The Wild, Wild West of Parenting

Parenting is hard.

Anyone who is telling the truth will tell you that (unless they aren't parents.  Or unless they are parents, but they aren't spending enough time with their kids).

Don't get me wrong--it's worth it.  1000% worth it.  And sometimes it is easy, and sometimes everything is wonderful.

But just as often, as a mom, I'm faced with decisions I don't know how to make.  I'm stuck questioning myself after I've made a choice.  I'm wondering if I'm messing it all up most of the time.

But I've written about that before.  And in case you missed it, my great big takeaway has been that if you are trying your best for your child, then that is enough.  It has to be.

Our children don't need perfect parents--they just need parents who love them, and give themselves to their kids day after day.  Of course we're going to make mistakes along the way.  But if we're willing to admit them and learn from them, that's really all we can ask of ourselves.  Since there are no perfect people, there are no perfect parents (even if that mom down the street bakes gluten-free everything that still tastes delicious, and even if her bod looks rockin' in her yoga pants, and even if her kids are well-behaved in church each Sunday, and each child has mastered a different specialty in sports, music, and/or academics by age 12.  No perfect moms or dads out there--none.  They don't exist).

But that's not what I wanted to write about today.

Today, I want to be honest about parenting a teenager.  Because that's a topic I haven't tackled before.  But before I get started:

Full disclosure, my teenager is amazing.  She is goodhearted, sweet, and earns grades that are higher than both mine and her father's ever were throughout middle school.  She is a talented musician, an extremely gifted artist, and a helpful big sister.  She cares about people and loves animals.

Despite all her wonderful qualities, I still feel like there are times we are living on completely different planets, and I have no idea how to relate to her anymore.  You know the saying, Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars? 

They should add Teenagers are from Pluto.  Because that's how far away from her I feel sometimes.

When I became a parent at the relatively young age of 22, almost 23, I worried about the immediate:  I'd never changed a diaper.  I didn't know how I'd adjust to having a kid and trying to finish graduate school.  I worried about how my relationship with my husband (then boyfriend) would change.  I analyzed my own spiritual life, recognizing how messed up I was in terms of my life priorities, and I started rearranging my life to try to better honor God, knowing that I had the biggest task of my life ahead of me:  to be a role model for someone else.

But that last part, the role model part--somehow, somewhere along the way, when my oldest daughter was just a sweet little girl who worshiped me, who thought I could do no wrong--somehow I found myself believing that lie along with her.  I'm not saying your best isn't good enough--it absolutely is!  But for me, so much of my oldest's childhood was spent in a haze of innocence, with her not questioning or pushing me, that when it finally started happening around the cusp of adolescence, I found myself completely unprepared.

It's the Wild Wild West of parenting.

Because practically overnight, your adorable little angel who has placed you on a pedestal has realized that you're a real person who makes real mistakes and you might not belong up there.

And of course, children should still respect their parents. But as they get older and form a more complete view of who we are, with all their front row seats of the mistakes we sometimes keep confined to our own homes, I'm guessing most of them begin to realize exactly how far from perfect we are.

And this realization comes amid the new boundaries teens want to test.  It comes amid a sea of hormone changes and raging emotions.  It comes with wanting to date.  With buckling down in school because college is on the horizon.  It comes with body issues and self-esteem concerns.

It comes with freaking technology!!

I guess every parent ever has always felt that the world was changing, that they grew up in a different world than their children are being raised in, because, let's face it--it has been!  And we do all experience a different world than the generation before us.  My parents struggled to keep up with computers and the danger of the internet the same way my husband and I fret over smart phones and apps and social media.  And even before technology took over the world, talk to your grandparents:  Didn't they distrust the changes in music, in fashion, in the way young people viewed society and their role within it?

The opportunities are endless, but the dangers and missteps real.  And when I became a parent, my worry about being a role model was secondary to my worries about how do I feed my baby--breast or bottle?  How do I make sure I keep her safe from SIDS, and how do I baby proof the apartment, and what do I need to do to make sure she eats a healthy diet as a toddler?  And I'm not saying that these aren't important concerns.  I'm saying that in my naivety, I figured they would be the biggest issues.  That once I got her safely through early childhood, we would sail through adolescence and into adulthood in a smooth, sitcom-worthy way, with every conflict happily resolved inside thirty minutes.

I was and still am completely unprepared to navigate teenage life. 

And I am doing my best--I talk with my teenager daily.  I express my concerns when I have them.  I monitor her technology use, and try to stay on top of the influences that I know I can't eliminate, but should at least be aware of.

But it's hard in the Wild, Wild West.

I pray about it a lot.  I try to be a good role model, and I also try to be honest.

I'm also pulled in a quite opposite direction in daily life, as my youngest daughter is only three.  So my days are divided, schizophrenic almost, in the sense that I'm balancing the older child's hurt feelings from a teenage argument with the younger one's need to learn to share.  I'm in between conflicts over how often to practice the clarinet and guilt over whether or not my younger one is being read to enough (because she does love her iPad, and technology influences tiny children, too).  I'm taking turns playing the fashion police and negotiating with a toddler regarding administrating antibiotics.

I sometimes want to laugh at how clueless I was as to how hard this stage would be.  I think my relationship with my own mother, always close, set a false precedent for me, helped me to form an idealized view of what all mother-daughter relationships should be.  I should have known from my time teaching middle school that my own relationship with my mom was an exception, and not a norm.

And even though we were close, I was still far from a perfect teenager, just like I am far from perfect as a woman, wife, mother, and person.

So as I give myself grace for the motherhood journey, I need to remember to do the same for my daughter throughout her teenage voyage.  I need to realize she is going to make mistakes, just like I did, just like we all do.  I need to try to instill values in her to guide her away from the biggest temptations, the most dangerous choices.  But I also need to recognize that she needs space.  She needs to not feel unrealistic expectations from me.  How hypocritical it is, so often, when we realize our own imperfections but force our children to adhere to a higher standard.

I'm working on me.  Far more than I ever thought I would have to as a parent.  When I became a mom, I thought it would be all about growing up another person.

Turns out, it's about growing us both up.  And though I was young when that little voice first called me mommy, I don't think this is a lesson I would have or could have learned any differently, no matter how old I might have been before entering motherhood.

The Wild West is always going to be unknown, until you step into it.

Still

I'm no poet, but every once in a while, I like to try my hand at poetry.  This topic's been tugging at my heart lately, even though it happened nearly twelve years ago.  I call this one, "Still."

Still
You were still
No moving
No crying
Still

Still
Still I held you
Still I loved you
Still I wept
Still

Still I wonder
Still I miss you
Still I imagine your face
Your eyes, your smile, your nose
I see you in my dreams
Your curls, your hands, your toes
I remember the butterfly kicks
Would you be short, like your older sister?
Tall, like your younger one?
Maybe in between them--average height?
You were, after all, the middle sister,
My middle child.

Still I cry, sometimes.
Still I miss you
Though I never knew you--

But I knew you.

Still remembering
The hope I had
Still wishing
Still wanting
Still

Still I cry
Still I mourn
Still I remember

Still
Still...

Still I smile
Still, I hold your sisters
Still, I love blue skies and sunshine
And sometimes, the feel of raindrops
Still, I celebrate your life
Still, I thank God
For you.

Still.

On April Fool's Day, Blessings, and Hardships...

It's April Fool's Day!

Today, I'm thinking about how far my husband and I have come (no kidding).  On April Fool's Day fourteen years ago, Rashieme called his mom, and despite my frantic protests, he left a message on her home-phone answering machine (yes, we had those back then) that informed her I was pregnant.

I was, by the way.

And due in June.  And we hadn't told her yet, because we were terrified, especially me.  We were young.  We hadn't been a couple very long.  We were living together out of wedlock.  I wasn't confident that his mother liked me very much, because Rashieme had flown down to Florida to visit me for a week the previous spring, and instead of flying back home, he'd ended up staying with me, until we both returned to Maryland that fall when I got into graduate school.  He'd went home for a couple months before moving back in with me when we got our first apartment (after we'd realized I was pregnant).  If the tables had been turned, and I had been Schelita, I probably wouldn't have approved of the woman who lured her son to Florida, then stole him away to another county when he finally came back home.

I remember freaking out as I watched Rashieme record that message, and when he hung up the phone, I was beside myself.  What was she going to do when she figured out this wasn't an April Fool's joke?

Truth is, she responded the way I hope I will, if I'm ever placed in a similar situation:  She didn't judge us at all.  She didn't lecture us, aside from the fact that she scolded us for not telling her earlier.  She was in love with that baby the moment she found out about her, and she immediately got to work buying everything imaginable for Kaliah.  Clothes, toys, a crib for her house so Kaliah could spend the night.  From the day Kaliah entered the world until Madea left us, Schelita loved her unconditionally.  They had an unbreakable bond.

And it all started with an "April Fool's" announcement.

I see some women posting on social media, encouraging others not to participate in any sort of joke pregnancy announcement--and I get it.  Pregnancy is not a joke.  Some women try for years to get pregnant to no avail; others suffer one or more miscarriage.  It makes for a touchy subject, and I ,of all people, would never tell another woman how she should feel about the matter.

Our stillborn Jasmine Celine was born in 2007.  I carried her for six long months, about five of which I knew she was sick.  I held her for one day, when they baptized her in the hospital room.  I picked out one soft, pink blanket to wrap her in.  I chose her shiny pink coffin.

This didn't stop me from participating in a similar April Fool's announcement when we learned we were expecting with Shay.

It was Rashieme's idea, again--he wanted to tell his mom the same way he had the first time, ten years ago.  And I agreed, because for us--it seemed fitting.  So we drove to her house, and this time, instead of panicking that she wouldn't believe us, that she'd resent me for playing games with the truth, we eagerly showed her the photo on the my phone of the positive pregnancy test.  I still remember her smiling suspiciously, checking the rings I always wear, pictured in that photo, with the ones that were and still are on my finger.  It took several minutes of convincing, even though she knew we had been about to start trying.  I think it was a nice full-circle moment, considering how she found out about Kaliah a decade before.

We told the rest of the world that night--I'd already told my mom shortly after I found out, and we'd already informed Kaliah she was going to be a big sister.  We'd sent her on a scavenger hunt, and the last clue was a pair of baby booties, with a sign that said, "Happy Easter!  Baby McFadden December 2015."  We texted a few other people we wanted to know before I posted the photos of Kaliah's search to Facebook--one of Kaliah holding the booties, and one of that sign.  I captioned it, "We're Pregnant!  April Fools?  Or Naw?"  I added a hashtag, "OrNaaaaaw!" (it was also cool, at the time, to say that).

I still stand by the way we told the world.  For us, it was perfect.  We've always been a family who jokes.  (Schelita especially.  When I went past my due date, she wanted me to buy a realistic-looking baby doll, cover it with jelly, get in the shower, and start yelling for Rashieme.  I, of course, said no.  You have to draw the line somewhere).

But Rashieme and I have also grown a lot.  We've suffered two more pregnancy losses--both very shortly after I found out I was expecting.  I get why some women would admonish others for making any type of joke about such a situation.  So for that reason, if our announcement about Shay offended you, and you happen to be reading this--I apologize.

But if we got to do it over again--I'd do it the same way.  It's what Schelita would have wanted.  It was exactly the kind of joke she and her son shared together, often.

I miss her everyday.

I'm sure some people would disagree with that choice.  They have the right to feel that way.  For me, every pregnancy announcement I see is bittersweet--but I don't think I've ever actually had a friend who wasn't pregnant post that they were.  Maybe my friends are just more mature than most people.  Or maybe it really isn't all that common, and all the posts telling people not to do something are addressing an issue that isn't super present.  Every year I see far more posts (several, at least) telling women not to joke about pregnancy than I see actual posts joking about pregnancies (0, by my count--unless you count my own four years ago--then I'm at 1).

Back to the bittersweet part:  I'm always happy for whoever is expecting.  I pray continuously for healthy pregnancies, for healthy babies.  I don't want any other family to go through what we have.  And I am legitimately happy for friends, colleagues, former students, family members.

But every announcement also reminds me of the three announcements I didn't make.  One because we learned our child was sick before you get to "the point" where it's recommended that you tell the outside world.  Two because the pregnancies ended even earlier.

The one child I held in my arms, that I won't get to hold again this side of heaven.  The other two I never got to hold--I never even knew if they were boys or girls.

So the me that types, "congratulations," or the me who shows up smiling, gift-in-hand at your baby shower, is still the me who is triggered by memories, the me who wonders what might have been.  You know how I told Rashieme we were pregnant last October?

I pulled into the parking spot "Reserved for those with children" at the grocery store after picking him up from work one night.  He laughed, and asked me if I was pregnant, and kissed me--we were so happy.

And in January?  I ordered a "Baby Shark" onesie.  It read, "Due due due due due due September 2019."  It arrived in the mail the day after I miscarried--so rather than announcing a pregnancy to my husband, I came home from work early, crying, announcing instead that we were experiencing yet another loss.

More and more, I see women sharing their stories about their losses.  I think that is a really healthy and beautiful thing.  For every woman who does decide to share, there is someone or some couple out there who is more private--and that's okay, too--but maybe even for those who don't want to share, they can benefit from reaching out to the woman who does feel called to tell her story.  I'm encouraged by the frequency with which women have begun writing about miscarriage and infertility. It breaks down the stigma.  It reminds us that we're not alone.  And really, that is why I'm sharing these thoughts here--not because I do or don't want you to joke about pregnancy.  Not because I want you to feel badly for me.

But because there is power in our stories.

I've written about Jasmine a lot; I talk about it some.  I share some of that writing; other pieces are more personal.  Writing about it and talking about it reminds me that I had another daughter.  That her life mattered.  That it changed me (in a really powerful and positive way, actually).

I've written far less about our losses after Shay.  Having had a few months to think about them, I am grateful that God didn't decide I should carry another non-viable pregnancy to delivery--I don't know if I'm strong enough to go through that again.

They are still raw and painful losses, though they both happened even before the heartbeats could be heard.  After the first one, I burst into tears.  It didn't feel fair to me, that I should lose another pregnancy--not after burying a child.  It felt impossibly cruel.

And when it happened again?  I felt, upon discovering I was pregnant again, that I could make peace with that October loss.  That this must be the reason--that I wouldn't have been blessed with that new child, I couldn't have met that child, if not for the earlier loss--

But then, we lost that one, too.  And honestly, I just felt enraged.  I felt that my prayers had been answered and then, that answer had been snatched away.  I was at a loss.

I'm not angry, not anymore.  I still have moments where I feel the weight of those recent losses.  I still haven't made sense of it all--I'm not sure I ever will.  I'm not sure it's my job to.

But I do know that the more I've opened up and shared, the more stories I've heard in return.  We're not alone.  I'm not the only woman to have ever lost a child, and I'm not the only woman who has lost more than one, as gut-wrenching as that is.

I do know that I am blessed to have Kaliah and Shay.

I would like to have one more child, but as time moves on, I am becoming more at peace with whatever God has for me, still praying and believing that we might add to our family once more.  I don't know why we were chosen to go through so many hardships related to conceiving, nor could I guess why so many couples endure similar journeys.

I do know that I am choosing, one day at a time, to try to be better, rather than bitter.  To hold my girls a little tighter.  To take time for the little things.  To be honest about my grief and disappointment--with others, and especially with God.

I am not a perfect mother, anymore than I am a perfect anything else.  There are no perfect women, perfect wives, perfect teachers.  No perfect friends or daughters.  There are things I would do differently in this life, if I had the opportunity to do them over again.

But I will not live my life believing I am being punished for past mistakes.  Every new day is one that the Lord has made.  There is great adventure awaiting me around every corner, and like any good father, my God knows how to give good gifts to His children.

My losses are not some sort of Karmic punishment.  They do not mean I am undeserving of another child.  And whether or not I am blessed with another baby to call my own, I will live my life in wonder of the blessings I have received.

Whatever yours are, I encourage you to do the same.  Whatever hardships you face, I'd like to remind you that while they shape you, they, alone, do not define you.

Happy April Fool's Day.  Go play a lighthearted joke on somebody.  :)



From Easter, 2015. Top:  Ten-year-old Kaliah. Bottom:  Shaylin's announcment.

In Pursuit of Perfection (Why Mothering with All You've Got is Sometimes All You Need)

The other day, one of my best girlfriends texted me.  We've been friends longer than many of the college students I teach have been celebrating birthdays, though life has taken us on fairly different paths.  I became a mother about ten years before she did, but when she joined the club, she did so with fervent commitment:  her two boys are only about a year apart.  Any mama who can handle this (and kudos to all of you out there who do, including my own mother, as my brothers and I were all born within about four years of each other) deserves a medal.  It's hard enough having one kid in diapers, but when you have two tiny ones, as much of a blessing as that is, it's obviously double the trouble.  By the time Rashieme and I added to our family, our oldest daughter was on the brink of middle school, so obviously, that's a totally different experience.

My friend has a somewhat unique situation though--her husband works out of town about half the year.  So not only is she dealing with the already heightened pressures and responsibilities of caring for two completely dependent human beings, but much of the time, she is doing it on her own.  I recognize that this experience is not necessarily out of the ordinary--there are many families out there where one spouse is serving our country and required to be absent from the home for months at a time.  Still other occupations require extensive travel.  And then there are those of us who are single parents, whether by choice or circumstances, with varying levels of support from the co-parent (if (s)he is still in the picture) and/or other family members.

I did the single parent thing for several years when Rashieme and I were apart.  Fortunately for me, we both were always involved in all aspects of Kaliah's life when she was younger.  We split custody without going to the court system.  We co-parented well, even when our relationship with each other was quite broken.

My friend's experience as the only parent in the home for a good chunk of her time reminds me of my days as a single mama, even though she and her husband are "separated" for an entirely different reason, and their relationship is as strong as ever.  But I think about how often, she doesn't get a break.  How she is the one in the trenches through diapering and stomach bugs, she is the one dealing with the monotony of laundry and bottles and meal prep, she is the one who must be on the go from start to finish all day long, often without fifteen minutes for herself for a shower, or perhaps even five minutes without interruption to pee in peace.

When Rashieme and I went through our time apart, we were 100% on when it was our turn to be with our daughter.  But we also got a break when it was the other parent's turn.

For me, the break was both good and bad.  I missed my daughter terribly (and Rashieme, for that matter).  But I also had time to myself that I probably wouldn't have otherwise had to read, go out with my girlfriends, or enjoy a glass of wine with my favorite TV show.

I recognize that for many of the single parents out there, those who are widowed or those whose former partners are not involved, a week off is not a reality.  It's similar for my friend--she is a full-time mama when her husband is away, and though he is an amazing father and shares the parenting responsibilities when he returns, she is still a full-time mama when he is home, PLUS her attention is divided as she strives to be a supportive wife.

As I think about the challenges she faces and the blessings she enjoys, I realize there are ups and downs to just about every situation.  With Rashieme and I, we basically are in a polar opposite situation.  He is the stay at home dad, but my schedule is also quite flexible.  I try to give him as much of a break from the hands-on nitty-gritty as I can when I'm home, and he also is patient and understanding if I need to stay an extra hour at the office to catch up on stuff, or if I'm spent for the day, he tells me to go to bed early, even if he was the one at home with the kids all day.  I love it, and it works for us, but we also don't have near the financial security as many couples our age, given that my occupation, teaching, which I love, is not typically thought of as lucrative enough to enable one to be a primary breadwinner.  We make it work, and we love our lives, as I am sure my friend with two under the age of four loves her life.

But all this to say:  No matter how many kids you have, no matter what your marital status, no matter how old the children are, or whether you work or stay home:

Parenting is hard.

When my friend texted me, she shared her very real frustrations upon stumbling upon a latest piece of parenting advice, some well-intentioned guideline that recommended a perhaps surprising number of hours spent outside per day.  As all of us moms probably think, but not all of us probably admit to, her main reaction was basically:  Well, that's great in theory.  But with everything else I'm expected to do, when the bleep and how the bleep am I supposed to make that happen?

Which got me thinking.

There are so many ridiculous do's and do not's in mothering, most of them stemming from reasonable ideas and legitimate desires to keep our children healthy and happy.  But our culture blows them so out of proportion that eventually, even if you are as confident as Mary Poppins in your child-caring abilities, you may find yourself questioning your capability as a mom.

Because all of the guidelines that are out there, even the most reasonable ones, are basically impossible to follow when you try to follow them all.  Some of these best practices contradict other solid information, but even the guidelines that don't violate other suggestions cannot possibly be adhered to all of the time, in conjunction with all the others.

We put so much pressure on ourselves as moms.  A lot of this comes from our culture, which encourages perfection and achievement across all areas of our lives.  We feel it especially when it comes to our kids, because they are (and should be) our most important responsibilities on this planet.

So in thinking of the never ending onslaught of well-meaning advice that comes from parenting experts, family members, onlookers, educators, and loud mouths on social media, most of it containing at least some semblance of reason, I offer the following mockery, in an attempt to illustrate just how crazy we can make ourselves when we try too hard to do everything right.  Lest you be offended, let me first say that the following list is intended as a JOKE, and yes, I do realize that most (not all) of what I've written here does poke fun at legitimate advice, and that if you do some of the things on this list (within reason), I am not trying to attack your parenting.  I'm merely trying to point out that at the end of the day, all of the do's and don't's in the world can be an exhausting, overwhelming, and sometimes contradictory bottomless pit of information that would be an easy recipe to drive any mother bonkers.  The vast majority of suggestions can be attempted or disregarded, and that is a personal decision.  I think you should do what works best for you as a mom, with what works within your parenting style, and for your kids, as they are unique and beautiful human beings.

But because I couldn't stop myself, I assembled a list of 20 Suggestions to help you Be the Perfect Mom.  If you decide to start reading, I highly recommend you read all the way on to number twenty (or at least, skip to the end).

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

How to Be the Perfect Mom

1.  Never feed little Johnny or Suzi anything too sugary, too fattening, too loaded with carbs, too flavored with artificial flavorings or colorings, or any vegetable or fruit grown anywhere that utilizes pesticides or any chemicals designed to make the food actually grow.  Fast food is obviously un-allowed, as are all foods children actually like (i.e., chicken nuggets, hotdogs, Kraft macaroni and cheese). If you really want to be a great mom, go vegetarian, or better yet vegan, but whatever you do, go fully organic.  Bonus points if you can grow 1000% of your meals in your backyard.

2.      Begin looking for your child’s special gift shortly after birth.  Quickly decide:  Will he be a professional NBA player?  A famous writer or artist?  Will she dance with Julliard?  Cheerlead for the Dallas Cowboys?  Better hurry up, the sooner you identify the gift, the sooner you can spend oodles of your money forcing your child to play clarinet or walk the balance beam.  You are doing an especially good job if you determine their lifelong hobby before they can walk.  Or better yet, talk.  Then they can’t argue with you about it.

3.      Never admit that your child does anything wrong, ever.  He or she is your special little genius, and you must not allow any well-intentioned teacher, pastor, or police officer to interfere with your little angel’s self-esteem.  How will the world react if your child serves a single detention for one lapse of judgement, in elementary school?  Childhood must become a mistake-free zone, and if your child screws up and makes one, you must begin damage control immediately! Social media must be a land of perfect children.  What will Facebook say if they know your child wasn’t the first in her class to read?

4.      Speaking of reading, read to your kids constantly.  They must be familiar with all the classics before beginning schooling:  I.e., Good Night Moon, The Don’t Let the Pigeon series, Great Expectations, The Complete Works of Flannery O’Connor, The Quintessential Shakespeare.  You know.  The usual.  Start with the Shakespeare while you’re still pregnant.  Then you can finish before your child is old enough to ask questions you can’t answer.

5.      Make Pinterest your Bible.  Learn how to craft, bake, and decorate better than the Mom next store.  Carefully document all your success by posting photos of your crafting, baking, and decorating accomplishments to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and whatever other newfangled technology comes out that you must also become fluent in, lest your child learns how to work it before you, leaving you unable to monitor his or her social media.

6.      Speaking of screen time:  LIMIT IT!  Never mind that iPads and smartphones are essential to functioning in today’s society—you must make sure your children’s time isn’t monopolized by screens (even if you limit them to learning apps and educational videos).  Two hours a week is obviously two hours a week you are giving to the DEVIL.

7.      Since they can’t learn technological skills they need, or you will be considered a bad parent, force them to play outside.  Never mind that outside is filled with strangers, Lyme’s disease, and spiders.  Children need healthy air to fill their lungs (so hopefully you don’t live in the majority area of the country that is filled with smog or pollen), and they need their vitamin D from the sun (but they don’t need skin cancer!  So lather them up with SPF 800 every 20 minutes.  And bug spray.  Spray them with bug spray so that they stink so badly, there’s no way you’ll be tempted to allow them to skip their nightly bath, another sign of substandard parenting).

8.      While they’re outside, make them run.  Teach them to play tag, hide and seek, kickball, dodgeball, and all of the other lost art forms that were hallmarks for those of us who grew up in the nineties and earlier.  I mean, if they don’t learn how to deal with a dodgeball to the face by age 6, what kind of pansy are you raising?

9.      Don’t let your boys cry.  Teach them that boys must be strong.  By strong, we mean humans that pretend they are incapable of feeling emotion, and can therefore never express any signs of weakness ever.

10.  Speaking of boys, discourage all other signs of behavior that indicate any reason someone might question his manliness.  Disallow dancing, cooking, and playing with dolls (even though all women everywhere agree that a man who can dance is sexy, a man who can cook is a Godsend, and a man who enjoys being a good father is the definition of a family man, and what many of us who want to be mothers most look for in a partner).

11.  Don’t forget your girls!  They aren’t allowed to do anything manly.  Discourage familiarity with tools, involvement in contact sports, and all things automotive.  God forbid you teach them life skills that their future husband should handle (even though she might choose to be single).  Or encourage participation in athletics that develop character or understanding of teamwork.  You don’t want her to mess up her make-up.  Which is another issue of concern:  Be careful here, because if you encourage it too early, you’re raising a Jezebel.  If you wait too late, she won’t know how to do her make-up, and she won’t be able to find a date to the prom, or later, a good college boy who wants to make sure everything you spent on her bachelor’s degree is for naught, as he seeks to make her stay home and start popping out babies.  And then, her life will be ruined and you will have failed as a parent.

12.  Breastfeed your baby.  Breast is best!  Haven’t you heard there are eight million benefits and children who aren’t breastfed grow up at higher risk for every single ailment under the sun, including a whole slew of conditions you’ve never even heard of!?!?

13.  BUT don’t let your boobs show evidence that their primary function is or has ever been anything other than arousing men.  Get a boob job as soon as possible after you cease breast feeding.  Wear a push up bra all day everyday until you can afford one, if finances are tight.

14.  The jury is still out on breastfeeding in public.  On the one hand, public breastfeeding shatters the illusion that your breasts are ever used for anything other than sexual play, violating principle #13.  But on the other hand, breastfeeding in public demonstrates your commitment to the aforementioned guideline #12.  It also allows you to crusade for breastfeeding rights, and to feed your child uncovered whenever and wherever you wish.  You get to yell at strangers you make uncomfortable, demanding, “Would YOU like to eat your lunch in the bathroom??” when they suggest you move the baby’s dinner party to the restroom. 

15.  Make sure you have a harrowing birth experience story to tell.  Tell it everywhere you can, but especially tell it to terrified expectant mothers.  Bonus points if you almost died on the table.  Everyone respects a mother more if she almost died on the table giving birth.

16.  But also, have at least one child naturally.  Refuse all pain medication, even when you get to the point that you personally want to go back in time, find Eve, kill her, and tell Adam not to dare eat that blessed apple, lest all women everywhere suffer labor pains because of one bad decision on one broud’s part.  Breathe through the pain.  Bounce on a ball or jump in the tub.  Have a water birth!  You are at one with the universe; never mind that this hurts like a mother, like a 1,352 on a pain scale from 1-10.  People respect a mother who gave birth naturally.

17.  Have only one child.  Anyone who has more than one child is clearly being selfish and shortsighted, because now all the children must learn to share, and your resources (which, let’s be real, no matter how well-off you are, are never endless) can no longer solely be devoted to your little angel.

18.  Have more than one child.  Anyone who has only one child is clearly being selfish and shortsighted, because putting all your resources into one child will spoil your only child like a rotten fruit, and one day you and your spouse will be gone and your poor only child won’t have any siblings to reminisce with.

19.  Be the room mom.  Be the best darn room mom that ever was.  At every possible opportunity, organize committees to address everything from provision of snacks to chaperoning eligibility for both dances and field trips, to raising money for every possible reason you can raise money.  Decide on the most obnoxious fundraisers available, and select the most random products on the market to sell at the highest cost, with only a portion of the donations going to whatever program or cause benefits (marginally) from the sale of popcorn, pizza, candy, or wrapping paper, all of which is ridiculously overpriced.  Run the classroom like you’d be in charge of a group of soldiers—the ship cannot be too tight!  Chase down every parent and force them to donate time or money or both, even if you’ve got a room full of single moms or dads who work two jobs just to survive.  If anyone tries to avoid volunteering or charitable giving, listen patiently to their excuse before you make a snarky comment that is a clear, direct attack on her commitment to her children.

20.  Obviously, all of the above guidelines are total crap.  You will be the perfect mom for your children if you love them, and if day after day, you are doing the best you can.  Volunteer—when you can.  Feed them in as healthy a way as you are able.  Breastfeed them if you can, but remember, a huge segment of the population was bottle-fed, and the vast majority of those people are doing just fine.  If you are a baker, bake.  If you are a decorator, decorate.  If you like crafts, craft till you’re blue in the face.  If those aren’t your talents, don’t worry!  Something is.  And your child loves you for you, so long as you are giving them your time.  There may be seasons where you have less of it, especially if you are a single parent.  It takes a village, so ask for help.  Let your children live and learn, and let them learn consequences.  Don’t protect them from every challenge—learn when to step in and when little Johnny or Suzi needs to understand that they are free to choose their actions, but we are never free from consequences.  Love them.  Sometimes love is tough, and sometimes, it is the most natural thing in the world.  Real love supports your children, no matter their interests and talents.  Real love helps develop those passions without becoming overbearing.  Real love is in the mother-child bond, and you will get there, even if you are having the worst case of post-partum depression there ever was—ask for help.  None of this is easy, even if the mom who bakes makes cookies that make yours look sad, even if the mom next door has a house that’s cleaner than yours, even if the mom down the street got her pre-pregnancy body back and you didn’t.  We all struggle with something.  Don’t feel guilty about being a stay-at-home mama who still can’t keep the kitchen spotless.  Don’t give yourself grief if you couldn’t afford to stay home, or, heck, WANTED to work. This doesn’t make you less of a mother, just like those who stay at home aren’t in any way contributing less to their households.

We are all good at some things. We all struggle in other areas.  Embrace your strengths.  Admit your weaknesses.  Love your children for the unique individuals that they are, just as they will surely love you for being the only woman in the world who could ever possibly be their mom.

Nine Years Later...

Yesterday, we celebrated my daughter's ninth birthday.

Nine.

I swear, I don't know where the time goes.  It seems like it could not have been that it was nearly a decade ago that I found out I was pregnant.  I can't believe I've been a parent for nine whole years.  It hardly seems possible, when I can close my eyes and remember so clearly the way her smooth cheek felt against mine as I held her close and rocked her to sleep.  All those milestones rush by--first smile, first words, first steps... first day of school, first report card, first dance recital.... soon we'll be into the perilous world of middle school, and it will be all I can do not to have a complete and total nervous breakdown, as I KNOW what happens in middle school.

Sometimes I don't feel like I'm even a grown-up yet.  But then, I think about the fact that I have a nine-year-old-- a smart, healthy, generally well-mannered nine-year-old daughter... and I guess that I must have grown up myself somewhere along the way.

Out of all the women out there who could have probably done it better, God blessed me by picking me to be her mom.

I'm not the super organized soccer mom who's the queen of scheduling.

I'm not the all-organic health food nut who makes sure there's no sugar in the house or in her kid's diet.

But I am a mom whose imperfect love is all my child needs, by the grace of God.

What our children need more than stuff, is us.

So yesterday, the day after her birthday party, and the very first day of summer break, we had a mommy/daughter day.  We went to Bethany Beach in the midst of summer tourist season, because that was where my daughter wanted to go (and even though I've been boycotting them in the summer season due to a ridiculously unfair parking ticket two seasons ago, I agreed, because it was what my daughter wanted).

We ate D.B. Fries.  I lounged on the beach while she frolicked in the ocean.  We had smoothies from TCBY.  It was an ordinary day, but a beautiful one.

When we got home to pick up Daddy to go out to a family dinner, she commented, "This is the best day of my life."

Not the day before, fun as it was, spent at a horse stable and lavished with gifts from us and her friends.

Just the simple gift of being together and doing what she wanted to do.  That was enough.

Thank you, Kaliah, for being my daughter. You always remind me what the best things in life are.  If I never did anything else again in this world, I still would leave it happy, knowing that I brought you into it.

Happy Birthday, my love.

New, Raw and Uncut: A True Tale of Everyday Crazy

This is going to sound like fiction...

Warning:  This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel.  Don't worry, it is rated PG-13.  No full nudity occurs.

Rule Number One:  Don’t Wake Mom

(Unless the House is on Fire)

If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the time I nearly burned down the house.  I was ten years old.  The incident involved a cinnamon flavored pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother. 

            Mom had trained us never to wake her.  She worked the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the morning.  Rule number one growing up in our house was always Don’t Wake Mom.  Not only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a terrifying experience.  She would always stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a little shriek.  Not how you want to start your mama’s day, trust me.

            So as I stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning toaster, I actually froze, considering:  Do I wake mom up for this?

            I’m sure that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would have even paused.  All I can say in my defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me.  After all, I had actually set the house on fire.  All I had wanted was a cinnamon pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart ejecting.  Clearly, the toaster was eating my pop tart for me.  Was this worth waking mom for?  Yes.  Was I going to get out of this without getting in trouble?  Hard to say.

            I tiptoed to her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible.  I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking a deep breath.

            “Mom,” I called in a hushed whisper.  “Mom…”

            Nothing.  I hesitated.  “Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice.  “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.

            Mom stirred under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond.  I frowned, hovering in the doorway.  This was not good.

            Quickly, I ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen.  My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in front of me.  The heavy black smoke poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the toaster.  Orange flames shot up and licked the bottom of our cabinets.

            I raced back down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.

            “Mom,” I began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”

            She mumbled something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.

            “Mom!”  I screamed, panic taking over.  “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”

            At this, with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went sprinting down the hallway.  As I followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”

            She raced back by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away in the next room. 

            What happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will stay with me all of my life:

            “JOHN!” I heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.

            The next thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering everything one hoped would be covered.  Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.

            And just that quick, it was over.

            I learned a lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house is on fire).  I learned that I could depend on my family.  I learned that honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything.  She was angry and amused that I was afraid to wake her, given the situation.  She also decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order, considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the house.  But what I realized from that day forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.

            And thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.

I am From...

A good one for #ThrowbackThursday...

My "I Am From" Poem.

Composed on my last birthday.

Originally shared as a note on Facebook, 8/30/13.


Inspired by readings from Ms. Kim Patrick's Young Writers' Open Mic, and dedicated to all the people who have made me into who I am...

I am from golden days spent wiggling toes in sun baked sand, and the taste of salt that lingers after reluctantly saying farewell to the sparkling waves, dragging boogie boards and plastic buckets the half mile trek away from the beckoning Atlantic.
I am from Daddy's big laugh as he thrust me high above his head to do Super Girl, flashes of pine trees whirling by above us.
I am from "If I wanted to build my house in a field, I would have built it in a field!" accompanied by a satisfied nod when Mommom complained to him about those pines.
I am from the comfort of cherry flavored tobacco, snuggled up in my Poppop's generous lap--the warmest, safest place to lay one's head at Mommom's house.
I am from "Welcome to the Family of the People Who Love the Lord" sung by warbling, honest voices in the tiny Baptist church on Rt. 54, and the tears that stung as a teenager as I tried to form those words, not understanding why I cried.
I am from "If you want to be baptized, you have to be nicer to your brother."
I am from elaborate hand-stitched Halloween costumes and my mother's smiles, crispy bacon and hot scrapple on a Saturday morning, cartoons blaring in the background from one of the three lonely channels the satellite provided.
I am from Friday nights under the lights and round-off, toe touch, cheer!  Green and Gold and the swelling victorious instruments blasting out "Da-da-da-da-da, hey!" beneath starry October skies.
I am from the love of my life staring at me in a high school chorus class, tossing my music on the floor or playfully touching my side, my shoulder.... tingles that brought back smiles hours and years later.
I am from dreams of getting off the Eastern Shore, palm trees of North Florida swaying under cloudless blue skies and college life with my best friend, who went 800 miles away with me after forming a playground friendship by the sliding boards in second grade.  I am from going back to where you came from, and so is she.
I am from a bustling, vibrant, welcoming church, filled with thousands of people who love Jesus and each other.  A church that grows and changes and laughs, while staying true to the scriptures.
I am from "Thank You," as my love's beautiful brown eyes fall on me in the hospital bed, our little Rose cradled contently in his arms.
I am from "She won't look like this when we see her again," and his hand on my shoulder as we hold our youngest in the oh-so-soft blanket--the only thing I will ever buy for her.
I am from never look back, or they'll see you as weak, and the thudding of sneakers on pavement as my eyes search for the finish line.
I am from rejection after rejection, sprinkled with glimmers of hope from agents who praise my writing ability, gently admitting my novel is not quite right for them.
I am from all eyes on me at open mics, and laughter and tears and comments that urge me to sit down and begin typing again.
I am from Dr. Puma's barely legible "I expect to see your name in print some day" scrawled across the bottom of my final memoir turned in for Non-fiction class.
I am from believing.

A Belated Christmas Gift!

For those of you who enjoy my writing, take another peek!  From the tentatively titled This is Going to Sound Like Fiction... True Tales of Everyday Crazy, I give you another work of non-fiction, entitled "Unto Us, A Child is Born."

The title, of course, is inspired by this, the finest of all holidays.  I intend no disrespect toward my Savior in borrowing from the scriptures the title of this story.  In fact, if anything, it is a subtle reminder of the great awe with which I think of that starry night so many years ago, in which grace came to us in the humblest of ways.

Having said that... I am in fact easily awestruck.  The fact that Mary (and all women back then, and many across the world today) can make it nine months of a pregnancy without an air conditioner is amazing enough, before you even touch on what actual, miraculous happening took place on the first Christmas.  It is my prayer for you that if you've never considered the full implications of the night of Jesus's birth, that you certainly take pause and do such.

But on a much lighter note, I give you an unfinished snippet of my writing.  Raw, unedited, and incomplete.  This one is for all the moms out there.  Merry Christmas!

Unto Us, A Child Is Born

The birth of a child is a magical time for any couple, and surely an unforgettable memory, regardless of the circumstances and details.  Bringing a child into the world is a humbling, remarkable feat that requires a pause; that demands reflection; that sparks something inside our souls that leads us to examine our lives and those who are important in them, as we cradle our new little armful of joy.

Of course, I wouldn’t be me if my daughter’s debut hadn’t been tainted with all kinds of crazy.

First of all, I was overdue.  In June.  With an air-conditioner that kept breaking.  Now surely, I am not the only pregnant woman in the world who ever experienced this crisis, but those of you who have been in a similar situation will surely understand me when I gripe that I felt like all of the world’s injustices had been flung upon my giant pregnant rear-end.  I was the size of a barge.  It was a hundred degrees.  And my daughter was showing no signs of making an appearance any time soon, even though the due date had come and went.  Days ago.

As with most first-time mothers, I had all kinds of ideas about the birth that were fine… in theory.  I was hoping to remain “drug free” as long as possible, figuring that I would get an epidural if I needed it, but I wouldn’t go that route until absolutely necessary.  (FYI… if there is ever a next time, I will be requesting my epidural in the parking lot.  Apparently I am not one of those women who handles labor pains well).  So when my doctor was talking induction, I was immediately opposed.  I had read that being induced could result in more intense contractions, a predicament that was sure to get in the way of my drug-free experience.  So while I voiced my displeasure with the proposed induction, my doctor shrugged, sending me on my way to a sonogram to confirm that all was still well, as I was about a week overdue.  (By the way, a week overdue in mid-June on the Eastern Shore of Maryland feels like a year overdue.  The heat and humidity are unbearable.  As a pregnant woman in this climate, your only activity becomes sweating, and your only hobby and interest becomes finding ways to reduce the sweating.  And I say this as a person who was never much of a sweater).

So off I went to the sonogram, where the cheerful technician smeared my giant belly with goo and rolled her little magic wand over it, while all the while I shifted uneasily around on the unforgiving metal medical table, which was clearly built for no patient anywhere’s comfort, but especially not for a pregnant lady who’d packed on an extra forty pounds over the past nine months.

“Wow,” the tech said in her little peppy voice.  “I don’t even want to tell you how big this baby is measuring!”

“Huh?” I demanded, snapping out of my irritation long enough to engage with little miss cheerleader turned Barbie X-Ray Tech.  She’d been droning on and on about everything looking great and healthy and it’s all good, happy flowers, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Now I glared at her.

“What did you say?”

“Um,” her cheerful voice faltered.  “Let me just measure that again, real quick,” she murmured.   I sat stewing, envisioning any number of scenarios in which I wasn’t pregnant, wasn’t sweating, wasn’t sitting on this damn table.  Finally, she turned and smiled brightly up at me.

“Good news!  That time it looked like maybe she’s about, nine, nine and a half pounds,” X-Ray tech of the year giggled.

“Good… good news?”

“Yeah,” she chattered on, using a gloved hand to brush an escaped wisp of hair back toward her bouncy pony tail.  “The first measurement… it looked like your baby was about… ten and a half pounds!”

I stared at her for a second, sure I’d stopped breathing.

“Ten… ten and a half pounds??”

“Yeah, but like I said, this last measurement…”
            “Which is it?” I demanded.  “Nine or ten and a half pounds?”

“Well, measuring isn’t an exact science…. We’re estimating, and—”

“You’re telling me that my baby could be TEN and a HALF POUNDS??  And she’s just sitting in there?  Still GROWING?” I grabbed the sonogram tech’s wrist, staring her down as I clutched her unrelentingly. 

The girl smiled uncertainly.

“Oh my God!  She needs to get out NOW!” As big as I had gotten during my pregnancy, I still wasn’t what you would probably call a large woman.  I’m tall, but I definitely don’t have what you would say are child-bearing hips.  As huge as I was at the end of the third-trimester, the weight was almost all baby.  Apparently a ten and a half pound baby.  I shook my head, trying to imagine an eleven pound baby and my still relatively slender hips…. And somehow, the vision wasn’t too pleasant.

So I allowed the induction to be scheduled, in spite of my wishes to try and stick to a natural childbirth plan.  In the end, common sense won out.  I wasn’t willing to let my baby hang out in Hotel Utero another week, gaining who knows how much extra weight, when she might very well be already at the nine or ten pound mark.

The morning of June 17^th, 2005, we headed to the hospital bright and early, ready to meet our new addition.  The induction began smoothly, and as it took a decent amount of time for the drugs to kick in, we even went downstairs to grab some breakfast (although I wasn’t allowed to eat anything, just in case I ended up having to get a c-section).  It was at the end of breakfast with Rashieme and his family that the labor pains began to start in genuine, so I was all too happy to return to my hospital room.  The contractions, more than a minor nuisance, but not yet unbearable, were making this whole thing real.  Showtime.

Soon, I’d discovered how much I was not enjoying the show.  The contractions had quickly escalated into epic pain.  I have no basis for comparison, as I’ve never endured an induction-free labor, but if I had to guess, I don’t know that the drug made the contractions more painful… it just seemed to have brought them closer together.  I soldiered through about four hours of intense labor before finally breaking down and begging for an epidural.

That, at least, brought sweet, sweet relief.  Overwhelmed by the complete absence of pain, when moments before it had been unbearable, I was able, even, to get a quick nap.

Of course, this being my life, the craziness continued.

Rashieme, for example, thought it would be pretty funny to prank everyone in the waiting room, which consisted of our entire families (minus our mothers, who were both in the hospital room with us) as well as some of my closest friends, who’d joined in for the waiting game.  On a trip back from the snack machine, he popped into the room where everyone was sitting, and, grinning broadly, he shouted out, “Jenny had the baby!  It’s a girl!”

Directly upon the heels of this announcement, everyone stood up, clapping and cheering, rushing to congratulate him.  At which point he froze, smile stuck on his face, and managed…

“Just kidding.  No baby yet.”