Periodically, a mother's words can come back in the funniest ways. One evening over dinner, my son piped up with a complaint about how I had used one of his paper airplanes to write a note. In desperation that morning, I had unfolded his hand-crafted jet, smoothed out the creases, and wrote a note of permission for my daughter to give her teacher. He had objected to my doing this at the time, and hours later, still was a little peeved.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Next time, I will go into my office for paper and use that instead."
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you," he answered.
I'm glad he does. I am also glad that of all the things I tell my children, this was the one thing I clearly heard reflected before my children left for holidays with their father. And they will come back saying or doing all manner of things they have learned from time with their other family. Of course not everything they learn is so charming.
A few weeks ago, my son came home with a note from school. "Had a good morning," it began, "but kicked, hit, punched, and gave Ryan a wedgie at snack time." My ex-husband was appalled and sent a text asking me who Tiny had learned the wedgie from. I texted back an answer, "You."
Heh.
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Be Good to Each Other
A few years ago, when I thought my world was coming to an end, my then-husband wondered aloud why he did not treat me as nicely as my father treated my mother. What I realized later was this: to treat someone that beautifully requires an interior quality so profound and pure that all one’s actions become a reflection of that goodness. This is not to say that change isn’t possible, that effort cannot improve a relationship, or even that difficult people can’t have a solid marriage, but really, this kind of lovely treatment of one another is a rare gift, and my parents are particularly blessed with it.
When I walked down the aisle the first time, my father whispered in my ear as he guided my arm to my soon-to-be husband’s. He said, “Be good to each other.” Such simple directions—the most uncomplicated marriage advice I have ever heard. Unfortunately, my first husband was unable to embrace those plain words and the marriage ended. Recently, my father and I paused at a café for java and had a long talk about the end of that relationship, and I commented about what I had observed between him and my mother that week. This Christmas, as I watched my parents speak gently with one another, my father cupped my mom’s face in his hand, and they bowed their heads toward one another, and murmured affectionate words. I held my breath as time stopped. It was a beautiful moment, the likes of which I witnessed often through my childhood, but that I never fully experienced until I courted my new husband: tenderness in its most innocent and sweetest light.
As we dawdled over coffee, my dad and I eventually grew to a deeper discussion of our own present marriages, my father and mother’s being their first and only. He elaborated on what he had learned as a young man in his early married years, and we laughed about how his errors paralleled some of the comedic ones my husband and I now experience as newlyweds at our age. Despite newness and trial though, we do triumph.
“I looked across the room at the Christmas party,” I said, “and saw my husband smiling at me. And he was proud—not ‘my wife is a trophy’ kind of proud, but proud to be married to me.” Suddenly, and even with my own spouse miles away, I could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body. I could almost hear him breathing the way he does when he bends his own forehead to touch mine in a wordless exchange of love. I paused in reverie. My father and I sat near the window of a Starbucks, the steam long having abandoned the cups in our hands, our thoughts drifting.
I thought about the goodness of my husband. When he speaks, he speaks gently. His voice still stops my heart and slows me down—it is the sound of love. This is not to say that we don’t have moments where we have overstepped boundaries in some way (Do NOT remove the carpet from his office! Do NOT!), but the overwhelming sensation I have for him is ultimately adoration. This Christmas, one and a half years after the start of our marriage, we drove our children from their father’s home to my in-laws far away. The kids were quiet, sleepy, and warm in their blankets against the dampness and chill of the fog outside. We cruised down the highway, picking out familiar landmarks silhouetted against the grey mist that curtained the countryside. I was overwhelmed by a familiar feeling—security, love for family despite obstacle or stress, and faith despite the unknown future. I told my husband later how much I enjoyed being part of his family—both the nuclear one we create and the extended one we share. We are good to each other.
When I walked down the aisle the first time, my father whispered in my ear as he guided my arm to my soon-to-be husband’s. He said, “Be good to each other.” Such simple directions—the most uncomplicated marriage advice I have ever heard. Unfortunately, my first husband was unable to embrace those plain words and the marriage ended. Recently, my father and I paused at a café for java and had a long talk about the end of that relationship, and I commented about what I had observed between him and my mother that week. This Christmas, as I watched my parents speak gently with one another, my father cupped my mom’s face in his hand, and they bowed their heads toward one another, and murmured affectionate words. I held my breath as time stopped. It was a beautiful moment, the likes of which I witnessed often through my childhood, but that I never fully experienced until I courted my new husband: tenderness in its most innocent and sweetest light.
As we dawdled over coffee, my dad and I eventually grew to a deeper discussion of our own present marriages, my father and mother’s being their first and only. He elaborated on what he had learned as a young man in his early married years, and we laughed about how his errors paralleled some of the comedic ones my husband and I now experience as newlyweds at our age. Despite newness and trial though, we do triumph.
“I looked across the room at the Christmas party,” I said, “and saw my husband smiling at me. And he was proud—not ‘my wife is a trophy’ kind of proud, but proud to be married to me.” Suddenly, and even with my own spouse miles away, I could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body. I could almost hear him breathing the way he does when he bends his own forehead to touch mine in a wordless exchange of love. I paused in reverie. My father and I sat near the window of a Starbucks, the steam long having abandoned the cups in our hands, our thoughts drifting.
I thought about the goodness of my husband. When he speaks, he speaks gently. His voice still stops my heart and slows me down—it is the sound of love. This is not to say that we don’t have moments where we have overstepped boundaries in some way (Do NOT remove the carpet from his office! Do NOT!), but the overwhelming sensation I have for him is ultimately adoration. This Christmas, one and a half years after the start of our marriage, we drove our children from their father’s home to my in-laws far away. The kids were quiet, sleepy, and warm in their blankets against the dampness and chill of the fog outside. We cruised down the highway, picking out familiar landmarks silhouetted against the grey mist that curtained the countryside. I was overwhelmed by a familiar feeling—security, love for family despite obstacle or stress, and faith despite the unknown future. I told my husband later how much I enjoyed being part of his family—both the nuclear one we create and the extended one we share. We are good to each other.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Woeful Wails and Bedtime Tales
I have a terrible secret to share with you. I really, really do not look forward to my children’s bedtime. Each night I walk up the stairs with the same dread as Sisyphus rolling his rock up the hill.
At 8 pm, blocks must be picked up, legos collected, dolls brought upstairs. There’s crying from the youngest and the oldest magically seems to remember that there are a hundred toys left downstairs that must be retrieved—one toy at a time. The smallest child recovers from tears and scampers up and down the stairs gleefully challenging us, and on occasion, mooning us. Oh, the resistance to the end of the day. Once the short people are officially upstairs, there’s the bath, the teeth brushing, the search for pajamas and pull ups. I usually have to conduct some kind of peace negotiation between one child and the other. There are loads of explanations: Honey, this is why we don’t like to buy blue toothpaste. Tiny Man, water stays in the tub. There are reminders: Didn’t I just tell you to find your blanket? Did you dry your hair? Why are you drawing naked on your bed when it is time to get dressed and your hair is still sopping wet? And there are threats: Your mother is going to collapse from exhaustion unless you are in bed and quiet before 9 PM. You will find her motionless and bourbon will be required to revive her.
Children all of a sudden have a million reasons and a million excuses at bedtime. They have brain damage. They have a renewed sense of energy. I, on the other hand, have one mission, a limited period of time, and a limited amount of patience. I’ve been holding down the fort all day and I am ready to end my shift. By the time those warm, clean bodies have been snugly tucked into covers, prayers have been said, stories told, songs sung, and a million kisses exchanged, I am thankful for my motherhood, yes, but tired enough to have run a marathon.
“It’s 8:45,” I might announce. “Mommy is now off duty!”
“One more kiss!” pipes the youngest. How can anyone resist that? Even off duty?
My mother recently confessed her own distaste for the bedtime routine when she was raising my sister and I. Since I consider her the paradigm of all things maternal, I was particularly struck by this revelation. After all, my mother seldom raised her voice to us, she was home after school so we could make peanut butter balls, she let us fingerpaint, or watch her sew clothes for us. She was an incredibly intense and serious mother, but she was always there, always loving, always patient. I’ll never forget one Mother’s Day when I asked her why there was a Mother’s Day and a Father’s Day, but no Children’s Day.
“Because,” she sighed with fatigue, “every day is children’s day.” (This might explain why at one point, my father took over the final tuck-in and storytelling.) At the time I didn’t understand, but I have since learned that not only is every day for children, but really, every night, too. And long after the short people are comatose or at least should be, I am still working. There’s laundry, there’s research, there’s writing, there’s general household maintenance so that this place is sanitary and functional for short and tall people alike. There is some peace though, to that routine until I hear footsteps in the middle of the night.
“Why are you still up?” I call out. Pick a response from below.
“I had to go potty.”
“I was thirsty.”
“I was cold.”
“I was hot.”
“I heard a funny sound.”
“There’s a dinosaur in my closet.”
The tall, handsome man of the house, my line of reinforcement, who is actually responsible for the singing of the final song each night, must troop back upstairs and remind the child gone AWOL from bed that there is no negotiating sleepy-time. I might at first hear pleading or giggling depending on the situation, but ultimately, there is silence. And upstairs resumes the stillness of slumber for good this time.
Last night I surfed the web for suggestions to expedite bed time routines. One site said to put the kids to bed earlier—not an option for us most nights. Another said to explain the importance of sleep to the child. Umm, did that writer even have children? There were reminders to be patient, reminders to keep the pre-bed activities low-key—even suggestions to dim the lights to help the body read the bed-soon code. None of these sites really help me, especially in reference to the dinosaur that seems to have taken up residence in a closet.
The days are long, but the years are short, said someone to me once. I try to remind myself of this. Soon, the youngest will be too big to dance naked with glee before bathtime. And the oldest will eventually lose interest in the songs we sing. I might despise bedtime’s business, but the total lack of any of the craziness or comedy at night would be terribly sad, as it is when the children are away. I can keep doing this, I know. Besides, the reward is in those kisses I steal when children sleep like angels and the perfume of their slumbering warmth rises from the sheets. Perfect sweetness, which will fade when Sisyphus’ rock rolls back down the hill in the morning for the AM madness of readying for school.
I think we’ll be okay if I can just figure out what to do with the dinosaur.
At 8 pm, blocks must be picked up, legos collected, dolls brought upstairs. There’s crying from the youngest and the oldest magically seems to remember that there are a hundred toys left downstairs that must be retrieved—one toy at a time. The smallest child recovers from tears and scampers up and down the stairs gleefully challenging us, and on occasion, mooning us. Oh, the resistance to the end of the day. Once the short people are officially upstairs, there’s the bath, the teeth brushing, the search for pajamas and pull ups. I usually have to conduct some kind of peace negotiation between one child and the other. There are loads of explanations: Honey, this is why we don’t like to buy blue toothpaste. Tiny Man, water stays in the tub. There are reminders: Didn’t I just tell you to find your blanket? Did you dry your hair? Why are you drawing naked on your bed when it is time to get dressed and your hair is still sopping wet? And there are threats: Your mother is going to collapse from exhaustion unless you are in bed and quiet before 9 PM. You will find her motionless and bourbon will be required to revive her.
Children all of a sudden have a million reasons and a million excuses at bedtime. They have brain damage. They have a renewed sense of energy. I, on the other hand, have one mission, a limited period of time, and a limited amount of patience. I’ve been holding down the fort all day and I am ready to end my shift. By the time those warm, clean bodies have been snugly tucked into covers, prayers have been said, stories told, songs sung, and a million kisses exchanged, I am thankful for my motherhood, yes, but tired enough to have run a marathon.
“It’s 8:45,” I might announce. “Mommy is now off duty!”
“One more kiss!” pipes the youngest. How can anyone resist that? Even off duty?
My mother recently confessed her own distaste for the bedtime routine when she was raising my sister and I. Since I consider her the paradigm of all things maternal, I was particularly struck by this revelation. After all, my mother seldom raised her voice to us, she was home after school so we could make peanut butter balls, she let us fingerpaint, or watch her sew clothes for us. She was an incredibly intense and serious mother, but she was always there, always loving, always patient. I’ll never forget one Mother’s Day when I asked her why there was a Mother’s Day and a Father’s Day, but no Children’s Day.
“Because,” she sighed with fatigue, “every day is children’s day.” (This might explain why at one point, my father took over the final tuck-in and storytelling.) At the time I didn’t understand, but I have since learned that not only is every day for children, but really, every night, too. And long after the short people are comatose or at least should be, I am still working. There’s laundry, there’s research, there’s writing, there’s general household maintenance so that this place is sanitary and functional for short and tall people alike. There is some peace though, to that routine until I hear footsteps in the middle of the night.
“Why are you still up?” I call out. Pick a response from below.
“I had to go potty.”
“I was thirsty.”
“I was cold.”
“I was hot.”
“I heard a funny sound.”
“There’s a dinosaur in my closet.”
The tall, handsome man of the house, my line of reinforcement, who is actually responsible for the singing of the final song each night, must troop back upstairs and remind the child gone AWOL from bed that there is no negotiating sleepy-time. I might at first hear pleading or giggling depending on the situation, but ultimately, there is silence. And upstairs resumes the stillness of slumber for good this time.
Last night I surfed the web for suggestions to expedite bed time routines. One site said to put the kids to bed earlier—not an option for us most nights. Another said to explain the importance of sleep to the child. Umm, did that writer even have children? There were reminders to be patient, reminders to keep the pre-bed activities low-key—even suggestions to dim the lights to help the body read the bed-soon code. None of these sites really help me, especially in reference to the dinosaur that seems to have taken up residence in a closet.
The days are long, but the years are short, said someone to me once. I try to remind myself of this. Soon, the youngest will be too big to dance naked with glee before bathtime. And the oldest will eventually lose interest in the songs we sing. I might despise bedtime’s business, but the total lack of any of the craziness or comedy at night would be terribly sad, as it is when the children are away. I can keep doing this, I know. Besides, the reward is in those kisses I steal when children sleep like angels and the perfume of their slumbering warmth rises from the sheets. Perfect sweetness, which will fade when Sisyphus’ rock rolls back down the hill in the morning for the AM madness of readying for school.
I think we’ll be okay if I can just figure out what to do with the dinosaur.
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