put away and the bin waits to be filled.

Beach towels are not actually returned in a bin. I keep them downstairs in the laundry room in the summertime near the backdoor to be ready for quick pool runs or messy outdoor play. I folded four beach towels tonight. I fold them differently than bath towels and the special rhythm I give them reminds me of the special rhythm of the beach, one of my favorites places to be. And these beach towel speak to a special memory tonight: one of my dad taking me out passed the breakers when I was a little girl.

He was a great swimmer and taught me to love the water. He honored the vastness and power of the ocean but felt as if his love for the ocean protected him in some mysterious way. He didn’t fear the sharks, the jellyfish, or the riptides. We are in their home, he would remind me. We shouldn’t be surprised or upset if those things happen. Learn to respond. That day, when we went out passed the breakers, we were caught in a rip tide. He had told me what to do in the past and reminded me that I was safe with him. We let the rip tide take us out. We could not fight it. We had to be out of control and just float. I had to trust my dad and trust the process that if we let the current take us out, we could swim parallel to the shore and then ride the waves in. I didn’t have much choice. I looked my dad in the eye, held his arm for a moment, and let go with the current. We went farther than I had ever been in the ocean. I was afraid but also assured that I was safe with him. We did as we planned: floated out past the rip tide, swam parallel to the shore and then rode the waves in.

There was a huge relief when we hit the shore. I felt victorious. I had conquered that rip tide. Really, though, I had given in to the rip tide. There I was in the middle of the ocean knowing that if I fight this rip tide, I will get a cramp and could drown. Or, I could surrender to my position in the vast, powerful ocean, and float knowing that when I’m out of the current, I can swim again and eventually return to the shore.

That is exactly how I feel right now. I could fight how I feel. I am discouraged by my lethargy, frustrated at my emotions, and angry that I’m even dealing with the death of the man who taught me this lesson in the first place. I want my life to be like laundry; clean, neatly folded in the correct pile, wonderful memories soaring about, put away and ready to be used again. Such hope, such expectation of what the day might bring that the clothes would see. But, my life is not like that right now and the quicker I can realize that it just isn’t going to be like that right now, the better I will feel about myself. The stage that I’m in with littles at home is all about survival and finding the joy amidst the chaos. I cannot add unnecessary expectations that make finding joy that much harder.

I need to just float, just be whatever I am, feel whatever I need to feel, and give in to the tide. When I have strength again, I can swim and really, swim as far as I want parallel to the shore. Then, when I’m ready, I may just return to the shore. Life will continue to go whether I’m fighting or floating this tide. My children will play, cut up all the cardboard in my house, and head to school. I’ll make meals, fold laundry and clean up toys. I'll meet with friends. I'll go to church. I’ll even hit the gym and make a green smoothie every now and then. But, right now, I’m reminding myself that nothing is expected except floating as far out as the current will take me until the rip tide has passed. I will wait for strength to return and know that I will swim again and return to shore again. But, that day is not today. Today, I will float way out passed the breakers and remember the kindest man I ever knew.