Children's Voices

I'm a writer.  I'm a runner.  I'm a worker.  I'm a friend, a wife, a sister.  But, for me, today, the most important role I play is that of a mother.

I love enjoying the variety in my seven children.  I like noticing where they look and seem alike--and different.  I loved giving them names.  I loved caring for their tiny little bodies.  I loved kissing their necks and talking baby-talk with them.

I enjoy each one for who he or she is.  Each one is creative, smart, and amazing in her/his own ways.  Each one has taught me cherished life lessons.  Each one has brought into our home a unique and fun perspective.  I've loved getting to know each one of them, seeing what they think, seeing how they think, what they'll say.

Here are some of my favorite things that my children have said:

"Goodness is funness!"

"Mom!  Come and see what [child] put in the toilet!"

"Where are you going to plant that Vaudis (confusing my Aunt Vaudis' name with another of my aunts--Fern)?"

"I love you too Mom-MY!"

"Coom!"

"These carrots look ferocious yucky!"

"Be noimal!"

"Something in here smells like a spice, or maybe a verb."

"Gravity holds the planets in orbit forever."

(Tiny girl answering what is her favorite color:) "I like gold!"

"Mommy!"

"Do you think those were real clowns, or just people dressed up?"

"Let me show you what a blue one tastes like.  You have to smash it first."

"You can heal without the priesthood."

"Purple is green, but purple is not green, it's just purple."

"It's too tasty!" (Her dinner.)

"It's too fappy!" (Her coat.)

(Praying): "Thank you we will be safe."

"I have gallons of clothes!"

Indicating a boulder across the street: "That's [big brother's] wock and my wock!"

"Mama, how did you find me?"

"I love it, I love it, I do!" (about dinner, then when asked if he knows what the main dish is called: "Bread and butter."

In the rocking chair at bedtime: "This is where we belong."

"Mommy!"

"Sing the pizza song!"

At my aunt's viewing: "Who's the guy in the bed?"

"Help me to be a man with a dog."

"What about applesauce?"

"Cottage cheese is the king of cheeses.  But it's not the king of us.  Jesus is the king of us."

"No fourteen!" (Grumpy toddler being awakened to his brother's fourteenth birthday.)

"My life (cereal) is all dust!"

"It's when they kill people!" (Response from a 4-year-old when asked by a missionary what sacrifice means.)

Lying back in the tub to wet his hair: "All my troubles seem so far away!"

"Can I read you a story?"

(After a brother said he hates church): "We HAVE to learn the gospel!"

"You're the best mom I ever had."

"Can you ever begive me?"

"Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!"

To everyone who enjoys a child, happy Mother's Day!

Will Fyker and Graspyn Please Sit Down?

The other day, I ran across a family where all the kids' names seemed to start with the wrong consonant.

I am well aware of the trends to make up names and make up new spellings for names, but, still!  How does that happen to a family?

Do they sit around at family home evening and say, "Okay, kids, pass your first consonant to the child on your left,"and then Gage, Kenzie, Haylee, Trinity, and Chassity become Kage, Henzie, Traylee, Chinity, and Gassity?  Aren't those cute?

I mean, really!  How does this happen?

Names aren't supposed to just be meaningless syllables that sound pretty together.  Do we not realize that names came from words?  The root word has a meaning.  If you destroy the root word, you destroy the meaning of the name, too.  I can't imagine going through life having a name that doesn't mean anything, except that my parents were ignorant about language.

Personally, and, yes, I am sure I am an old fogie, I would even take issue--for different reasons--with four of the five names I picked for this consonant-trading family. 

I don't see this trend ending well. 

Let me explain. 

Once upon a time, a perfectly good last name, Madison, became a first name.  Honestly, I don't really have a problem with that, unless the last name is something really strange. 

Next, it became a girls' name.  Why not?  Allison had gone from a last name to a first name to a girls' name decades before that.  Boys' names turn into girls' names at a rather alarming rate.  Maybe that is part of the problem--there aren't as many boys' names left.

I also think what happens is that a name that sounds like another well-liked name starts to be used.  Sometimes, it may be as good as the first name, sometimes not.

We liked Braden (meaning "from the wide valley"), so now there are the popular names Jaden and Caden.  Hayden, another last-name-turned-first-name, is also popular for both boys and girls.

Madison sounded not only like Allison, but like Madeline, so it became very popular.  Maddies everywhere.  Still fine.

A few years later, and Madison is not unique enough.  We start seeing Maddison, Madisen, Maddyson, and Maddisyn. 

The consonant switch thing, though, is something I have not been able to wrap my head around yet.  But, with it growing in popularity, I guess we should brace ourselves for Bladdisyn, Craddisyn, Faddisyn, and Gladdisyn. 

Where it will go from there is anyone's guess.

(My apologies to all the cute Maddisyns out there, and those who love them.)

Once upon a Time, I Had a Little Girl

Once upon a time, I had a little girl.  She was a very nice little girl.  She didn't always want one of everything imaginable.  For example, she would blurt out, "That's too tasty!" when we tried to give her some dinner.

Well, a few years have passed, and she wants everything imaginable.  At least, she wants some things that I never imagined her wanting. 

And, she's bigger than me now. And, this is the clincher, sometimes has her own money.

Today, she was full of surprises--for me.  Not surprises I wanted.  That's next week.

First, she mentioned that there was a concert she wanted to attend.  A symphony.  Tonight.  And she could get a student ticket, cheap. 

Well, of course, I'm all for my daughter attending the symphony and having cheap tickets and all. I just didn't think of it ahead of her.  It's a mother's job to anticipate their children's needs and wants, and I've been doing that for a good many years. So, it surprised me.  It's a little unnerving to have her ahead of me all the time lately.

"Who are you planning to go with?" I asked, wondering if I really wanted that whole answer.

"You or Dad, I guess," she said.  Well, now, that was nice.  Personally, I am too volatile of a cougher today to attend a symphony, but I thought maybe we could figure out a way her dad could go with her.  Not that he could get a student ticket, cheap. 

She and her dad looked into it.  Her ticket would be fifty percent more than she anticipated, for a same-day performance.  And her dad's?  Well, more than 200 percent more than that.  Still, we were willing to consider it.  It's not easy for her to give up on something she's thought of that she wants. It's even harder for her dad to do it.  And it's 200 percent harder for him to give up something he thinks she wants.  So, I coughed my way through that conversation.

Then, I found out, she wanted to go spend time with her friend.  This wasn't too much of a surprise, but she did just announce the time to me without a lot of notice: "Three to four!"  Okay!

I must admit that this girl spent a couple hours of her day cleaning up my kitchen.  And I mean, up on a chair washing the cupboards and blinds kind of cleaning.  "Thank you!" I said, and, "What a doll!"  I even happened upon her with her head in the oven, cleaning it.  And, yes, that really was a surprise.  Of course, come to find out, all of this work was because she is planning a party next week.  In my kitchen.  With four friends.  Two of them boys.

She's always got plans I didn't anticipate for my computer, the household noise level, and my time.  (In fact--and I am not making this up--just as put the period on that sentence, she appeared in the doorway and asked, "Can I use your computer as soon as you're done?")

I was trying not to cough on clothes I was folding when she found me for the next surprise.  Just as if it were normal conversation for her (which it never has been), she informed me that she wanted to go to a certain place and have a certain haircut. 

I have always--sparingly--cut her hair in the past.  I have five sons, so I have spent my haircutting money on them, not her.  I offered to trim it for her.  She gazed back at me unfazed.  I offered to try to layer it a little.  The unfazed gaze again. "I want bangs like this," she said, clinching it.  I can cut bangs--though I never have on her--but I could probably not be relied on to cut bangs exactly "like this," and we both knew it.  She reminded me she has her own money.

In a weak last attempt, I cautioned, "You'll regret it."  I'm not unfair.  I explained what I meant by that.  That bangs "like that" would constantly be in her face and would take at least a year to grow out to the length she keeps her hair.  Of course, I hadn't thought that through very well, because, typically, when a parent offers advice to a teenager, it's pretty likely that she has just solidified the opposite result.

So, my daughter went off to have her first professional haircut.  And pay for it herself.  She's a very good girl, and she wanted a very reasonable cut.  She wasn't talking about a half-shaved head or hot pink hair, so it was right for her to do what she wanted with it.  In fact, my daughter is such an excellent girl that she did think about--and put off--the bangs part.

She returned from her friends' house to announce that they had walked from there to some unplanned location to film something for their school project (school projects just are NOT what they used to be) and saw some older kids who used to go to their school, so they involved these older kids in their conversation, film, and project.  "Can my friend walk home with me," she asked, at another time in the near future, so they could go to another business location to include THAT in their school project?

Cough, cough! 

At least she asks.  Except, of course, when she forgets.

I know it's her job to grow up faster than I can think about it, but I finally did have to ask her to hold any more surprises for a day when I'm not grinding to a dead halt.

Winding a Ribbon around a Lamp Post, Over and Over

I was so fit when Christmas arrived that I could wear any outfit I owned.  My stomach was as flat as I'll ever know it.  As I indulged in holiday treats, I could literally feel the sugar I ate pushing out my belly to a larger size.

Since then, I have been making up rules for myself that I don't follow.

Such as, NO MORE SUGAR UNTIL YOU DROP THE NEXT POUND.

But, sugar has a way of popping up in my life (as well as popping out my tummy), and, if there's one thing I know, rules don't help you a bit when you don't follow them.

I made out a nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow it, but hover six to ten pounds above where I'd been before Christmas.

Not fun times.

I made another nice, easy schedule outlining how I would lose one pound each week, and then I watched my scale not follow that schedule, either.

One dreary morning, I sat down with myself to have a performance review.  What on earth was going wrong?  Why was I not measuring up?  It was time to stop sliding, skating, procrastinating, justifying, rationalizing, and lying to myself.

Honestly, I had to admit, when someone brought Banbury Cross to staff meeting, I wanted to have one. And when I made chocolate chip cookies, I wanted to have several.  And taste the dough, too.  And the Christmas candy had to be gotten rid of.  And when I found two candy bars in a drawer I was cleaning out, well, obviously, I couldn't just leave them there.  I wasn't able to keep my no-sugar rules.

I asked myself what do I really want.  You know, like, really.  Other than the obvious--to eat whatever I want and still look like a fitness queen.

It was time to look real closely at some hard truths.

Hard truth number one: when I eat sugar, I gain weight.  I've performed this experiment enough times--usually around Christmas and Easter--that there's not really a whole lot of  room for doubt.  The variable is sugar.  The result, weight gain.  Time after time.  Hypothesis proven.

Hard truth number two: I am not a person who can anticipate giving up sugar for life with any feelings of joy.

Hard truth number three: it may not be easy to reconcile hard truths one and two.

Will power and sacrifice are noble aims, but not when they stand in the way of your happiness.  Indulgence can play an important role, but not when it stands in the way of your dreams and goals.  Neither one, by itself, was going to get me where I wanted to be.

Was it possible to get where I wanted to be?  Who knew?  But it had to be worth a try.  As my mother noticed when I was a toddler winding a ribbon around a lamp post over and over, trying to get it to stay, I am not a person who gives up easily on what I want.  I always tend to believe there has to be a way, even if I have to try things I've never considered trying before.

I acknowledged to myself that I really do want to be able to eat sweet treats sometimes.  Saying "never" makes me feel deprived. And, depending on how deprived I get to be feeling, then, when I do eat some sugar, it can be hard for me to stop eating sugar.

But I knew the answer could not be to just abandon my no-sugar rules.  There's no arguing with science.

Hard truth number 4: what I was doing wasn't working--neither the eating whatever I wanted nor the trying not to eat it at all.  So, what would?

I realized the perfect answer couldn't be ALL or NOTHING.  It had to be a moderation between the two.

I had to come up with a plan that would take away the eating too much AND the deprivation.  And in a hurry--before Easter got here and poofed out my tummy even further.

I decided my new plan had to allow me to eat some sugar, but not too much.  It had to leave me feeling not deprived, but not let me be saturated in sweets, either.  I decided to reverse my approach and eat one sugary thing a day.  One.  Not more than one.

And, of course, I still had to do all the other things I do to be healthy--exercising daily, eating a basically healthy diet, getting enough sleep, watching portion sizes, drinking water.

I needed a plan that would get me through every day.  Regular days, holidays, week days, weekend days, sick days, vacation days, any day for the rest of my life.  Because I am tired of playing yo-yo.  I don't ever want to gain weight again.  I don't want to make up for bad times.  I don't want to have bad times.

The first couple of days, I told myself that I had to eat that one cookie in the same manner that I make myself eat my daily orange, or my daily apple.  If eating one cookie would keep me from feeling deprived and be the answer to my problem, then I had to do it, right?

It's called "reverse psychology."  And, no, I'm not above using it on myself.

Somehow, having to eat a cookie changes up the dynamic in a big way.

I ate the one cookie I had to eat and didn't need to eat another like I had before.  I don't ever go and get a second orange right after I eat the first one.  I don't ever eat two apples at one go.  So, I need to feel that way about sweets, too--one is enough.  For me, because of the way I trip myself up, one may even be necessary or good for me in some weird way, but it is enough.

Another facet of not feeling deprived is that, once I have had one thing, if there is another sugary thing I could eat, it has to wait until the next day.  This ensures that I know I have a treat for the next day--not a bad psychological move, either.  This eliminates the need I seem to have to eat whatever treats are available in case I do not get another one for a long time. (I came from a family with eight kids.  If you didn't eat something when you had a chance, the chance could disappear.)

One of my kids asked me recently, "Mom, are you on a diet?"

It felt great to say, "No.  I don't diet anymore.  I just keep some rules."  No longer "dieting" has removed the temptation to eat all the sugar I want today because I won't be able to tomorrow.  I know I will have another treat tomorrow.  Because I've saved it for tomorrow.

Zero, or one, I told myself over and over, as needed.  In a day, I can have zero, or I can have one.  Never two.  This year, Christmas will simply mean that I just have a really big supply of treats.  If it takes me until March to eat them all, so be it. 

After several days of eating one treat and no more, I noticed that I didn't need it anymore.  I went a few days without sugar, knowing that I could have one thing if I had one thing to have.  And that the next time I had one sugary thing to eat, I could have it.

Pressure off.

Suddenly, I found that I was eating treats responsibly.  Sounds like an oxymoron to my former way of thinking, but, hey, if it works. . .

So, does it work?

This Easter came and went without me gaining any weight.  None at all.  Zippo.  Not an ounce.  And I have had sugar every day of the past three weeks.  Sounds as close to my dream world as I can probably get.

Truth be told, I haven't started on my Easter candy yet.  But that's because, on Easter, my husband made an amazing cheesecake/cake.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to ask him if there would be a dessert that day, and he said yes.  So, I didn't have any Easter candy.  Knowing I could eat all of it later without gaining any weight, though, I was able to put it aside.

On Easter and the two days following, my choice of sugar treat was to have one slice of that cake.  When that was gone, I turned to a box of candy that a friend had given me.  Small pieces of candy seem like bites to me, and I once heard that you could enjoy desserts if you only allowed yourself three bites.  So, having two or three pieces of candy made that box last over a week.  Would it have in the past?  Honestly, probably not.

Then, I had company over, so I made a cake.  My sugar treat for two days was a small piece of cake.

My Easter candy is still waiting for me.  It has not made me fat, because I haven't had any of it yet.  I have not been depriving myself of sugar, but allowing myself sugar almost daily.  Believe me, it feels different.  It feels like I am always in control, and it feels like I can always have whatever one thing I want each day.

When I want more than one thing, I remind myself, no, I had that, so I will save this one for tomorrow.  I decide: which one do I want most to have today?  And which will I skip or save?

Guess if I think this is worth it.  There's no more guilt over eating, ever.  No more pig-out days or days of deprivation.  No more worrying about whether I will be able to fit in an outfit, or about how I will look for upcoming events. The weight loss is slower, but more sure.  Over and above normal fluctuation, there are no more weight gains.  Would it be worth it to you?

Even my children are catching on and talking about what they will choose to have each day and what they will save to have another day.  Much better for them than gobbling it all up at once.

Once again, like so many other things I have struggled to get control of in my life, the answer turns out to be moderation, balance. 

When I start on my Easter candy, it will not make me fat.  It will stretch on and on, keeping me feeling happy and secure, but not adding weight, for days to come.  Because my needs and my wants are now balanced, I don't get out of whack with non-sugar days that make me feel deprived and way-too-much sugar days that make me gain weight.  Every day there is a small sacrifice, yes, but, every day, there is also a small sugary reward, and even bigger quality of life rewards.

That's a win-win if I ever heard of one.

Washing Paper Flowers

I'm in spring cleaning mode.  I've taken this week off work, and, frankly, nothing in my house that's dirty or cluttery is safe or too sacred.

That goes for things I've saved and cherished for years.  Well, not all things.  But, even if something serves a functional purpose, but I've had it for decades and it's ugly and broken, it had better beware.

My stack of newspapers is gone.

The lamp that was a birthday present from my parents on the first birthday when I was married (and the only present I got that year) has been replaced.

These are scary times.

Walls are being washed.  Blinds are being scoured.  The carpet cleaner is scheduled. 

My books, which have been associating with Paul's books at random in ways very supportive of diversity have now been organized by type and ordered by greatness.  Shakespeare, of course, takes prominence on my beautiful new Christmas bookshelf, and it goes down from there.  (Don't worry--I'm not an apostate.  Scriptures are in another place.)

My children were all enlisted to clean their rooms--yes, even under the beds--before we could go out and have any spring break fun.

These are the best and worst of times.

That is why, when bustling my way through the living room yesterday, I did not hesitate much when I came to a philosophical crisis.  My vase of paper flowers.  The vase and the flowers were my first anniversary gift.  You know, the paper anniversary.  Paul had picked out twenty-four lilies, daisies, and flags made of sturdy paper for me.

I have kept them.

Fifteen years.

I've dusted them off many times, but, as I'm sure you can imagine, it is not easy to brush dust off of textured paper.  With hollows and crevices.  For fifteen years.

Dust had been embedded in them, and, over time, some of the petals had curled up.  All right, a lot of the petals had curled up.  Honestly, they were pretty unsightly.

The sentimental me lost a quick arm wrestling match with the spring cleaning me.  They went into the kitchen wastebasket, and I cleaned out and polished the vase.

I'll buy some more, I told myself.  Surely, no one else I know who keeps a clean house would keep paper flowers for over fifteen years.  Surely, Paul would understand.  Surely, I could find some more that I liked just fine at a craft store.  Surely, it would be okay.

Paul came home from work just as dusk was falling gently in the dimly-lit bedroom and I was completing my last set of abs.  "Hi," he waved at me from the door.

"Wait," I said.  "Come in."  He sat on the edge of the bed, but I could hardly look at him.  "I did something I feel bad about," I told him.

He gazed back, as unflappable as ever.  At least outwardly, Paul takes bad news like he's hearing a weather report.  He honestly believes me to be the most honest person he has ever known.  He is firmly convinced that I could never ever in a million years cheat on him.  Because of this, it's impossible to make him jealous.  Which is smart of him.  And, I'm sure he's right.  Sometimes, it has been infuriating that he believes that about me.  Also, that he is right about it.  But, I digress.

I told him I had relocated his first anniversary present from the bookcase in the living room to the kitchen wastebasket a few feet away from there.  I said it in a tone that attempted to make it sound like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.  After all, who would keep dirty paper flowers?  Right?

"I noticed they were missing," he said.

Paul, whom I suspect could probably not describe what I wore that very day, had noticed they were missing.

"I kept the vase," I said.

I told him of my plan to purchase new ones to replace them with.  I talked about how dirty and crumpled they were.  Then, I showed him.  He said the right things--that he could understand the reasons why.  He was less sure about my ability to replace them.  He went to the computer to look up places to buy paper flowers and came up pretty much empty.

I told him that I could also replace them with silk flowers.  He didn't exactly say it, but I could tell from his tone that the idea of replacing paper flowers with silk ones made no sense at all to him.  It had been our paper anniversary, not our silk one--that was anniversary number twelve.

To me, the point was to have a beautiful home, and, whether the flowers in the vase were paper or silk didn't matter much, as long as they were not dirty or cluttery.  I told him I would always remember that he had given me the paper flowers.

This morning, we went shopping for lamps and paper flowers.  The lamps we found.  Paper flowers, not so much.  We went to a store that had an overwhelming supply of silk flowers.  There were many lovely options.  Too many.  I could tell that it would take me a couple of hours to sort through all of the possibilities to find the ones I wanted the most.

Also, looking at all the silk flowers they had made me sad.

None of them was like the ones I had thrown away.  Not a one.  I could see that Paul's unspoken thought was true.  What he had done for me was not replaceable.  I began to regret my action in a big way.

"Let's go," I said.  My new feelings gave me a profound sense of urgency.  "Come on!  Let's get out of here," I urged.  "I won't find what I want here."

I could hardly wait to get home.  While Paul got ready to assemble the lamps, I rushed to the wastebasket.  "They have other stuff dumped on them by now," he said, and he was right.  But I didn't care.  Why on earth had I not tried to save them before throwing them away?  If I was going to wash dust off them, I could also wash off the egg shells from the kids' breakfast and bits of the yam he had thrown away. If they were ruined, they were ruined.  I would not be any farther behind than I already was.

I gathered up all twenty-four and set them aside on a towel.  One by one, I washed their stems and let the water from the faucet run over their petals.  Lovingly, I rubbed the petals and reshaped them into the lovely flowers they had been to begin with.  It was surprisingly easy to resurrect them.  Only once did I rub one so hard that the paper started to come off the center. I quickly put it back in place and handled them more gingerly.  Only once did a petal tear.  Only one flower fell apart to the point that I might throw it away for reals.

It was amazingly easy to save and restore the paper flowers my husband gave me for our first anniversary, all those years ago.  I wish I had thought of this sooner.  So often, we think we don't want anymore something given in love, when only a little bit of thought and loving care would make it as vibrant as new. We take for granted that we can replace something unique and precious.

I think we're good for another fifteen years.

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.