What a Parent Wants

"Lord, you are my God; 

  I will exalt you and praise your name,
for in perfect faithfulness
  you have done wonderful things,
  things planned long ago."

Psalm 25: 1

     Our family is going through a season of babies. Children having grandchildren, a new generation springing to life.

Evelyn, Lily and Jackson

     I remember childbirth. It wasn’t easy, but it was far easier than what happened when we got the baby home from the hospital. I don't think any parent realizes the time involved in taking care of the bun-in-the-oven who's bigger than a bread box.

Jamison and me

     The sacrifices mothers make during pregnancy—the sacrifice of our waistlines, our wardrobe, and our freedom to eat the foods we really love—pale in comparison to the sacrifices we make once the bundle of joy has arrived. Every minute of our day is spent focused on this wiggly little being who has no inkling of our sacrifice. If our time is not spent actually touching them, talking to them, and caring for them, it is spent thinking about them, fretting over them, and talking about them.

Oliver

     Our baby is totally helpless. And so are we as we’re lured into their world and the spell of their tender existence. We revise our purpose for living to provide, protect, and prepare our child to be all they can be. They cry and we rush to their sides, eager to fulfill their every wish. If they are hungry, we feed them. If they are wet, we change them—or con Grandma into doing it. We give comfort and take it. We wrap them in too many blankets when we venture outdoors. We shackle them into car-seats when we drive. And when they start crawling, we follow their every move to protect them from stairs, sharp corners, and the consequences of porcelain knickknacks.

Hazel

     What do we ask in return? We don't ask for monetary consideration. We don't ask for awards or a write-up in the newspaper. We don't even ask for a thank you. All we expect as payment for our loyalty and attention is their love. And we aren't even picky about how it is extended to us. A smile. A laugh. A child's outstretched arms. The indescribable moment when their head rests against our shoulder. And eventually the most loving words they could ever say: Mama or Dada.

Oscar

     As we provide for our children, God provides for us as He protects and prepares us to be all we can be. What does He ask from us in return? He doesn't ask for monetary consideration or awards or a write-up in the newspaper. He doesn't even insist on a thank you. All God expects as payment for His loyalty and attention is our love. A smile. A laugh. Our outstretched arms. The indescribable moment when our head bows in surrender. And eventually the most loving words we could ever say: Father. Lord.
     In this sacred season, give our Heavenly Father what He wants.
     He wants you.

But from everlasting to everlasting

the LORD’s love is with those who fear him,

and his righteousness with their children’s children—

with those who keep his covenant and remember to obey his precepts.

Psalm 103: 17-18


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Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

The Wails of Summer

 “Love is patient, love is kind.”

I Corinthians 13: 4

     I adored having my three kids around the house all summer.  Their muted footfalls fluttered through the house like a scattering of rose petals.  Their sunny voices asked, "Is there anything we can do to help you, Mother Dear?"

     Welcome to Fantasy Island.
     I know why Labor Day is at the end of summer.  It's the day mothers question whether the fruit of  their labor pains was worth the price.  Ask us the question on Memorial Day and we'll bore you with sentimental memories of our child's first tooth or our wistful tears as they trotted off to kindergarten. Ask the question on Labor Day and we'll growl, "I'll give you three for a buck-ninety-eight.  Will that be cash, check or credit card?"
     School days, schools days, dear old Golden Rule days...

     The Golden Rule is mentioned in those lyrics to remind our children of the existence of rules.  You know.  Those guidelines parents set up in June, revise in July and throw in the trash compactor in August?

     You may not go swimming until one hour after eating. 
        One-half hour.
           Here, take a sandwich with you.
              Come inside when the street lights turn on.
                 Here's a flashlight.
                    Be sure to lock up.
     To be fair, the summer holiday involves compromise on both parts.  I was used to eating Snickers for lunch and the kids were used to pestering an adult who is unaware of their wide repertory of juvenile cons.  So, I stocked up on peanut butter and pot pies and the kids became buddies with the retired couple who lived down the street. (I sent the couple an anonymous thank-you bouquet every Monday, signing the enclosure, Your Eternal Friend.)
     Summertime proves to be costly for those families where both parents work outside the home.  Day-care expenses make you ask:  Not only are the kids out of school but I have to pay money for the privilege?

     Those of us who work at home dream of day-care.  It's a bit hard to concentrate when there's a trail of mildewing beach towels bisecting the house, the smell of burnt cookies wafting out of the kitchen, and the pulse of Meatloaf (the singer not the dinner) making me contemplate the construction of a stockade in the back yard.  (I wonder if the library has a how-to book, perhaps shelved under child psychology?)

     I should clarify.  I love my kids. Cross my heart and hope to . . . but they make me tired.  Lethargic.  Catatonic.
     I considered buying three season tickets to the Royals.  Let's see . . . 81 home games at four hours a game equals 324 hours when my darlings won't be asking me The Question.
     And what is The Question?  Come on parents, you can ace this quiz.
     Is The Question::
A.  We're tired, Mom, so what can we do now?
B.  We're hungry, Mom, so what can we do now?
C.  We're bored, Mom, so what can we do now?
     The Question is:  All, or any of the above depending on the barometric pressure, the peanut butter deficit, and the number of neighbor kids glaring at me from the doorway.
     On average, I hear, and attempt to answer The Question two hundred and eighty-three times.  I started the summer with good intentions – and good answers. 
     "Ask Erin over. Play school. Read a book."
     But around the seventieth asking (during Day 4 of summer) my answers, and my patience, began to show signs of sanity withdrawal.
     "Are you sure Erin's parents don't want another child? Go pick the lock on the school. Watch Forensic Files."

     I answered Question #274 with a primal grunt.  In response to Question #275, I snarled.  Intent on testing their mother's new vocabulary to the fullest, my children continued through Question #283 when they noticed my incisors appeared to be sharpening.  I never heard The Question again.  Hey, I don't raise no dumb kids.

     As the end of summer glows on the horizon and the aura of back-to-school entices, I realize there will be a time when I'll give anything to hear the thud of elephant feet and the wails of, "But, Mom, do we have to?"  I'll look back on these chaotic summers with a bittersweet reflection.  Guilt will sit on my shoulders until I admit my insensitivity.
     Ah, what the heck.  I'll risk it.

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Want more inspirational humor? Check out 
Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms

The Golden Silence

 "Behold, children are a gift of the Lord."

Psalm 127:3

     I understand children are a gift from God, but that doesn't stop me from suffering moments when I'd like a refund. Or an exchange. Maybe one child for two cats and a gerbil. Or a rabbit. Rabbits would be good. They're quiet. They don't eat much and they let you hold them on your lap without squirming away.
     And they don't walk like elephants. Only elephants—and my children—walk like elephants. There is a law of physics that applies here: the smaller the child, the louder the footsteps. A sixty-pound nine-year-old running through the living room has the ability to make our best china rattle like a 7.1 earthquake with aftershocks inevitable. Inversely, a 120-pound teen of sixteen can move from the front door to their bedroom so silently I'll raise my head like a doe in the forest, sure something has just passed close but unsure of its intent.
     My children are destined for the theatre. "Please pass the mashed potatoes" is delivered in a voice heard by the back row of any auditorium. The discussion that follows regarding whose turn it is to clear the dishes is worthy of a Laurel and Hardy skit (and we even have our own Laurel). 
     I love our three kids dearly. Yet sometimes I yearn for "a time to be silent".

     One weekend, I got my wish—though I had to get sick to do it.

     We were scheduled to drive to our hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska to go to a Cornhusker football game. But when I woke up Saturday morning the glands in my neck made me resemble a chipmunk stocking up for the winter. Not wanting to ruin everyone's fun I sent my family on their way, checked with a doctor, got a prescription and settled into our empty house. 
     Our silent empty house.
     No elephant footfalls. No "But Mom . . ." No slammed doors, Scooby Doo, or the tortuous beat of loud music. 
     Just the ticking of the clock in the entry. The hmmm of the refrigerator. And the whoosh of the furnace making me feel cozy warm as I snuggled beneath an afghan on the couch.
     "This is the life," I told the air. "I can do what I want, when I want to do it. I can eat foods that have no nutritional value. I can watch old movies with no one moaning about the lack of special effects. I can read. I can take a nap or a bath with no interruptions."
      And self-serving hedonist that I am, I did all of those things, wallowing in the solitude with as much ecstasy as Scrooge McDuck swimming in his vault of gold coins.
     But after my dinner of mint-chip ice cream and Diet Coke, after watching "An Affair to Remember", after crying over Father Ralph de Bricassart's death in The Thorn Birds, and after a bath where I emerged a prune, I took another listen to the silence I'd wrapped around myself and found it wanting.

     I missed Emily’s humming as she made a batch of cookies along with a mess in the kitchen. I missed the rumble as Carson hurtled down the stairs. I missed the sound of Laurel reading aloud to her invisible class as she played school. And our king-sized bed seemed empty without its king.
     With the noises of night closing in around me, I imagined a life without the sounds of my children. Their gentle snores assuring me they’re safe and sound in bed, the harmony of their voices saying grace before a meal. I imagined never hearing the title "Mom" whether it was tagged on a request for a ride to school or onto the thank you after giving the ride.
     As I tried to get to sleep I found the silence heavy—the silence that could have been if we hadn’t been blessed with three children. I turned on the television for company and fell asleep to the canned sounds of TV people going through the process of living.
     The next day when my family burst in with thudding feet, overlapping voices, and gusts of fall air, I was ready for them. Renewed. Patient again—at least for a little while.
     In the stillness of my weekend I found that silence is indeed golden. For it reminded me of something very important.
     My children are more precious than gold.

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Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

Save Me, God! I Fell in the Carpool: Help, Hope, and Humor for Drowning Moms