motherhood

Spring Break: a great time to tell kids, “I’m glad you’re here”

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Spring Break is winding up in our neck of the woods, and it brings up a pet peeve I’ve written about before: messages in popular culture that suggest children are an annoyance, or a burden, more than integral parts of our families and society.

Of course, I understand that a week at home with kids one usually sends off to school can disrupt orderly routines. It requires scrambling for babysitters or fun activities to fill unaccustomed hours. That presents an element of inconvenience, especially for those who can’t take the same days off of work to spend time relaxing with the freed children.

Calendar spring break - 1The disconnect between today’s school calendars and the dual working parent/single parent households that make up most American families doesn’t make the children themselves the problem.

Try to find a moment to tell your kids so, even if you think they’ll roll their eyes or believe you’ve gone batty. It’s good for them to hear it said.

It’s good for us to say it, too.

It’s easy to get caught up in life’s buffeting winds of distractions and disappointments. Kids are beholden to us adults for everything: shelter, food, toys, and a sense of where they stand in the world. Don’t forget that last bit in the struggle to optimize the tangible needs.

Mom hugI tell my kids I love them, but I also say how much I like them for who they are, no matter how different from me, and even when* those differences cause us to disagree.

They’ve heard me get angry at “back to school” sale ads that suggest parents rejoice once the brats are out of their hair. I reject those offensive notions, and I tell my kids so. Kids deserve better than that, just because they’re human beings, and even when their vacation weeks disrupt our schedules.

Spring Break this year at our house did include my sending them out to dinner and a movie with Grandma so that a group of moms could join me for a ladies’ literature evening. I know I’m fortunate to have willing family members available to give me a few hours off; I’m grateful for that.

My mom did bring our young friend, The Scholar†, along for the evening together with my boys. Since The Scholar’s mother wouldn’t have been able to attend otherwise, this was a gracious favor on Mom’s part.

That brings up one other option for showing kids during school breaks that they are valued by caring adults: make the offer to help another parent fill some of those hours if you’ve got a bit more bandwidth free.

Children thrive when a variety of adults show them consideration and make time for them. Society thrives when all of our children are well cared for.

CrocusI’m not sure it’s the village that matters; I think it’s all about the tribe.

It’s amazing how tiny an effort can make the world a better place for someone else. I live in certainty that every child deserves at least that much.

♦

*Not so much during a fight, say, do I remember to be so gracious, but I try to get the message across the rest of the time, so the good things overwhelm family squabbles. I’m no saint!

**She’s another home educated child whom I tutor in math because my talents differ from those of her mother.

Exposé: Call the Mom(b) Squad; she’s going to explode!

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Some of us take board games a little too seriously.

Hanukkah 5 gift game Last Letter - 1

Last Letter card game by ThinkFun

We† enjoyed “family game night” on a recent Saturday, during which my older son was inspired to exclaim:

“Call the Mom(b) Squad; she’s going to explode!”

I’d like to take this opportunity to reassure everyone that this was not a case where I was worked up about losing. I was quite shocked to discover that I went from great to terrible at the game once we limited players over 12 to specific parts of speech. It is true, however, that I have been known to list imaginary players and ascribe higher point levels to them over my family members in those rare instances when I wasn’t going to win…Board game - 1

I was freaking out about reacting sensibly to the possibility of pieces being lost and/or put away outside of their assigned spots. This little blow up was motivated by OCD more than ego. You can’t be faulted for guessing the latter as it is always a fair possibility as far as my motivations go.

A fine time was had by all. My teen’s favorite part of the evening was, of course, his own clever comment. Now you get to enjoy it, too.

♦

†DS1 played only under duress because he’s a teenager now and it isn’t cool to spend time with your family. DS2 begs for a family game night every weekend; the little one also angles to play a really long, involved European type table game every time, or invents games of his own.

“Of Human Bondage” and its trove of… parenting wisdom?

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One reads the classics because…

Actually, I won’t presume to know why anyone else reads a classic novel.*

Having long since passed the stage of life wherein, to quote the Indigo Girls song “Closer to Fine:”

…I went to see the doctor of philosophy
With a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee
He never did marry or see a B-grade movie
He graded my performance, he said he could see through me
I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
Got my paper and I was free

Very much in spite of much of the bureaucratic process we call schooling, but with deep regard for the great investment of time and energy—of inestimable value!—into the bettering of my mind by more than my fair share of gifted teachers, I remain a student, if not a scholar, and a committed autodidact.

For this reason—and because I suffer from an oscillation between stultifying malaise and desperate, yearning agitation when I don’t have a good book at hand, preferably with a few more queued up—I read and re-read the classics.

book novel Of Human Bondage coverLast month, I embarked upon the reading of W. Somerset Maugham‘s hefty tome, Of Human Bondage.

The wholly inadequate summary of the novel in the library catalogue says:

“The story of a deformed youth whose handicap causes loneliness.”

I would laugh if such a shallow skimming over of the depth of this story didn’t leave me wanting to sob. It’s almost a caricature of the isolation and lack of understanding that torments Phillip, Of Human Bondage‘s orphaned protagonist, during his youth.

With little interest in literary criticism, let me come directly to what moved me so deeply as I worked my way—slowly, because it deserved thorough attention—through this weighty novel:

Phillip needed a caregiver.

He really could have used a mother. He flailed because being orphaned left him to learn for himself what most of us are taught by even mediocre parents.

He was born with a less than stellar internal compass for interpreting the giving and receiving of any kind of love. He wasn’t what we might call today a “people person.” He was one of those kids who most need explicit help to interpret the social world, and take a full role within it.

Reading Of Human Bondage made the importance of the part I can play in my sons’ lives more unequivocal to me than ever before. I should be mature enough not to doubt it; I remain insecure enough that I do.

I’m grateful that I didn’t read Maugham’s masterpiece as a student.

Continue reading →

The “trivial” work of motherhood

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I must write about trivial matters because my job is trivial. I am, after all, “just a mom.”

Of course, there’s more to trivia than the casual reader might suppose.

When the idea for this post came to me, I thought my point was a common one. That is, that without the mundane yet necessary chores done by the unsung, ordinary worker, the hungry and unclothed genius could never accomplish great things.

I was failing to grasp my own point.

Trivial has come to mean “not important.” Merriam-Webster’s definition for kids states just that: “of little worth or importance.”

A deeper reading of trivial‘s etymology—it comes from the Latin “crossroads”— underscores exactly what I sought to express.

excerpted from Merriam-Webster

Mothers are “trivial” because they are the only tangible link between every human being and all others. I am literally the crossroads between my husband’s family and that of my birth. My body made possible a new line of human succession, like that of every biological mother before me.

And, this is mere biology. Any mammal could do it. It hardly bears mentioning, let alone an acclamation.

Except…

We are the nodes in humanity’s network of biological interrelationships. We tie the web together.

Everyone bears a mother’s mark at the umbilicus, the scar where the physical tether was broken after birth. The rending of this vital connection must be followed by emotional bonding with some dedicated caregiver*, or an infant fails to thrive.

Everybody has a mother.

How trivial she must be!

*Though, at this moment, I am particularly in awe of the notion of birth mothers knitting the entire human race together, let no one read this post as a denigration of foster- and adoptive mothers and other parents-by-choice. Parenting is a monumental task; everyone who undertakes it with dedication earns an equal measure of my respect.

Rescue! Lost dog finds his way home

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There won’t be too many posts that I begin like this: I was a hero this morning before breakfast.

I’m being hyperbolic*, of course. I was merely helpful. I did, however, have the opportunity to ease a lost little dog’s obvious anxiety, then find his way home, and I did it before drinking my coffee.

I’m pretty sure the dog felt I was heroic.

I was startled by a flash of movement outside the back door. It’s a private, fenced yard where no one should be at 7:30 on a weekday morning. There was a little white dog padding anxiously along the perimeter of the house and yard, shivering and unhappy.

He walked up to the patio door. His eye contact said, “I see you, lady, and I’m meant to be in there with you. Why aren’t you saving me?“

I called out to the rest of the household.

“Have you seen this dog before? He looks lost.”

Response: “Are you sure it’s not a cat?”

A fair number of neighborhood cats perch on the fence, but, no, this guy is a small white dog with some black markings and a powder blue collar.

I’m not a veterinarian or anything, but I felt confident stating this was a dog.

Someone more interested in dogs than I went out slowly and spoke kindly to him, but it was pretty obvious this frightened the little animal more. I was still the recipient of a lot of canine eye contact.

“Yes, lady, I’m looking at you.”

I never thought I had any dog whispering (canine telepathy?) powers before today, but I trust my interpretation.

We offered a bowl of water and someone went looking for an appropriate treat to lure him close enough to read his tags.

With a sigh, I sat down on the cold ground and the shivering pup edged his way nervously around the dog lover–sitting still and patient on a patio chair, hoping to help–and right into my lap.

The dog’s body language said it all:

“Finally.”

Deep sigh.

I am allergic to dogs, so I usually speak to them politely while avoiding physical contact. They often resent my abject failure to pet (clearly knowing it is their due for having the grace to be domesticated and accept the often thankless task of being man’s best friend.)

Today, there could be none of that.

With my reassuring warmth relieving the chill of the morning, the tags on his collar were read, a neighbor’s phone number discovered, and, a few minutes later, a joyful reunion with a family member orchestrated.

His name is Buddy, and he was a rescue, and he is afraid of men. I know a few humans who share similar characteristics.

So I was Buddy’s hero this morning, bright and early, before my coffee. Like most moms, I live to serve. (Sort of, and with a bit of a giggling snort for that overblown statement.)

At least it is fair to say that, as a mom, I work to meet the needs of those smaller and less powerful than myself every day. Today, that small being was Buddy. Happy as he was to see his family, he definitely threw me a backwards glance. He was grateful that I eventually listened to him, and gave him what he needed.

I don’t know why Buddy picked me to be his hero this morning, but I was pleased to find I could rise to the task, allergies and all. Rarely are we so graciously asked when we are called to serve.

* Hyperbolic as an adjective relating to exaggeration, of course, but wouldn’t it be funny if I meant “being like a curve that is formed by the intersection of a double right circular cone with a plane that cuts both halves of the cone?” Even more fascinating: Merriam Webster states the the first definition predates the geometric one by more than a century (15th century vs. 1676.) Can that really be true? I feel that a great deal more research into this word is now warranted.