THAT Mom

Yesterday, a friend and I touched on the subject of That Mom. You know, the mom who pesters the pediatrician, tells the teacher that her kid's practically a genius, and is generally annoying and utterly clueless...

Yeah, nobody wants to be That Mom.

But sometimes I feel a bit like That Mom.

In recent weeks, I have put in several calls to the pediatrician, as well as to other healthcare providers, asking questions, challenging answers (ever so timidly, because... well, because I'm not at all a confrontational gal), and imploring them to help in any way they can as we strive to raise healthy, happy children. I've refrained - I think - from quoting internet articles, but yes... I have gone there. I have told doctors what "I've read."

And I intend to keep going there, because many of the things we encounter as parents are thoroughly discussed online, and sometimes by reputable sources. So I'm going to keep gathering information, asking questions, seeking answers, and laying it all before those involved in our children's medical care. As so many have said before, if we won't advocate for our children, who will?

For the sake of my children's health, I'll be That Mom.

I've also mentioned how smart and creative a couple of my kids are. Each time, as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I could imagine the thoughts forming in the minds of my listeners... "Sure he is. That's what every parent says..." I don't know what my listeners actually thought, but that's what I would have thought... Shoot, it's what I DID think, and I know my kids!

Once again, though, if we don't believe our children are the best, brightest, most promising individuals in the world, who will? Whatever their gifts, talents, abilities, or passions, part of our role as parents is to give them reason to believe in themselves, to equip them to venture out with confidence into a critical world, and to assure them that whether they soar to untold heights or fall on their faces, someone will still believe in their dreams.

For the sake of my children's dreams, I'll be That Mom.

There's another, far more positive angle to That Mom. In the midst of current challenges to our family's balance, I've found myself doing out of necessity things I used to do by nature. Earlier this week, I sent the boys outside to dig a hole in the yard in which to wage an epic army man battle. We've made several impromptu trips to the park. This morning, assuming I get my act together, we'll be making models of animal cells out of jell-o and various bits of candy. Tomorrow, we're taking a field trip to the state museum. Next week, God willing, we will take Grandma and my camera to the zoo to work on the photographic element of animal books for our biology studies.

The creativity required at this stage in our lives reminds me of the energy I had when it was just Geoff, me, and our oldest two. I was That Mom, the chick who had neat ideas and acted on them, who did cool stuff with her kids and reveled in everything they did. As the dear soul who took four children to church last night so his wife could stay home and glory in silence may have observed, it is a wearying task to be That Mom. But what my husband might not see yet is how satisfying it is to be That Mom, to go to sleep at the end of the day with the quiet satisfaction of having ridden the waves of tumult with a glimmer of grace, measure of agility, and a whopping dose of fun.

For the pleasure of loving my children, I'll be That Mom.

Dear Teacher...

Once a week, our children attend morning-long classes in which they are tutored by wonderful, creative home-educating mothers who devote their time and energies to guiding a small group of homeschooled children through memory work and concepts to be studied over the coming week. I have been pleased with each child's tutor and with each child's enjoyment of his or her class, even if on this night especially, I feel the need to offer a few words of encouragement, explanation, and gratitude to one in particular...

Dear Tutor,

Please forgive yet another presentation on dragons. I know by now you must be weary of seeing that blue dragon notebook that my child brings to class every single week. I would be weary of seeing him carry it to class, but frankly, I'm stuck at being amazingly proud of his ability to keep track of the thing.

I tried to convince my dear child to do his presentation on something pertaining to our studies. He was, much to my delight, set on doing a presentation on Greek gods to go along with this week's history sentence. We even made a special trip to the library and checked out a veritable armload of mythology books. Whether or not the librarian was perplexed by our mix of books on Greek gods and books on the biblical account of the flood... who knows? The point is, we were all set for a presentation that involved research and actually related to the material covered in class.

But then the dragons attacked. Again.

Please bear with us.

You see, a few weeks ago, my child opened a fortune cookie. He read his fortune and smiled broadly.

"I'm going to be famous someday!"

"Really? What do you think you'll be famous for?"

"Probably my book."

"Maybe so..."

The blue dragon notebook and the accompanying paraphernalia are just the tip of the iceberg, dear Tutor. This kid has an entire world of dragons and aliens, heros and villains floating in his mind - and a paper trail winding through my house to prove it.

So when you see that blue dragon notebook - again - tomorrow morning, please understand the enormity of that seeming extension of my child's arm.

It's going to make him famous someday.

And you, dear Tutor, will be able to say...

"I knew him when..."

Better Safe than Sorry

Yes, I realize how ironic this post is, following directly on the tail of a post about letting our fears go and children dare. But Better Safe than Sorry has been ringing in my ears all day and encapsulates a week of thoughts relating to the complexities of parenting.

It is a thoroughly lamented fact that children do not come with instruction manuals. One might breeze through the first couple years, or even several years, or even, if one is of an exceptional family, the first couple of children. Eventually, though, it gets hard. Decisions must be made, with no clear direction to guide one.

This is where I found myself earlier this week - feeling that parenting is downright difficult and I've gotten myself in way over my head. I'll spare you the details, except to assure you that the difficulty is nothing dreadfully serious, but rather uncertainty about where to go from where we are now - and what we might find in the various directions we might pursue.

In short, it's not a bad place I've been in this week. Just... waiting for clarity, wishing for assurance, and hoping for success. (Success being, everything working out peachy-keen).

Throughout the week, Better Safe than Sorry was an enigmatic slogan, as I couldn't distinguish which courses constituted Safe and which might constitute Sorry. Sometimes the answers aren't clear-cut. Sometimes every option includes elements of both Safe and Sorry. Sometimes we cavil back and forth, only to discover the only Sorry in sight is an unnecessary medical bill and the awkwardness of explaining to the doctor, "It's probably nothing, but..."

In such cases, I often lean toward Safe.

Here's the thing: Sometimes the Sorry is far more expensive than an ER bill, and the Safe purchases things that money cannot buy.

As I drove forty-five minutes to the closest Urgent Care open on a Sunday morning with a child who appeared perfectly healthy, but had been experiencing some slightly concerning symptoms, I was grateful for the opportunity to play it safe with my child. Geoff and I had made a loving, if not a necessary, decision. We might just as well have waited till Monday morning to take him to the doctor, but we both felt it was time to make sure everything was as it should be in his body. There is something so satisfying in playing it safe, in knowing we are making every effort to do the best for our child, putting his health above all else - even and especially when we are mostly sure that he's alright. Because, what if he's not? Sometimes the stakes are too high not to play it safe.

I was grateful, too, that Geoff and I had made the decision together. We were equal partners in concern for our child's health, both of us recognizing that he was probably fine, neither of us willing to risk the possibility that he wasn't. After twelve years of marriage and four children, I was refreshed by the shared experience of concern similar to what we felt when our first was a wee newborn hooked up to monitors and we worried and wondered together what our family's future would hold. (That kid has turned out alright so far, in case you wondered...)

On the return trip, I was grateful for all these things and more. Our child, as it turns out, is "extremely healthy." The symptoms that concerned us are real, but passing. He'll be fine. Whew.

As an added bonus, I got to spend some quality time with this really cool kid. As I watched him resist the urge to stick his head out the open window, a sense of immense gratitude swept across my heart. He's a wonder, this child of mine who sends us to Urgent Care for little more than peace of mind. I'm so very thankful for the life and vigor he adds to our lives. I'll happily pay that medical bill when it comes in, considering it a small price to pay for my child's health, his parents' peace of mind, and the many moments of this morning that led me to gratitude.


On a side note: When I walked into the previously unvisited urgent care, the first thing I saw was a Keurig station. Guess where we'll be going next time someone gets sick? Hmm... anyone want to come cough on us?

Be Careful!

Like most mothers I know, I have the amazing ability to predict every possible outcome of my children's daring acts of physical prowess. The first time on a two-wheeler with training wheels carries, as every good mother knows, the risk of skinned knees, concussion, broken bones, and death.

Okay, so maybe we mothers have a knack for exaggerating dangers.

As I stepped back from my five-year-old attempting to teach her three-year-old brother how to ride her big girl bike, I cautioned them to "be careful."

Be careful.

How often I direct these two words to my children! How deeply I hope they don't always heed them!

Granted, there are plenty of times when being careful is wise. I don't want my children to rush into danger, heedless of almost inevitable disaster. On the other hand, I want them to dream and to dare. I don't want them just to look at the big kid bike and walk away with drooping shoulders. I want them to look at the big kid bike, climb on without hesitation, stretch their legs to reach the pedals, struggle to apply the appropriate force, fall and get up again, and eventually ride like the wind.

I want them to feel the rush of having dreamed and dared to do that of which others think they are incapable. I want them to count the dangers a small price for the conquest.

Luke didn't master the big kid bike today, nor have I mastered the art of letting my children grow up. But I'm working on it.

I'm reminding myself: Be careful not to say too often, "Be careful."

The Goal of Writing... (SPOILER ALERT!!!!)

A little over a week ago, I received the first of hopefully not too many rejections of the dear, little novel introduced in my last post. I was not overly surprised, knowing that rejections are a large part of getting published. Of course, I had hoped the agent would read my submission, fall in love, and start soliciting the movie rights. But I knew better. That's not how the business works.

Even expected pains hurt a little, but I am thankful for other options and for friends and family who have been supportive of and enthusiastic about the book. If you have read or are praying for the future of Grit, thank you!

Meanwhile, my boys have been busy. Today they prepared a little surprise they were sure I'd enjoy because, as they told me, "You inspired it!"

So, dear New York City Literary Agent, I won't cry because you "aren't enthusiastic enough" about my book. I understand it's part of getting published. Maybe I'll find an agent or publisher who falls head over heels in love with my story, or maybe this will be enough reward for my labors...

The village of Thresh: Grit's, Sire Stone's, and Coil's huts.

Post sparring match: Check out Grit's dagger on the table and the berries at her side. I believe they took great pains to pick an appropriate face for the wounded warrior.

Grit: Ignore the fact that Scrarlett ought to teach Grit to shave and focus on the beautiful pearl she's wearing! (And that's one huge berry, isn't it?)

And finally, Seal and Oath, carrying the day's loot into their hut, followed by Turf.

On the other hand, dear New York City Literary Agent, you may have missed out on striking* a great deal with the Lego company.

*Pun totally intended.

Labor

I've given birth to four children. When I say that my latest endeavor is much like the process of bringing a child into the world, I know what I'm talking about.

From the first hint of her existence, I thrilled with curious anticipation. As she formed within my mind, I loved her. I marveled as she took shape, worried over her development, and anguished over her deformities. I became sullen, distracted, and more or less cranky when something was wrong with her. There were days when all I could think about and all I could talk about was... her. Other times, I could not speak of her at all, for fear that she would never fully develop.

I have labored these last two months and two days, through late nights and distracted days, to ensure that she is complete and beautiful and lovely, that she lacks nothing and offers much, that in the end, she will give glory to the Author and Perfecter of my faith.

Now at last, I hold her in my hands - warm and fresh and waiting to meet the world. I am both eager and terrified to think what her future might hold. Surely, the world will tear her apart. Surely, I will grieve. Surely, I will inflict pain upon her that she may become a more worthy creation. Perhaps she will be embraced, loved, cherished. I have no guarantee of her happy future, but must place her in the hands of ones more skilled than myself, hoping that someone will love her as I do and raise her to stand on her own out in the big, bad world.

A few brave souls, most notably my Patient and Beloved Husband and my Wise and Wonderful Sister, bore with me through it all. Without their understanding and forgiveness, she could not have been born at all.

And so I present my darling Grit...

Now to begin the arduous task of finding her a publisher.

Impossibilities

Several winters ago, we received impossible news. The child in my womb was...  a girl! Geoff had told me from the very beginning that girls simply do not sprout from his genes. Having produced two darling lads, I had begun to believe him. I had also begun to feel a little defensive of my boys when people told me I needed to "try again for a girl."

So the news that "a girl" was just what we were having came as a shock. It just didn't seem possible!  I adjusted, however, and found myself, two weeks after Elisabeth's birth, marveling at how painfully adorable my daughter was in her first pink outfit, cute little yarn hat and all. I remember thinking how silly it was of me to have waited so long to put her in pink (she wore plenty of girl outfits, just not pink ones!) when pink looked so stinking good on her.  I can't track down the picture right now, but trust me, she was breathtakingly beautiful all wrapped up in pinkness.



 All of my reservations about pink dissipated in that moment, and I have never looked back. Our girl is free to be as girly as she wants...

...or doesn't want to be.

It no longer seems to me impossible, or even improbable, that Geoff and I produced a girl. What seems impossible is the notion that we might never have welcomed this girl into our family, that we might never have known her ups and downs, that we might never have laughed at her silliness, wiped away her tears, loved her and enjoyed her love.

She has enriched our family beyond measure. When I think now of what is possible or not, it seems impossible that we have been so richly blessed, not just with three marvelous sons but also with one amazing daughter. Impossible too, that our daughter is turning five already.

Happy birthday, Elisabeth!