Behind that Angelic Face. . .

I received an interesting email today from my child's teacher.  We have been emailing back and forth daily for a week or so as we have been partnering to help this kid climb up to the next level, where he really needs to go.

The email started out, "Your child is working well today."  A good start if I ever saw one.

The rest of the email detailed how he had been climbing the fence (literally) and she'd had to pick him up at the principal's office, that he was swinging his arms during music class, and how he took the majority of the blame for the disruption.

I don't know how other parents would react to such an email, but I knew that I had just been handed my next blog posting.

"Which is it?" I wrote back with a smirk.  "He's working well, or he's causing problems?"  Or, I strongly suspect, as it would be quintessentially this child, ". . .both?"

This child has the face of an angel.  Behind it, he is scheming how to dash past unseen, how to break a rule, how to get out of work, and how to hide five hundred acorns under his bed--all without attracting notice.

This child is the catalyst for rising blood pressure in adults with stewardship over him as he merely passes among them.  If he knew that, though, it would break his heart.  

He is the best boy with the finest heart.  He is the one who, in pure shock, told his I-don't-want-to-go-to-church-it's boring brother, "We have to learn the gospel!"  He is the one who has requested in family prayer--for no apparent reason, that we won't go to jail, that we won't get hit by cars, that we won't get kidnapped.  He is the only one who consistently, every single time, begins each prayer--even the blessing on the food--with "We thank Thee for this day."

And he is the one who has a bad day, every day.

Observing this child in a classroom setting, you would guess that he picked up less than one thing from what was being taught.  But later discussion would reveal that he learned and remembers all of it.  How he takes it all in while doing several other things is the great mystery of his life.

This is the boy who would be the first one out there, trying everything.  And the last to let a doctor near him with a stethoscope.  He will fearlessly volunteer, then crumple.

He will boss and argue with every child, then be devastated when they won't be his friends.

On your way to his bedroom to apologize for overreacting over one of his misdeeds, you will often discover yet another one.  Still, the best reward for good behavior that he can think of is twenty minutes of your time.

His head may have taken more bonks than a football player's, but beneath that hard head, his heart is spun of fragile glass.  Under his scabbed and bruised skin, we must remember, he is a shining angel of light.

It is not possible to place a value on or even enumerate the things he teaches me.  But, here's one.

It may be exaggerated in this cherubic and impish boy, but, really, in all of us, there are such enigmas, such contradictions.  With everyone we know, we must accept the hard things with the good, and love, love, love them.

Also, ourselves.  Also, situations.  It is all we can do.

It is the only way there is.  

It may be the only work of value that there is.

Can I Just Be a Mom?

I recently read an obituary that described the deceased as having done "many years of traveling and competing" in an organization, that she was one of the original founders of a large local charity and "served on it many years," and how she had volunteered for "many years" at a hospital.

Then came the clincher.  It said, "She was always a stay-at-home mom."  

Really?  Just how big was her home?

Her obituary went on to delineate how she had always put her family first and had given them her greatest service.

This, I don't doubt.  

I don't begrudge her the many ways she benefited the community, developed herself as a person, and honed her talents.  I think it's marvelous that she did so much.  Clearly, she was someone to admire.

What I take issue with is the pride taken in and divisiveness engendered from the emotionally pregnant words, "stay-at-home mom."  Do we have to define ourselves as one or not one?

I would like to respectfully put forward that almost all moms are at home sometimes, and that almost all moms leave their homes sometimes.

I would also like to explore the likelihood that most moms put their families first and serve their families with most of their energy.

I have found, more and more, a real divisiveness between "stay-at-home" moms and moms who are employed outside of the home.  Is this really necessary?

Working moms contribute great service to their families.  Not only do they still have the kids' needs, housework, and other household chores to attend to in less time, they contribute financially.  They may be providing the bulk of the family's income, or the only health insurance.  Their work could be a stabilizing force and foundation of security like none other in the family.

Women who don't work outside of the home also contribute significantly to the well-being of their families.  Frequently, they have time and energy to contribute in ways that working moms cannot.  

And then there are MANY who form some combination of this--they have found a way to bring in some income while working from home, or have fit the puzzle pieces together in some other creative way that works for them--some years at home and some years in the workforce, for example.

To some degree, we get to make our own choices in this matter.  And that's how it should be.  All women should figure out for themselves how they want to serve and contribute to their families and communities, spend their time, and develop their talents.  That's the beauty of it.

Why does there have to be so much tension?  Why do we have to declare ourselves one or the other, dig in our heels, and make an issue of pride and judgment over it?

Many working moms don't feel they have the choice to not work.  Many non-working moms also feel the pressure to not make another choice.  I think we could do without pressure from either side and turn that energy into respect and support for one another's choices. 

This woman, it sounds like, spent almost as much time outside of her home as she spent in it.  The things she chose to do didn't bring in any income, so she didn't bless her family in that way.  Perhaps, though, she was a better mother for developing her talents.  Maybe her community service made her more compassionate, understanding, and empathetic.  If so, good for her.  

It's also possible that she could have been so devoted to outside causes that her children missed her, that they waited for dinner at times beyond the point that they were hungry, that she missed some of their birthdays or performances or I-need-this cues.

Undoubtedly, there were other positives that I haven't thought of and negatives that have been forgiven.  

I can't measure a stranger's life from a few statements made about her.

My comment is on the growing societal competition between certain choices.  I really think this is harmful. It's harmful to our relationships with each other, to our ability to understand and empathize with each other. The judgments we make have a negative impact on our capacity for charity and our ability to stand up for and with each other in hard times.  They are bad for our souls.

The impact of this divisiveness stunts the growth of our daughters who don't know which direction to turn. Do we really need to make a choice between feeling guilty for using our brains or for not using them?  For using our talents or not using them?  Are some talents okay to develop and others not okay?  Do we need guilt for providing our children with the things they need over keeping them in poverty?  Or the reverse?

Women, especially mothers, juggle many responsibilities and expectations.  I respect each woman who relies on inspiration and her own intelligence to figure out how to find balance for her family.  If women achieve a balance that is healthy for their children and themselves, the details of what they choose to do and what they sacrifice--which vary as individually as there are individual families--really don't matter.

Without pressure to join one side or the other, we could feel free to make the choices that truly are best for ourselves and our families without this silly competition as a factor. I don't believe one is right and the other is wrong.   

Honestly, I wish the term "stay-at-home mom" would just kind of disappear from our lexicon and there would just be "mom."  What are we trying to prove with it?

I was once chastised by a childless, young, and. . .well, young, church leader who reached for a simple addition fact to solve a complex calculation when he said to me, "You need to be home with your children."

"I am home with my children," I responded.  I was on my home phone with him at the time.

I knew what he meant, and the judgment stung.  He was guessing that relying on a simple solution (Mom plus not working equals perfect children) would solve a very hard and complex situation.  But I knew that my not having a job at that point in my life would do absolutely nothing to solve or soften the problem my child faced.  In fact, it would have compounded it.  

My sweet husband comforted me with these words: "You always put your children first.  You never neglect their needs. You always go to bat for this child.  You have left nothing undone that is within your power to do."

For me, working outside the home is one of the important ways I take care of my children.  Other mothers get to make the same or other choices. Each one has the responsibility to find her own balance, her own answers that make sense for her family.  I respect that.

Children of both stay-at-home moms and working mothers can all be cherished, nurtured, healthy, and well-cared for.  Children of both stay-at-home moms and working moms can be neglected.  In my humble opinion as a nobody, employment should not be where the line between good and bad mothers is drawn.

The Day You Dread All Your Life

When my mother died, I had no warning.

She wasn't old.  She wasn't sick.  Well, she had a cold, but she'd always survived those.

She herself had only about forty-five minutes of warning, and I don't think she took it very seriously for all of that time.  She was on the phone with my sisters but didn't say anything about her chest pains until it was too late.

She was getting ready to go to the hospital when she just--dropped.

My father died even faster.  He wasn't old, either, and he wasn't sick.  He'd worked a full day in the business he owned, and was just relaxing in front of the TV.  From what my mother told me, he had less than a minute to indicate something was wrong before he was gone.

There were no goodbyes.

For a long time, I felt really cheated by their sudden deaths.  I was still in my thirties, still having babies who would never know them.  I was haunted by the fact that the people we love could be there and seem fine one minute, and be gone without any warning the next.

It didn't help me relax about the possibility of crib death, for one thing. It didn't lessen my worry when my teenagers were out, driving at night.

But, amazingly, I've gotten used to my parents being gone.  I feel they still exist, on a plane I cannot access.  They were too vibrant, too real, to just. . .stop being.  I miss them, but this is ameliorated somewhat by feeling like I still have them with me.  I know them so well, I pretty much know what they would do, what they would think, what they would say.  To some extent, I can still learn from what I know of them.

And it helps to know that I am not alone in my loss.  Lots of people my age or younger have lost parents.  My mother was only five when she lost her mother.  Nine when she lost her dad.  When my mother died, I could hardly conceive of how she, then a small child, could have born the pain I was feeling.  I still can't.  I cry hardest at movies where mothers of children die.  I always have.

It sometimes hurts to see people much older than I still enjoying those familiar relationships, but, as my dad was fond of saying, life isn't fair.

When I talk to people who have lost their mothers, the story is always different, yet the same.  Some of them kept their mothers until they were nearly a hundred years old.  How I have envied them!  Some of these, though, have watched their mothers lose their grip on life one inch at a time.  Sometimes, they've lost their mothers long before their mothers actually died.  They lost them twice, which I think would be twice as hard.

My mother was starting to get feeble, but she still took care of herself in her own home.  She still drove and had full access to her wonderful mind.

Her bones broke easily, so I used to fear that she would fall in the snow and lie there for hours with no way to get help.  As it turned out, that never happened.  We lost her quickly, but we were spared, I'm sure, many horrible possibilities.

After my dad's sudden death, my mother had the presence of mind to exclaim how blessed they were that he had gone suddenly like that.  "He would have hated to be sick," she said.

I think I know what she meant.

I have come to think that, no matter if your mother is young or very old, whether you get to say goodbye or not, whether death comes for her too quickly or makes her suffer a long time, there is nothing to envy anyone about.  It doesn't matter.  The stories are different, but they end the same.  The day your mother dies is the day you dread all your life.