Canada Day. OKA “Let’s Make Mom Lose Her Crap” Day.

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July 1. It started on July 1. Canada Day. We made it to Canada Day with minimal bickering and not a single, not ONE, blow up fight. I should be celebrating. That is 14 consecutive days with relative peace since school let out. That’s a record. And yet, the impulse to revel in celebratory feelings of grandeur at such an accomplishment eludes me. Instead, I sit, grinding teeth, enveloped in the jarring, caustic banter of my two not gracious, not selfless, not forgiving children.

Oh. Canada.

It all started, as it usually does, while they were thoroughly enjoying the mind numbing gem that is Minecraft. I love this game, in the same way I love all depressing music that makes me want to poke my eyes out. They love it too, because despite the inevitable opposition inducing trance it imparts, they go back to it time and time again. It’s precious.

I’d bet two healthy children that, at present, that Minecraft creator is sitting in a comfy chair, on a warm beach, overlooking blue water, with a cold drink and a nanny for his children. Who’s the genius!?

L: Just listen! Can’t we just…

S: {silence}

L: Seriously! Just listen to my idea!

S: Nooo, I don’t want to. You just hog the whole thing…

L: I’m making it anyway.

S: I heard what you said.

L: “I didn’t say “DAMN” I said “dam,” ya know, the thing that blocks water!??

S: Whatever.

L: It’s true! I’m building a dam!

S: {silence}

L: OWW! What the heck is wrong with you!? She punched me in the face! She punched me in the FAAACE!

S: Oh my word! I did NOT punch you in the face, not even close!

L: You SO did!

S: I SO did not.

L: Can I just tell you something!?

S: {silence}

L: Listen! You’re not even listening!

S: I did not punch you in the face.

L: Listen to me!!!

S: You’re lying!

L: You’re lying!

S: You’re lying!

L: You’re lying!

Infinity.

This exchange continued at a pace that rivals chipmunks stuffing their cheeks for an apocalyptic winter and reached decibels far surpassing acceptable levels of communal noise prior to 9 a.m. Couple that with a caffeine-free mother and we had all the ingredients for the recipe that is “Mom Has Lost Her Crap!” It’s delicious.

So, I reached for my parenting manual and hastily turned to Chapter 13 as I couldn’t readily recall the method by which I could intervene heroically and save the day. But, apparently C had used it last weekend when researching how to get a 9 year old autistic child out the door for a haircut aaand forgot to put it back in its rightful place. Sooo, I was forced to resort to my situational bent of “Ohh now I’m lit!,” and flew down the stairs like a manic Mary Poppins to deliver the decibel cracking admonishment that is OKA “Laying Down the Law.” I laid it straight down. For real.

As luck would have it, my teeth were already in grinding position, so my ability to speak through clenched jaw was effortless. I’ve been a little dehydrated of late, so the normally accompanying flying spit was lacking, but I don’t think it detracted from the intensity of my delivery. Anyhoo, my orders were clear, precise and of sound mind. Per usual.

As if trying to hold dental trays tight in my jaw, I began, “It. Ish. Time. Tshoo. Shhhut. Uppp! Boff. Of. Yhoo. Shhhut. UP! QUIET! Did. You. Toush. Hish. Fash? Don’t. Toush. Hish. Fash!”

They stared, mouths agape. L’s eyes squinting, clearly straining to see if my eye twitch had begun.

L, typically unable to fully assess the emotional state of others and the inherent risk he may be adopting by opening his mouth, just haaaad to know, “What are you eating?”

And, only in my mind, I said, “Not just yet son, but I’ma ‘bout to devour two snotty kids for breakfast.” Only I wouldn’t cuz that’s creepy and smacks of mental instability.

As if God himself had wrapped gently His hand around my mouth, I stood silent. I gathered a breath. I switched tactics and stood on the cusp of delivering what I like to call Commencement Gold. Ya know, one of my many wise maternal impartations that the kids will no doubt remember forever and relay to their peers at Commencement… as Valedictorians of their graduating class… at the Alternative High School.

“You are BOTH being selfish, not selfless. You are BOTH being demanding not gracious. You are BOTH being obstinate not forgiving. You are BOTH responsible. You BOTH could be doing this differently. I woke up in a good mood, but nothing makes me crankier than two bickering kids. Find something constructive to do!”

Meh. Not my best CG, I doubt it’ll make the cut. But there’s still plenty of time to add to the coffer of possibilities.

And so, careful to pay respectable homage to the native banana slug, they moved toward their rooms, wherein they would immerse themselves in a classic novel Nintendo DS.

As I leaned on the counter, pulling the Nespresso close, I began my customary mental dance of self-belittling, over-analyzing and out of proportion blowing that ultimately leads to (again) mourning the loss of the maternal perfection I was once certain I’d attain.

BUT, within two sips of my Intenso Arpeggio, reason befell me and I was all like, “Not today Mounties!”

So, as I type, my lovely children are at the kitchen table, together, trays of watercolors before them, crafting masterpieces to hang on the fridge. Because, if perfection is not attainable, fridge art that screams “Look at us, we’re so happy, we’re so normal AND our mom isn’t failing” is the next best thing.

That and Canada. There’s always Canada.

Watercolor Canada Day WEB

Couch Talk and The Mystery of the Stolen Pokemon Cards

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As I watched L exit the bus, it was abundantly clear he had something on his mind. Something serious. He climbed the stairs without making eye contact and when he reached the porch he announced, “Mom, we need to talk…on the couch.”

The couch!? The one with a patched hole that I want to replace every time I sit on it? The couch is big time, the real deal, Superior Court. And, when L summons me to the couch, it is always with a bit of trepidation as his need for talk could be anything from “the problem with love letters at school” to “Mom, I know you’re gonna be disappointed but today at school I…”

I digress.

We sat, he leaned forward elbows to his knees and folded his hands not unlike Judge Wapner. He began, “Mom, do you remember when you said it’s ok to say a bad word if what you’re calling a bad word is really a bad word?”

Hold the phone. No, I don’t recall imparting that golden nugget of parental wisdom and the perplexion on my face gave me away. So, with his “uh, duh mom” voice he continued, “Mom! You know, when you said it’s ok to use the “c” word if something is actually the “c” word?”

I amaze myself and as such sat in the silence of my own magnificence as yet unable to recall the moment I related such brilliance. With annoyance, he dug deeper, “Remember mom, you said if something is ‘crap’ it’s ok to call it ‘crap’ like ya know, ‘it is what it is’?!”

My memory continued to fail me, but I prodded him to continue. “Well, I have to be very honest with you mom, I am feeling exactly like a swear word right now but I think it’s TOTALLY appropriate considering the circumstances.” (He sounded like George Costanza just then, I’m not even kidding.)

Now, this could have gone a couple different ways. I bit my lower lip in anticipation of the details that would justify the use of a swear.

He proceeded, “It is mom, it is totally appropriate that I feel like this swear word! I am PISSED off!”

And, praise be to Jesus that you do little man, because if you felt like the “S” word or the “F” word or any of the more refined swears, I would have to mourn the continued erosion of innocence.

Yet, it begs the question, “Why do you feel that way?”

“Well, ya know how some of my Pokemon cards were stolen? We found out who it is. It was “Bobby” (name changed to protect the fledgling criminal). Bobby lied to me, he betrayed me, and I am PISSED!”

I could see he was relishing in the visceral release that accompanies the emphasized utterance of a swear. Get it out little man, this is one of the hard parts, betrayal, lying, finding who your friends really are. You’re right, couch-worthy talk indeed.

I inquired, “do you know for absolute certain?”

“Yep, Mr. Teacher helped me solve it and Bobby confessed! He wrote me an apology note and told me he would earn back my trust by leaving my Pokemon cards alone. I told him, “I accept your apology Bobby, but you don’t even need to bother trying to earn back my trust by leaving my cards alone because my mom banned me from ever bringing them to school again thanks to YOU!”

Mmm, the heart-pain induced jab back. To be expected.

Mom sigh. Boy tears.

I stepped in for the close, “Buddy, I’m so sorry this happened, I’m sorry you feel betrayed by someone you considered a friend. I’m sorry this hurt your heart. I wish I could say you’ll never feel this again, but the truth is, sometimes life gives us a bit of a punch in the throat and all I can promise you is if you really forgive, keep loving anyway and walk forward with your head high, you will be stronger for it.”

I loved on him and we laughed about the “P” word. And, I decided to keep our worn leather couch with a hole, cuz it fits. Life is about hole patching, scuff removing and the occasional decorative throw pillow to disguise the scars. Yep, this couch, totally appropriate considering the circumstances.

Spanx

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graceandhoneycomb's avatar

This post is for ladies only.  Gentleman, you’ve been warned.

Ahhh, Spanx.  Many a gal has sung her praises.  I’ve tried. I mean “engaged in cardiovascular contortion” tried. But, despite the damage done in pregnancy, I just work with what the good Lord gave me and let it all fall where it may. So, I find myself perplexed that on Christmas Eve, after losing over 30 lbs in 2013, something came over me and I still felt the need to give them Spanx a whirl. I use “whirl” literally. You see, as I started the process by which I hoist the Spanx over my “target area” I damn near landed in the hospital.  With only one leg in the Spanx, I “balanced” there like a drunken sailor on violent surging seas. I was rendered helpless.  I couldn’t stop it.  I “whirled” around, crashed into my jewelry cabinet, launching my faux…

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Miraculous Choatic Orchestration

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There’s a lot of talk about “thanks” and “gratitude” this time of year. Indeed, there is much to be thankful for. The struggle, for me, is mustering this “thanksgiving” in the midst of challenge, struggle and frustration. And, I find, I need not look far to find opportunities to practice the cultivation of gratitude in the midst of less than perfect circumstances. Like this morning, while dropping my daughter off at school… gratitude cultivation opportunities abound! I thought it fitting to compile a list of tangibles for which I found myself thankful in spite of the mounting chaos around me.

  1. I’m thankful it does not require a degree in Nuclear Fusion to navigate the Kiss-N-Go lane at my daughter’s school, because college is expensive.
  2. I’m thankful for miracles, because I believe in them, and if I hold on to hope tightly enough, I just know that one day, all persons 16+ will rise to the challenge of operating their vehicle correctly… and the world will know peace.
  3. I’m thankful for the mighty hands of the Lord, wrapped preventively around my mouth, locking my thoughts inside, as the overly hairy father in front of me got out of his car in his shorts and flip flops, sharing more skin than anyone cares to see at 9 a.m., leaving his car door agape, blocking 8 cars behind him and proceeded to look for his child who exited said car 3 minutes prior. I sat mute. That’s the Lord’s provision my friends!
  4. I’m thankful for my prosperous butt, as it afforded sufficient restraint atop my right hand, harnessing the inertia of my strategic digit while the parent in front of me halted all traffic as she stopped 6 car lengths shy of the end of the Kiss-N-Go lane… in the middle of the road… and allowed her child 35 minutes to exit the vehicle.
  5. I’m thankful for Sir Mix A Lot, as he sang the song of my people, providing adequate entertainment for me as I watched the mother in front of me not kiss, and not go, and not stop every door of her vehicle from opening to release four children, one recorder, one trumpet, a cello out the back and one service iguana. I cannot lie, the chorus carried me through as this mother then exited her car to close every. single. door. her brood left open.
  6. I’m thankful for my Winter boots and the traction adorned soles that were planted securely on my brake pad preventing me from taking chase after the parent who coasted through the occupied crosswalk narrowly missing three students, two of whom were wearing Safety Orange and holding STOP flags extended.
  7. I’m thankful for the abundance of Optometrists in the greater Seattle area that would be happy to assist parent referenced in #6 with his/her optical deficiencies.
  8. I’m thankful for the new auto parts store that is within a reasonable drive of the school. They sell blinker bulbs, and based on my calculations of qualifying vehicles, they could stand to make a killing. Let’s support local businesses this holiday season.
  9. I’m thankful for Mrs. G and her composure and patience, rivaling that of Job, while managing the frighteningly comatose masses who mindlessly traverse the parking lot each day. I’ve not once seen her homicidal!
  10. I’m thankful for my gift of creativity as I see a cross stitch in the making that might lovingly adorn the parking lot. Some day.
  11. I’m thankful for you, for reading my nonsense without making a single comment about my proclivity for run-on sentences.
  12. I’m thankful for the humor that we are all going to keep in mind as we work together to use our beautiful heads and not maim our children in the parking lot.

Froyo Information

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I have an ugliness in my heart. No, seriously. I’m learning I lack patience, grace and compassion in circumstances where I perceive someone isn’t being… a prudent steward of the brain cells God has given them. I’m working hard on this. I’m making progress. But, coincidentally, I’m finding God gives me ample opportunities to practice what I’m learning. He’s schooling me. I’d say I’m pulling about C- at present.

Our daughter celebrated a birthday recently. She had been asking to go to Menchie’s Frozen Yogurt for days prior to. The evening of her big day rolled around and we had yet to make it there. Although a reluctant participant, I concluded the giant Costco cake had not been a sufficient sugar buzz. I checked the store hour’s online and wouldn’t ya know it, luck on my side! They were open until 10 and it wasn’t even 6, so off we went for frozen yogurt.

My hubby was quiet while driving, possibly still reeling from the not quite adequate win the Seahawks managed to pull off in the last 40+ seconds of a game they should have won healthily. I digress.

We arrived at Menchie’s and found a sufficiently undersized parking spot right up front. The kids bolted inside. It was quiet. Too quiet.

It was at this point my failings began to show. I started noticing… everything. Garbage overflowing. Yogurt all over the floor. Chairs askew. And where were the helpers? None to be found. Not a soul in the joint.

I met the fam back at the yogurt stations and continued my examination. The troughs were filthy and overflowing with sticky gunk. Lights flashing above every other flavor indicating they were empty. I walked across the sticky floor, still, no helpers. There was my son, standing in front of his one and only favorite, Vanilla Snow. The light was flashing. Birthday girl stepped in to try it out. Nothing. I glanced around, still no helpers. S tried the Vanilla Snow Chocolate combo and after thirty seconds it spurted out in a soupy mess. L began his search for an alternative. I started seeking out the help to see if we could fix the issue, after all they still had 4 hours of business left. Surely they had more Vanilla Snow!

As the kids moved through the process, we were joined by another couple, then a gal walked in. I was confident the help would show now. Come on, it was like rush hour. But, no. The couple winced and shrugged as they learned their favorites were out. The gal left empty handed and another family came in, then another. It was a full on yogurt stampede and there were no options to be had, no help to be found.

Now well after 6, I stood at the cash register as if my very presence would summon the help. I noticed the unsupervised tip jar just waiting for a bad person to come by and take it home. The patrons were starting to look around as if to say, “Hey, you are out of your featured flavor and I’m a little upset! Helpers!?”

I stared into the hallway that led to the back room and for the next thirty seconds I thought, “Oh my dear, what if there is a medical emergency in the back room and I’m going to have to jump into action and perform CPR!!? What if that bad person surpassed the tip jar and went straight to the back for a hold up!?” I asked C to go check as the lobby was now full and danger was in the air.

But then, at that very moment, two profoundly unaware yoots emerged from the shadows. Brittany bounced to the cash register with Pony Boy right behind her. My maternal radar went off like a rocket on the Fourth of July. Suddenly, it all became clear. Brittany and Pony Boy were in the back room sampling! And to think I was willing to offer her CPR! Clearly Pony Boy had managed the mouth to mouth all on his own! For shame.

Annoyed, Brittany asked, “are you ready?”

“Not as ready as you darlin’, but, we noticed the Vanilla Snow is gone…”

Brittany turned and upon seeing the flashing light above our favorite flavor, she quipped, “Uh, no it’s just low…go ahead and put your yogurt on the scale.”

C took one step back. I offered her some helpful information hoping it might assist her in drawing a reasonable conclusion and formulating a call to action, “Actually, it is completely empty, not coming out at all…”

Before I could finish my public service announcement, Brittany shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh. That’ll be $7,915.36.”

“Oh?”

I stared. I stared hard. Brittany avoided eye contact. Pony Boy stood behind her as if to hold down the very floor he was standing on. And I might note here, his shirt was dirty and his shoes too big.

And, here’s where I fail. I don’t just think, “Oh an inconvenience, no big deal” and move about my evening. I stop and think, “Someday Brittany and Pony Boy are going to be old enough to vote. What if Brittany becomes a Pharmacist and I end up at her Pharmacy? Someday my son is going to want a wife, is this what he will have to choose from? How many health codes has Brittany violated today? How many!?” No, I don’t offer grace and move on, I stand there frozen as these frightening possibilities reel through my mind!

I glanced at S. I don’t read lips but she clearly whispered, “Mom, no. It’s my birthday. Please, don’t make a scene and embarrass me. I have school tomorrow! People are staring mom. You’re going to get a rep. Let it go.”

I glanced at C and although I cannot read minds, I knew for certain he was thinking, “Cam, I would ask you to consider, you are not the Moral Police. But, if you feel the need to take Brittany to school, I’m not going to stop you. And, should there be consequences to your little free public education program, I’m not going to stop them either.”

And then I made sure C read my mind, “You are on MY team!”

I looked back at Brittany and for the sake of my daughter, and the rep I’ve never had, I bit my tongue clean off and handed her my mortgage payment.

I lingered until my family found a seat out of ear shot and settled the score, “Fine. But I’m taking 17 Menchie’s spoons and a free scoop of the topping of my choice for our trouble!”

I approached my family at the table, “Come on kids, you can drink that in the car. We need to get home, Mama has a letter to write!”

And so there we were, scootin’ along as I craftily composed a letter in my mind to the CEO of Menchie’s.

And then, this. My son reached my heart with the most effective means by which to reach my heart, humor. “Watcha doing back there Pretty Boy, Mmmm, Mmmmm, Mmmm… mixin flavors!?”

The Beetles Knees

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The joy that is climbing into a bed of freshly laundered sheets and blankets. You know what I’m talking about, {insert collective sigh here}. It’s glorious.

The other night I slid into bed and let the fresh smell of late summer breeze soaked linens envelope my tired body.

And the pillows! I like pillows. Lots and lots of pillows. I use one under my head, I wrap my arms around one in a fluffy cuddle hug. Since I’m a side sleeper, I like one wedged between my knees and one between my feet. It’s a nightly dance of coordinated tucking, but we make it work.

So there I was, sufficiently cradled, linen bliss.

But then…

There was a scratchy scratch just beneath my knee. One might think it a pesky down feather. We don’t have down pillows.

Irritated, I chirped, “But, everything is brand spanking new out of the wash, I tucked and fluffed and smoothed and tucked…”

Too tired to get up, I reached down to my knee with one hand. There was something there. A Lego? A toenail clipping? A rogue chip someone snuck in?

I pinched the foreign entity between my fingers.

It moved.

I pulled it up and out from under the covers. In a voice to rival Abe Vigoda I said to my husband, “Turn. On. The. Light. NOW!”

Without any delay or falling out of bed or knocking the lamp off his nightstand, my husband gracefully turned on the light.

There between my fingers riled the biggest, the sharpest, the wiggliest Madagascan Quadrupled Winged Yellow Flanked Beetle Stink Bug Monster I have ever seen in my life!

Now, I’m a relatively calm woman, and by “relatively” I mean all the time except when a foreign bug is between my knees in my freshly laundered bed.

I nearly lost consciousness.

With the grace of a wounded water buffalo, I trampled to the bathroom as fast as my spastic legs would carry. My husband, hot on my heals, inquired, “What! Whaaat!?”

I tossed that devil spawn into the nearest depository, the bathroom sink. I ran hot water, bleach, vinegar, anchovy juice, gasoline and then I lit a match! As the funeral pyre rose to the ceiling I declared, “Burn you vile enemy of the woooorld, you’ve ruined my liiiiife!” and I shook my fist in the air for dramatic effect.

Then, my husband offered what he felt to be a reasonable observation, “Well, I would have killed it first, but….”

I inhaled my next breath like a starving child on Thanksgiving. I slowly turned to the man I love with all of my being. I reached deep, deep in my soul for the compassion that sustains us. But it was too late. Someone was about to come to Jesus.

With an eerie calm I launched fire from my eyes and rebuked his nonsense, “I just had an uninvited Madagascan Quadrupled Winged Yellow Flanked Beetle Stink Bug Monster between my knees. My bare knees! In our freshly laundered bed. Let me offer a few descriptive words. Cardiac arrest. Anaphylaxis. Loss of faculties. Trauma. And you give me advice on how to dispose of it properly!? You, my dear man, do not get to decide.” And I shook my fist in the air for dramatic effect.

Without cracking a smirk or laughing at my hysterics, my husband held my shoulders as I shook over the sink. I stood there for a solid half hour to ensure there would not be a reintroduction.

Though he found my despondency mildly entertaining, he managed to offer a nugget of compassion, “You’re right sweetie, I’m sorry. You do whatever you want with that thing.”

Killing me softly, I whispered, “Thank you. Please get the whisky.”

I wept. I wept for the solace that was my bed, forever tarnished, gone.

And then, I did what any strong, reasonable minded woman would do. I placed a flame thrower on my nightstand. Right next to my Bible.  And the bottle of whisky.

In the Ordinary

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I believe that we must look for the amazing within the ordinary. Seek in the low, humble places. It finds us there. I think this can be especially true for parents of children with unique needs.

Our son is autistic. One of the tenants of an autistic personality can be the inability to interpret other’s emotions, words, body language, etc. This can lead to moments of embarrassment and misunderstanding, but most importantly, it makes navigating social circles exceptionally difficult for the child. This has been true with our son. In the midst of wading through social interactions that appear immediately obvious to me, he has posed questions countless times, “Mom, was that rude? Mom, is that funny? Mom, is that mean? Mom, are you mad?” Over time, with instruction, reinforcement, social stories, pictures and lots and lots of “get yer sleeves rolled up we’re goin’ out in the big ole world to practice this,” he has grown to understand more and more. Social cues, nuances, inuendo may not come instinctively for him, but my hope is that through all of this effort, eventually these things will become second nature. This effort can be abundantly exhausting, but I will never, never, ever give up. You see, I’m learning too, learning to see the treasures.

It had been the proverbial long day of a parent. The tired, spent, frustrated, doubting, sometimes guilt-ridden, I can’t take another minute, kind of day. And there I was. Sitting in the ordinary, inhaling the long awaited quiet. From the shadows I heard his feet. Shuffling, tipsy, drunk with slumber. He came up behind me and reached for my arm. Just as I was to drop my head, his sweet words filled my heart and soul. “Mommy, I was trying so hard to go to sleep and I really was trying, but I just wanted to say that I love you.” He leaned in hard and wrapped his arms around my neck, like Summer nectar, thick and lingering. He’s changed me. I don’t fight it anymore. I await the ordinary and anticipate the magnificence of my Lord who loves me in these low, humble places. I find Him there.

Thoughts on Forgiveness

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When someone you’ve loved for all of your life, with all of your bleedin’ heart, betrays you… again. And again. I don’t think the pain and grief and anger and deception are the worst part of the experience.  The walking on eggshells, the faking it, the concessions, I don’t think these are the sharpest part of the blade.  I think the cruelest part, the unbearable part, the hide under the covers and sob part is when that same person is offended by your grief, bent out of shape over your broken heart. As if you shouldn’t be hurt, you shouldn’t be taken with despair, you shouldn’t be sent into a tailspin of confusion and anger and sadness and questions, so, so many questions. No, you should just forgive, again, you should just forgive and let it all go. Ignore the hurt, ignore the lies, ignore the betrayal, ignore the deception. Ignore the fact that nothing has changed. Forgive and go right back to where you all were before. You take that half-hearted two sentence apology scribbled on a cheap card without a single “I” of responsibility and you shove it down your tight throat and forgive. After all, it’s what Christians do.

Here’s the rub. I believe in forgiveness, I believe in it heart and soul. No matter the offense, I believe in the power forgiveness affords when we let go of the notion it could have, should have, been different. I believe in compassion, I believe in diplomacy and kindness and generosity and mercy. I believe in forgoing vengeance, getting even and settling the score. I believe in giving grace to those who have wronged us and offering a genuine smile when we might be justified in giving a smirk.  BUT, it’s the steps just beyond forgiveness where our opinions on the matter can quickly part ways.  I don’t believe we have to take our offender to lunch. I don’t believe we have to open the doors of our heart or home to let them in and pretend some more, not without evidence of a heart made right. We don’t have to perform and carry off the burdensome weight of a grand charade when it’s really just dead family walking, wrapped in denial and false hope. Nope, I don’t believe in that part. I won’t participate in that part. Not anymore.

Forgiveness is necessary, it brings peace to all parties, even those we believe are unworthy. Relationship, however, is optional. And not choosing the latter does not make me an unforgiving person. It makes me safe. It reserves a spot in my heart for the future possibility that renewal can occur, it allows me the reassuring comfort of that fancy notion, love always wins. Relationship takes two and if I wait patiently for the other party to join the dance, well then there is hope. This hope gives me enough room to breathe, enough room to believe in the someday…

 

I Don’t Got This…

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It’s no secret this parenting thing is, at times, akin to a tight rope act across Manhattan. Occasionally this parenting thing is going so swimmingly that I think I could run across a tight rope over Manhattan. But, mostly, it’s just a steady effort in juggling, balancing and cleaning up. And crow, I eat a lot of it.

One of the areas I struggle and fail at the most as a mom is being way too quick to accuse, blame and condemn my kids only to learn it was a misunderstanding or worse, they did nothing wrong at all. While these occurrences get fewer as I get wiser, more schooled, I wonder if I will ever master the keen ability to not jump to conclusions.

Yesterday evening we took S to her first soccer practice. The practice is held at a school and about four other teams hold practice at the same time. Adjacent to the large field is the school playground. We’re familiar with this school as S had her practices here last year as well.

Last year I decided to really throw caution to the wind and loosen, not cut, just loosen the apron strings with L and allowed him to go to the adjacent playground and play…with a friend. I would check on him no more than every 5 seconds fully prepared to thwart danger should it arise. I felt so proud of myself for really giving him this pseudo freedom to play with friends several yards away from my person! Look at me not being a helicopter parent!!!

Fast forward to yesterday evening. Apparently I had matured significantly in my views on “letting go” in a years’ time because when we arrived at the school, L asked if he could go to the playground…alone. I said “yes!” So, off he went, alone, to the adjacent playground and I was only 60 seconds behind him in pursuit. Totally hands-off parenting here! As I followed L, at a very considerable distance, he hopped onto the play structure and immediately made friends with three other kids. I stood there, easily 5 yards away, nothing at all like a helicopter parent. In fact, if something bad were to happen and the news crews showed up, they’d have nothing on me! I would not make headlines for being a bad parent, no chance.

As I stood not too closely, a mother arrived with four energetic boys. She was on her phone and seemed in a bit of a puzzle. Her boys quickly joined the others in going down the slide while their mother talked out, “Oh geez, your practice was cancelled, they sent an email at 1:30 I just now got it…we drove all the way here…” The boys had no concern for this development and clamored down the slide on top of each other. As they reached the bottom one boy yelled at his brother, “BUTT WIPE!” Now, I did giggle, but I didn’t let them see me giggle.

I could see S’s practice starting in the adjacent field, so I told L I was going to walk over and sit on the grass to watch her. I said, “check in with me in a bit ok?”

So there I was, watching S play soccer while my 8 ½ year old son played independently with his new found friends, and it totally doesn’t count that I could hear and see them…trust me, he was soooo on his own.

As practice continued, within 10 minutes I hear, “Hey mom!” I look up and there’s my boy. “Just checking in.” Joy flooded my heart to see that he had survived and not been snatched up by a crazy child abductor right in front of me. “Can I go play more?” “Sure, check in again, ok?”

Practice carried on and L checked in a few times. C was on his way to catch the last bit of practice. As the girls were winding down drills, I could hear a small group coming from the playground toward me. I looked up and it was the frazzled mom with the BUTT WIPE! Brothers. I could hear her chatting louder than need be since we were all within ear shot, “NO, we’re leaving the playground because that kid is being really obnoxious!” I look over and she’s walking. toward. me. Right up to ME! For all to hear, in a voice far louder than required, she began her public protest, “Um, do you have a little boy in a grey t-shirt and shorts?” I reply, “Yes, I do.” She continues, “Yeah, um, he is being reeeally mean to the other kids… well, he’s being really rude, well, rude to me.” The humiliation and mortification shot me into the air like a breaching whale, “Oh my gosh! I’m so very sorry!!” I began my march to my son in the grey t-shirt to give him the business for being so “mean” and “rude!” She wasn’t done, “Ya know, if my kids were being rude I would want to know, so…”

With every parent’s eyes on me, I kept walking, no time for questions, details or evidence…I have a boy to berate! “Sorry!” She offered insincerely as I hustled away. Muttering under my breath, “I am not that parent, I am not that parent…I try so hard…I finally let him play alone and this is what he does!?”

I arrived on the adjacent playground that is a whopping ten yards away and I am hot! Man, am, I gonna give it to him! I fully expected to arrive on the blacktop to find my “mean” son “rudely” bossing the other children into submission. Only I didn’t. There he was, with two other kiddos, giggling and jumping on the giant US map painted on the pavement. “Here’s my state!” he cheered as they ran all over the country. Even so, my eyes deceived me, clearly he had done something very wrong. After all, it was an adult, another parent, a certified mother who delivered the news of my son’s “obnoxious, mean and rude” behavior.

“Hi mom!” L giggled as he saw me approach. Announcing his entire name I snipped, “you come over here right now!” The other two previously jubilant kids looked at me shocked and ran away…perhaps because I was “mean” and “rude.” L came over with a look of utter confusion on his face, but I didn’t bother to read the signs, I had a rebuke to deliver, I was determined to swiftly eradicate every ounce of “mean and “rude” from his body! “Are you being mean to the other kids?” His eyes grew wide and his face white, he looked me dead in the eye and said, “What? No!” He can’t fool me, I thought. “L, don’t lie to me, are you being mean and rude to others?” His face was covered in a daze, “mom, no, we’re having fun…” I lobbed this clincher, “Then why would another mom come over to me and ask if I had a son in a grey t-shirt who was being really rude!?” Boom! Wiggle out of that, you heathen! Without hesitation he said, “Cuz she’s an idiot!?” See, I knew it! There it is folks a big, fat, wad of rude right there in my face!

Full name again, “You do not speak to an adult like that! Were you rude to her? Were you bossy!?” His little shoulders slumped. He buried his face in his play stained hands and began to sob. He was scared, he was confused and he was remorseful for something he hadn’t entirely done. Even so, I didn’t believe him. I marched him to the car propelled by humiliation and pride fully convinced I would mine the real horrid story right out of him! I would reveal the truth yet! Then, I closed the deal with this gem of grace, love and compassion, “Don’t even open your mouth. Don’t say another word!”

In the car I told him I wanted the full story from beginning to end. With tears rolling down his face he said, “I promise you I was not rude or mean to any of the kids! That lady told us to stop screaming on the slide and I was confused because everyone was screaming and she came over to me and so I told her I didn’t have to listen to her because I didn’t know her…I didn’t have to talk to her… she wasn’t someone I knew or a police officer like you said!” My heart began to sink, low, low, low. The “truth” I was convinced I knew, began to fall apart. He continued, “She said, ‘you are a brat and I’m going to find your parents right now!’ and I told her she wouldn’t find my parents and I didn’t have to talk to her because I didn’t know her.”

Tears welled in my eyes…I felt like a complete, hopeless, piece of rotten you know what. That I would care so much about what the other parents thought of me and my “rude, mean” kid, that I would allow my pride to grow so unmanageable, I completely missed the truth! My son, my Autistic son, who takes so many lessons very, very literally was simply repeating, in his own words, what I myself had instructed him to do. “Don’t talk to strangers, if a stranger approaches you and you don’t feel comfortable, you don’t have to say a word, just find an adult you know.” Those words, that lesson, the one we have had a thousand times…the one he just took so very literally, causing this tremendous misunderstanding.

“L, honey, you simply cannot talk back to any adult like that. Though I understand why you said it, she thought it was very rude. It was disrespectful to talk back to her. Whenever there is a parent or teacher on the playground and they tell you to stop screaming you do so, ok?”

Barely able to catch his breath, “I’m… so… sorry…. mom. I shouldn’t have said that… to her! God, why did you make me this way? I hate this, I’m not normal, I’m not! Why do I say things I don’t mean to say!?”

C arrived to find us both bawling in the swagger wagon. I, the epitome of parenting excellence, leveled to a piece of dog excrement. My son, the loving, funny, friend to everyone kid, leveled to an insecure mess who questioned his very existence. Fan-fricken-tastic!

C went to retrieve S from practice and I drove home with L. I cried the entire way. I felt the weight of shame, again, and though a familiar friend, it suffocated and choked and burned every inside corner. I was b.r.o.k.e.n.

Once home, L went to his room and I ran to my closet, shut the door and fell to the floor in hysterical sobs. For the woman who hates drama, it was exceedingly dramatic. I cried out, “Lord, I have completely ruined this again, this mother bit, I can’t do it, I don’t got it!!!”

As I prayed, I felt His Spirit wash over me and heard a whisper in a still. small. voice. “But, she’s the mom of the BUTT WIPE! Brothers. She’s the frazzled mom who was late to a soccer practice that had been cancelled four hours prior. She don’t got this either.”

Now, is it possible there is more to the story? Of course. Was what L said to her ok? No, and he was given a very clear lesson on why, again. Was what he said disrespectful? Yes, and he was given a very clear lesson on why, again. Do I condone or defend my kids being “rude,” “mean,” or disrespectful? Absolutely not and L will apologize to her personally when we see her again. Does L always understand what “rude,” “mean,” and “disrespectful” look like? Not even close. Are other people going to see this and know why? Nope. Do people care that undesirable behavior in a child is not always the result of bad parenting, doesn’t always mean a child is a “brat”? Sadly, they don’t. And though I care about that very much, I need not care about that so much. It bothers me greatly, but I can’t change it, it’s too big and heavy and I can’t fix it. I just can’t.

I’ve come to learn a bit about this thing called “grace.” Though foreign to me in sooo many ways, Christ is showing it to me over and over and over (again). It’s this “grace” that I need so desperately when I blow it as a mom, a wife, a person. It’s this “grace” I need to get better at, a lot better. It’s this “grace” that I so freely give all the other children, even the BUTT WIPE! Brothers, but fail so often to give my own. It’s this “grace” that I’m going to give the frazzled, not-minding-her-own-business mom to whom I’d like to give a piece of my mind, because I am carnal and I am proud and I am broken and I’m just. like. her. It’s this “grace.” Just, grace.

There came a little knock on my closet door. L stood on the other side with eyes swollen tight from tears. “Mom, I’m so sorry, you don’t have to accept my apology…” I stopped him quick, “L, my sweet boy, I absolutely accept your apology and I forgive you completely and I love you so, so big!” He melted into me, and I held him for a long, long spell.

And so it is, a perfectly imperfect portrait of parenting imperfection. Doubled up, rung out, hung to dry. When I woke today, there it was, still. But, I’m covered by the mercy of the One who created me, the One who created L and it is this mercy, this grace, which gives me just enough to hopefully, be merciful too. An imperfectly, merciful, grace-giver.

Life is Mostly Not Funny

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I hide behind humor. It shields me. If people are laughing, they are happy and if I’m the one being funny they think I’m happy too. This gives me a very comfortable space. I feel safely sheltered from the possibility that others will inquire too deeply, get too close, see the ugly and the truth. Humor is the one vice that sufficiently numbs. So, I keep it funny. It feels (mostly) better. I know this is dangerous, isolating. By keeping those around me at a safe distance, I’m swallowed up by the same defense I use to hide. It folds in on me like a towering ocean wave and I struggle to breathe until I hit the shore, again.

Life is mostly not funny. Life is daily. Life is a repetitive synchronized dance of sameness. I’m learning to be brave. I’m learning to drop my shield allowing the beautiful imperfection to change me. Because life can be a wondrous mess. And sarcasm is a cheap personality trait. I’ve handed over my shield to the One who can hold it and I no longer fear, I no longer hide the mess or the ugly. I see now that this might mean some people walk away. Perhaps part of being brave is graciously watching them go. I’ll cling tightly to the resolute power of Christ’s healing, I’ll let it wash over me and cleanse me whole.

I think, sometimes, bravery comes with a price and age, time, learning… it affords the cost.