Being Human

"Stand firm and hold to the teachings 
we passed on to you."

2 Thessalonians 2: 15

      If you want to teach something, be something.
      Sounds good.
      Sometimes I wish I could tell my kids to carry on, do what they know is right and don't mind me.  Being a hypocrite is easy.  Being a role model takes work—more work than I'm up to after tethering and weathering the moments of my life.

   When my three children were small, I could get away with the convenience of "do as I say, not as I do".
   They didn't notice the Snickers wrapper on the counter as I made dinner.  They didn't say a word when I wore socks with holes in the toes, and they were too busy playing with Kermit the Frog and Candyland to see me clean the entry floor after tracking in my own share of mud. Or perhaps they were too much in awe of Mommy to say anything. 
   Maybe not. 
   But as they graduated to Barbie, Battleship and beyond, their minds grasped a scary new concept—independent thought.  That's when they began to challenge me and my two-faced behavior. 

   "How come we have to make our beds when your bed isn't made yet?"
   "How come we can only watch TV an hour a night and you can watch more?"
   "How come your shoes are all over the place and ours have to be in the shoe bin?" 
   I shake my head, stalling until I conjure up a desperate parent's jewel: "Because I'm the mom, that's why!"

   They roll their eyes and leave me to my humiliation. How'd they get so smart? Certainly it wasn't by my example.  

  It doesn't help my self-esteem to remember my own mother's perfection. I never caught her in a faux pas. No wet towels on the floor, no crumbs brushed onto the kitchen floor when no one was looking, no televisions blaring at a ridiculous level (can I help it if I like to feel my movies?). She taught us by example. When she worked till the early morning hours sewing a prom dress, we learned to be industrious. When she made the roast and leftover corn last for two more meals, we learned to be thrifty.  When she made quilts for the less fortunate, we learned to be charitable.

   What am I teaching my kids?

      There are some good things.  When I work on getting a book written, plodding along one sentence, one word at a time, they learn persistence.  When I hug their father right in front of them and even give him a kiss (gasp!) they learn love.  When I tell them how a prayer was answered, they learn faith.

      Not too bad.

      Although I am working on making my bed, limiting my television time, and hanging up my coat, above all—flaws and all—I'm teaching my children we're in this together.  I don't know all the answers, although I do know a bit more than they do. I have good traits I hope they'll embrace and bad habits I hope they'll avoid. 

They know I'm not perfect.

   “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” (Proverbs 22: 6)

   If you want to teach something, be something...

   I'm human. Human I can teach.  Human I can be. 

   Perhaps, somehow, they'll learn from that.  

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

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

Eluding the Perfection Police

"There, in the presence of the Lord your God,

you and your families shall eat and shall rejoice

in everything you have put your hand to,

because the Lord your God has blessed you."

Deuteronomy 12: 7

     I am not the best housekeeper. Our house has dust bunnies that I've made into pets. I see no reason to vacuum the carpet just to remove footprints. And I know for a fact that a few water-spots on my kitchen faucet will not cause a plague.
     It's not that I don't know how to be a perfect Suzy Homemaker. Hey, I’m well aware of Martha Stewart’s obsessions. Yet, after decades of marriage, nine houses, three cats, two dogs, and three kids, and six grandkids I've chosen to take it down a notch.

     When the kids were young and the perfection-police invaded our domain, I’d bark orders: "Carson, you cut a swath through the family room. Emily, hose down the kitchen, and Laurel, capture all the dust bunnies. I'll conquer the laundry.  Any questions?"

     Carson raised a hand.  "Why are we doing this? Is Grandma coming to visit?"
     "No."
     "The pope?"

     I glared at them.  "No one's coming to visit.  We're cleaning the house for us. We do like a clean house, don't we?"
     Realizing this was a trick question, the kids looked at each other and shrugged. 
     "What's that shrug supposed to mean?" I snapped.
     "We'll help," Emily said, "but we don't understand why you're so . . . so . . ."
     "Zealous," Carson said.
     We all stared at him.  "Where did you get that word?" I asked.
     Carson looked at the ceiling, trying to remember.  "I think I read it in an article about wild-eyed fanatics who tried to take over some country."
     "Are you implying I'm wild-eyed?" I asked, brandishing a broom in the air like a sword. 
     My children's silence was my answer. I looked around at the morning newspaper strewn on the coffee table, a lone pair of shoes by the wall, the couch pillows which would only take a few moments to straighten. "Maybe I was exaggerating a bit," I conceded.  "Maybe things aren't as messy as I thought."
     The kids' shoulders relaxed. They'd been given a reprieve from the perfection-police, and their zealous mother—who was (and is) far from perfect.
     The perfection-police visit far less often now. The popcorn bowl in the sink, mail on the counter, a basket of socks that need matching, and a baseball hat flung over the stair post are not capital crimes. They're proof that a family lives here.
     And that is true perfection.

***

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

Car-pooling Without a Life Jacket

“Start children off on the way they should go, 
and even when they are old 
they will not turn from it.”
Proverbs 22: 6

A.Proverbs 22:6 : S Ge14:14B.Proverbs 22:6 : Eph6:4C.Proverbs 22:6S Dt

       

      Please note these simple safety rules of life:  don't put marbles up your nose, don't gesture with a fork while you're talking, and wear a life jacket when you jump or are pushed into the carpool.

          Our family is fortunate.  We live close enough to school so the kids walk or ride their bikes.  Unless water is involved.  Rain, sleet, snow—or the imminent threat thereof.  Precipitation heralds the beginning of telephone negotiations worthy of any diplomat.  My youngest, Laurel, calls her best friend, Rae Chelle, and they try to remember whose turn it is to drive. Since mothers are only consulted as a last resort, the conversation usually goes something like this: 

         "Mom?  Can you drive us to school?"

         "Didn't I drive last Tuesday when it rained?"

         "You drove to but Rae Chelle's mom picked up after. Can you do it again 'cause Rae Chelle's mom has a doctor's appointment and her little brother's sick and they ran out of Rice Krispies so they're running late and she can't after."

         "So am I taking or picking up?" 

         A pause.  "Let me check."

         I realize it would be easier to speak directly to Rae Chelle's mom but I don't because there's a rule that says weekday mornings aren't supposed to be easy.  So I do my part.

        Because I work at home, I don't bother dressing up to do my car-pool duty.  In fact, I feel downright chic if I put on shoes.  To shoe, or not to shoe is determined in the final moments as I grab my keys.  If I feel brave, I scurry to the car shoeless and pray that I don't run out of gas, get rear-ended, or meet up with my own mother—who supposedly taught me common sense.  

       Remember that scene from Mr. Mom where Michael Keaton gets scolded for going the wrong way through the car-pool lane at school? It's true, all true. The way the elementary school has it's car-pool routine laid out is as complicated as a gold-medal figure skating program—the long program. By the time I escape back into street traffic I figure I've done a double axel, a flying camel and a sit spin. If it's a good day, the judges give me a 5.9 for my technical ability and a perfect 6.0 for my dazzling car-pool artistry.

        Our carpool usually includes food and drink.  Part of it's my fault.  I'm rarely seen without my trusty Diet Coke—inevitably bringing chants of "Don't drink   and drive, Mrs. Moser" from the car-poolees. Smart alecky kids.  The rest of the problem I blame on those handy cup holders cars have.  Talk about an invitation. After a trip through carpool-land those cup holders are full of jelly beans, used gum, crumpled Dorito bags and assorted ponytail bands—all of which are permanently adhered to the holder with the greatest glue ever invented:  dried apple juice.  

       If you have a keen interest in colds and allergies, you'll feel right at home in a carpool. It seems the only tissues ever found in a child's possession are those shredded and fossilized in their pockets after making the washer-dryer rounds. If a child does have a fresh tissue, it is of no use as it is buried beneath layers of jackets, backpacks and science projects.

       A nose is running. A sneeze is bursting. A cough is hacking. What's a poor child to do? I have a box of tissues in the car, just for the occasion. But what happens to the tissue when it's served its purpose? Since their pockets are already full of the day's earlier treasures (just waiting to be fossilized) the kids stuff the used tissues in between the seats or in a cup holder—if they can find one miraculously empty. Or they give it to the baby to chew on.

       Carpooling demands iron nerves, deaf ears, and eyes in the back of your head. If you somehow avoid drowning in the deep end of the carpool you'll deliver all the kids to the correct locations and make it back home yourself (if, after all this, you still remember where you live).  When you get there, shut the garage door on the world, toss your keys on the counter, and try a different pool—one that steams and makes your skin prune. Calgon, take me away.

***

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

Two--Very Different--Little Darlings

"Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me, 

and do not hinder them,

for the kingdom of heaven 

belongs to such as these.'”

Matthew 19: 14

Lillian and Evelyn 5 months old

      (2012) We have two granddaughters --born three weeks apart. They both live in the same town as us (what a blessing) and see each other often. They have many of the same genes, similar upbringings, similar living experiences, and share me as their grandmother extraordinaire.
     Then why are they so different?

     This is a rhetorical question.  After having three kids of my own--who were very different from one another--I know they're different just because they are.  They're supposed to be.  God created them to be two unique individuals.  But seeing them side by side . . .

     They're both five now, but even when they were just months old we said, "Lily's going to go outside to play and say, 'Look Grandma!  A bug!' and Evelyn's going to go outside to play and say, 'Eew!  Grandma!  A bug!"

     Now it's not that distinct, but pretty close. The fact we could sense this differentiation before they could even run outside or say "bug" astounds me.

     We used to get them similar toys for Christmas.  It sure made things easier.  But now . . . Evelyn wants a "Toddler Ariel" doll while Lily wants a horse (a live horse would be best, but she'll take the toy-kind.)  Evelyn circled all the dolls in the American Girl catalog.  Lily circled all the animals--and the VW car.

     Evelyn likes cupcakes and sweets.  Lily likes salsa and mustard and says, "No, thank you" to cookies.  And ice cream--making me wonder what happened to her Moser sugar-gene. They both like Ranch dressing, though Lily likes it a bit too much.  On everything. In a restaurant she asks the waiter for her own side of ranch. (she's not shy)

     When we kid-sit the girls, one at a time, Evelyn is content to play by herself with the Fisher Price Little People sets. Lily nudges me to do an "art project."  They both like to pick up "sticky balls" (hedge apples) with Grandpa.

     Lily listens to every conversation (some, she shouldn't) and asks, "What happened to that man in the crash?" or "What's a president?" While Evelyn is having her own conversation with her fork and peas.  Something to do with princesses, I think (it's always about princesses.)

     Lily loves to comment on the hair style and color of store clerks.  The best exchange was when she said, "You have pink hair."  The clerk shot back, "You have brown hair."  And that was that.  Evelyn is more interested in pushing the cart back to its stall.

     In regards to fashion, Evelyn always has a matching headband or hairbow--though it's often askew.  Lily came over the other day with one anklet and one footie sock. Odd thing is, it took me 30 minutes to notice.

     I haven't seen much competition between them.  Yet.  A few Big Wheel races down our driveway perhaps.  I see it in small moments, like when they stay overnight and say prayers, Evelyn sings a little song she knows.  Not to be outdone, Lily makes one up on the fly.  And they like coloring contests where I declare a winner (ack! Don't make me choose!)  But I do choose.  I honestly assess the best one.  I don't think it's wise to tell kids they're doing a good job when they didn't try very hard to stay in the lines (but that's another subject.)

     I love being a grandma to the girls, and to our two grandsons, Jackson (age 3) and Jamison (just turned 1.)  The boys are different because two years separate them. But as the importance of their age difference fades, I look forward to see their differences. And I'll embrace each and every them.

     An addendum 2020:  Here's the current brood of 7! Lily and Evelyn are turning 13 this year. Time flies.

***

Want more inspirational humor? Check out 

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