Patience. There's that word again. It bothers me. When I'm not wishing I had more of it, I'm wondering why I keep losing the little I have. Getting patient takes too long. I want patience, and I want it now.
I ask you. What's so hard about keeping a sprinkling of poise when things don't go smoothly? It should be easy. All you do is nothing.
At least I know I'm in the right profession to acquire it. A mother's patience gets wrung out and strung out on a never‑ending clothesline of surprises. The variety cov ers everything from trying to clean soggy cat food out of the vacuum cleaner because your child tried to hide some evidence to responding when a teenager calls at 2:00 a.m. ask ing if she can break her midnight curfew.
I dream of having the patience of my friend, Melody. So I asked her to give me some pointers. She reminded me that mothers don't see each other behind closed doors. Then, she told her story.
One evening, Melody made spaghetti for dinner, called each member of the family and sat down to wait. Nobody came. She called the family a second and third time with no response. By this time, the spaghetti was lukewarm, and Melody was hot.
When her teenage daughters finally sauntered into the din ing room, they were too late. Melody had boiled over. She flung fistfuls of cold spaghetti at them and only came to her senses when they dashed out of the room shouting to the rest of the family, "Don't come in here! Mom's throwing spaghetti!"
Reassurance. That's what this story gives me. Reas surance and courage to start a new day, knowing that oth er moms have been exasperated and angry and frus trated, too . . . just like me.
Don't Come In Here, Mom's Throwing Spaghetti
How To Live Alone With Your Parents
by Janette Hawkley
(Janette is filling in for her mom this week with an essay she wrote for her English class.)
Since I grew up with seven siblings, I know how easy it is to hide behind the actions of your brothers and sisters. For example, when I was accused of eating the candy hidden in the laundry room, all I had to say was, "Anthony ate it." That way, I wasn't lying, and Anthony got punished because he ate it, too. Now that all my older siblings have moved out, I have no one to shove the blame to. Occasionally, I can blame my dad for the milk crisis when my mom opens the fridge and asks, "Where did all the milk go?" But for the most part, I have had to redefine my pattern of getting away with things. (Lest we forget, I AM a teenager.) So here they are, my five steps . . . no . . . RULES of living alone with your parents.
- Remember, you're an only child now. Every action will be heartily noted.
- Don't try to blame the dog. They'll see right through it. Especially if you don't have a dog.
- Be careful that you only use the "I lost track of time" excuse in a very important circumstance of being late. It only works once before they get you a watch.
- Rather than reminding them of times they've caved in before, example, "But you let Ethan do this when he was 17," remind them how responsible you are. And how mature.
- Lastly, be responsible in event of being grounded. You're the last one they have at home. They actually LIKE having your around the house for longer than you'd like to be there. Anyway, they're just doing it because they love you.
Kids Got the Energy, Man!
Our son, Ethan, earned more than a paycheck the summer he graduated from high school and worked as a camp counselor for the YMCA. He also earned a healthy respect for kids. He was ready to unload more than his battered gear after he came home from the first week.
"Mom, I’m SO tired. You can’t believe how eleven-year-olds can wear you down. Kids got the energy, man! There’s NO time off. You have to keep your eyes on them all day long. There’s so much whining. It’s IMPOSSIBLE to get them to go to sleep, and if you fall to sleep before they do, you’re gonna be SO sorry. There’s this one kid in my cabin. Man, I think he’s the devil. He knows exactly how to get what he wants. I just know there’s something going on behind those eyes of his when he gives me ‘the look.’ If I hear ONE MORE Britney Spears song, I’m gonna scream. You should just TRY getting a bunch of eleven-year-olds to write a letter to their parents!"
With that, he rolled his eyes and went upstairs to take a nap.
I was familiar with (a) the territory, (b) the exhaustion, (c) ‘the look’ and (d) the music. I began to worry what I could say to convince him to go back for the second week. But it never came to that. When his dad came home later and asked how things had gone at Camp, Ethan responded, "It’s pretty hard . . . but it’s a BLAST!"
Yup. I know exactly what he means.
Just For Today
(abbreviated version from my book, "Don’t Come In Here! Mom’s Throwing Spaghetti!")
Just for today, the petunias in our back yard were safe. No carrots were uprooted from the garden to serve as third base. The rubber ducky in the wading pool swam alone on a sea of still water. Ants dared to emerge from their anthills and play on our sidewalk.
Just for today, my toothbrush wasn’t suspiciously wet when I reached for it. No globs of toothpaste appeared in the sink. I had time to curl my eyelashes, and when I left my favorite tube of lipstick on the counter, it was there when I came back. I didn’t have to rescue any little plastic action figures from a watery grave in the toilet bowl.
Just for today, no puddles of grape Kool-aid appeared on the kitchen floor. Nobody asked for chocolate pudding. The lid stayed on the jar of peanut butter.
Just for today, no bicycles turned up with flat tires. Nobody asked for a motorcycle. No more towels disappeared, and no muddy sneakers were found on the lawn.
Just for today, no new fingerprints appeared on the windows and walls. I dusted the furniture. I watched the news without getting up once. I read entire chapters from Life and Death in Shanghai instead of The Cat in the Hat three times. I called a friend and talked for twenty minutes straight.
Just for today, I baked cookies and got to eat the first one. I ate five more and called it dinner.
Just for today, nobody said things weren’t fair. Nobody needed a band-aid. I was calm and refined. I heard the refrigerator hum and the clocks tick. I heard my brain formulating intelligent, adult ideas.
Just for today, I didn’t run out of milk.
Just for today, my husband took the children fishing.
Who Said What?
If you believe the quotation books, men say more important things than women. I’m not so sure. I figure that many of the quotations attributed to men came out of their mother’s mouths first.
For instance;
After changing her son’s messy diaper, Julius Caesar’s mother might have said, "I came . . . I saw . . . I conquered."
Perhaps Shakespeare’s mother used these words while calling her son for dinner, "Shakespeare, Shakespeare, wherefore art thou Shakespeare?"
The instructions of Henry David Thoreau’s mother on cleaning his room, "Our life is frittered away by detail . . . Simplify, simplify."
Dr. Seuss’s mother trying to convince the neighbor kid to go home, "Marvin K. Mooney, will you please go NOW!"
Robert Frost’s mother responding to her son as he presents himself on the front step after tromping through a mud puddle, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
Thomas A. Edison’s mother, while teaching her son to make lye soap, "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."
Charles Dickens’ mother, upon finding herself pregnant again, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
The Duke of Wellington’s mother after he coaxed her to reconsider her decision to send him to bed without dinner, "There is no mistake; there has been no mistake; and there shall be no mistake."
Winston Churchill’s mother, while reprimanding Winston for talking back to her, "This is the sort of English up with which I will not put."
Lewis Carroll’s mother explaining her reasons for no between-meal snacks, "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday—but never jam today."
And finally . . . Harry S. Truman’s mother responding to Harry’s request for an extra dollar in his allowance . . . "Sorry, son . . . the buck stops here."
A Whole Lot of Wiping
A trendy soap commercial claims its superiority in washing the human body and all two thousand of its parts. I don’t know where they came up with all those parts, but I DO know that however many parts there are, mothers are familiar with wiping all of them.
If you don’t think wiping parts is that big of a deal, you haven’t been in the business long. Mothers wipe runny noses and sticky fingers and messy bottoms and dirty faces. They wipe sand from belly buttons and blood from scraped knees. They wipe wax from ears and lint from between toes. They wipe on diaper rash ointment, lotion and sunscreen. They wipe off at least two thousand variations of chocolate, peanut butter, jelly and assorted condiments.
With wiping, one must begin with quality materials. Only the softest tissue, the sturdiest towelette or the plushest washcloth will do. Wiping is a skill that requires a light, but firm touch and a fine-tuned sense of timing. Licking your thumb and wiping your child’s face with it is frowned upon . . . especially in public.
Perhaps you think that perfecting the fine art of wiping is not worthy of your time and talents. If so, let me tell you about my friend, Ralene.
Last week, this sweet mother was prepared when her family’s beloved six-month-old puppy was hit and killed by a car in front of their home. Ralene had done her homework in the field of wiping. In their time of grief, her teenagers and toddlers had no confusion about whose heart and hands were qualified to share the hurt and wipe away their tears.
Three Little Words
Mothers are the masters of brevity. They have to be because family members are not into lengthy communications. Actually, family members don’t relish most short ones, either. Over the years, a mother acquires a standard repertoire of three-little-word phrases. Here are a few:
Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Come and eat. Make your bed. Wash your face. Tie your shoes. Pick it up. Wipe it up. Find your shoes. Don’t spill it. Listen to me. Just a minute. Wipe your nose. Put it away. One more time. Answer the phone. Use the hamper. Flush the toilet. Don’t try it. Clean your room. Take it outside. That did it. Oh . . . I guess. Be more careful. Hang it up. Clean it up. Shut the door. Open the door. Who did it? Don’t lose it. Turn it down. Tell Mommy, "Potty." Get a haircut. Break it up. It’s for you. Is that yours? Empty the garbage. Wash your hands. Clear the table. Do the dishes. I can’t hear. I CAN’T HEAR! Yes, you can. I said no. Talk to me. Call your brothers. Turn it off. Not so fast. Stop that racket. Where’s the aspirin? Take it back. Leave her alone. Let Mommy sleep. Be more quiet. Wipe the counter. Bring it home. Change the channel. Stop teasing her. No more fighting. Do your homework. Don’t touch that. No more cookies. Are you kidding? Come straight home. No means no. Will you listen? Look it up. You did what? Go to bed. Say your prayers. What’s that noise? No more drinks. Get to sleep.
There’s a good reason why we keep at it day after day, month after month and year after year. Three little words . . . I love you.
Somebody Said
by Renee Hawkley
(from her book, "Don't Come In Here! Mom's Throwing Spaghetti!" Excerpts of this article were reprinted in the Reader's Digest.)
Somebody said a mother is an unskilled laborer . . . somebody never gave a squirmy infant a bath.
Somebody said it takes about six weeks to get back to normal after you’ve had a baby . . . somebody doesn’t know that once you’re a mother, normal is history.
Somebody said a mother’s job consists of wiping noses and changing diapers . . . somebody doesn’t know that a child is much more than the shell he lives in.
Somebody said you learn how to be a mother by instinct . . . somebody never took a three-year-old shopping.
Somebody said being a mother is boring . . . somebody never rode in a car driven by a teenager with a driver’s permit.
Somebody said teachers, psychologists and pediatricians know more about children than their mothers . . . somebody hasn’t invested her heart in another human being.
Somebody said if you’re a "good" mother, your child will "turn out" . . . somebody thinks a child is like a bag of plaster of Paris that comes with directions, a mold and a guarantee.
Somebody said being a mother is what you do in your spare time . . . somebody doesn’t know that when you’re a mother, you’re a mother ALL the time.
Somebody said "good" mothers never raise their voices . . . somebody never came out the back door just in time to see her child wind up and hit a golf ball through the neighbor’s kitchen window.
Somebody said you don’t need an education to be a mother . . . somebody never helped a fourth grader with his math.
Somebody said you can’t love the fifth child as much as you love the first . . . somebody doesn’t have five children.
Somebody said a mother can find all the answers to her child-rearing questions in the books . . . somebody never had a child stuff beans up his nose.
Somebody said the hardest part of being a mother is labor and delivery . . . somebody never watched her "baby" get on the bus for the first day of kindergarten.
Somebody said a mother can do her job with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back . . . somebody never organized seven giggling Brownies to sell cookies.
Somebody said a mother can stop worrying after her child gets married . . . somebody doesn’t know that marriage adds a new son or daughter-in-law to a mother’s heartstrings.
Somebody said a mother’s job is done when her last child leaves home . . . somebody never had grandchildren.
Somebody said being a mother is a side dish on the plate of life ... somebody doesn’t know what fills you up.
Somebody said your mother knows you love her, so you don’t need to tell her . . . somebody isn’t a mother.
Where's the Thing-a-Ma-Jig?
By Renee Hawkley
(This article is taken from Renee’s book, Don’t Come In Here! Mom’s Throwing Spaghetti!)
I have a lot of important things to think about. Sometimes, I think of so many important things at once that I can’t coordinate my brain with my mouth.
Just yesterday, I asked one of our sons to bring me the thing-a-ma-jig from the bedroom.
"What thing-a-ma-jig?"
"You know what I mean. It’s right next to the do-whappee."
"Which bedroom is the do-whappee in?" he asked.
"I mean the bathroom. It’s on the diller in the bathroom."
"What does it look like?"
"Don’t get smart with me. It looks like itself. Come to think of it, it looks a lot like a wha-cha-ma-call-it."
"What does a wha-cha-ma-call-it look like?"
"Now listen here, Anthony. I don’t like your tone of voice. It looks like a regular kind of wha-cha-ma-call-it, of course."
"My name isn’t Anthony."
"What do you mean your name isn’t Anthony?"
"My name is Ethan."
"Oh . . . well . . . I guess you’re right. Listen. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t listen to what I SAY. Listen to what I MEAN."
"Mom, why don’t you ask somebody else to get the thing-a-ma-jig for you. I’ll call Kyle to do it."
"No. Kyle is over at you-know-who’s. Go upstairs and get who-jer."
"Who-jer? Mom, which who-jer do you mean?"
"I don’t care. Just send somebody."
Now, I ask you. Have you ever sent YOUR son for who-jer and actually had who-jer show up? Me, neither.
So, I had to go get the thing-a-ma-jig myself.
I just don’t know about these kids of mine. Where do they get their brains?
Grab the Plunger!
When I signed up for the school of parenting, I had no idea how extensive an education I was in line to receive. This is no ordinary system organized by mortals. Instructional activities are planned even while you’re not exactly paying attention. Matter of fact, they are ESPECIALLY planned while you’re not exactly paying attention.
Here are some learning samples from the curriculum:
Flushing is good, but when a child takes particular joy in watching little Fisher Price animals go round and round in the water before disappearing, better run at top speed every time you hear a flush . . . and grab the plunger on the way.
After painting a room, never leave a can of paint and a couple of brushes in the hall. While you’re catching a nap on the sofa, children with vivid imaginations might notice that you forgot to paint the furniture.
It’s time to worry when a teenager with a new driver’s permit comes in from her first lesson behind the wheel exclaiming, "I’m alive! I’m alive!"
The bottom cupboard is no place to keep a two-quart can of honey.
Even the top cupboard is not a safe place to hide matches from a child who gets the idea to burn the yarn tassles off his hand-tied quilt so it will be "smoother."
Daddy’s golf clubs and golf balls are not designed for backyard play, particularly if your neighbors have windows.
Never grab a rubber lizard out of the dryer thinking it is actually rubber.
On a wet December morning, when your neighbors wake up to discover their yards are covered with a thousand little plastic wrappers containing little pink puddles, take note. It’s probably best not to mention that you are the proud parent of a thoughtful teenager who decorated their trees with a thousand little candy canes the night before.
And lest there be any doubt . . . never say "yes" when the perfect little girl who lives across the street invites your creative little boy to come over and play. It was HIS idea to mix two dozen eggs with the pile of sawdust, but it was HER idea to feed the mixture to every stuffed animal in the house.
The perfect little girl’s mother never forgave me for that one, but I got even. A couple of years ago, our creative son graduated from college with a degree in art.
Toddlers Speak Jabberwalk
By Renee Hawkley
(This article has been edited from its original version written in 1988.)
My husband and I produced children with superior intelligence. I have proof. Each of our toddlers spoke a foreign language fluently before learning English. With each child, the dialect was unique and difficult to interpret. I call the language jabberwalk.
The person in the family who served as interpreter was the child closest in age to the toddler. Whenever the toddler spoke, the listeners turned to the interpreter and asked, "What did he say?" The rest of the family eventually caught on, but only if they added sessions of paying attention into their daily schedules.
Here are a few examples of jabberwalk straight from the pages of the baby books:
Bider: A little black bug that crawls on our ceilings.
City water: See you later.
Copscorns: The treat you put butter and salt on and eat in front of the TV.
Day hoe: Stay here.
Doot: What I say to Mommy when I point and want her to do something.
Glubs: The things Mommy puts on my hands when we go out to make snowballs.
Grink: A liquid that quenches my thirst.
Gwout: What I say when I want to play outside.
Koo-ah: Kool-Aid
Moke: My favorite white drink.
Moo-coo: The animal that says "moo."
Peecha: The food with pepperoni on top that I eat with a big glass of moke.
Poople: My favorite color.
Scub Cout: What my brother is when he puts on his blue uniform.
Slippin Duty: My favorite Disney movie.
Wimmen cool: What I wade in during the summer.
Yookie: What I say when I want someone to look at something.
Eventually, each of our toddlers made the transition from jabberwalk to English. Meanwhile, the rest of the family was stuck in jabberwalk. It wasn’t unusual to be traveling in the car and hear the whole family exclaim, "Yookie! It’s a moo-coo!"
Mothers Worry Best
In a race for the Triple Crown of Worry, mothers are always first out of the gate and last to cross the finish line. Mothers worry best because there’s a lot to worry about.
We worry about what our children CAN do. For instance, they learn new skills like kayaking, rock climbing or mountain biking. Then, they proceed to uncharted locations with their buddies to enjoy their new skills.
We worry about what our children CAN’T do. They can’t sit still in church. They can’t swallow a pill or keep their shoes tied. They can’t sleep through the night.
We worry about what they WILL do. They will take a Band-aid off as soon as it has been put on. They will scrape their knees and pick their noses and belch in public.
We worry about what they WON’T do. They won’t go to bed on time. They won’t pay attention to logic. They won’t "go potty" on demand.
We worry about what they SHOULD do. They should eat their vegetables and drink their milk. They should remember to take a jacket to a November football game.
We worry about what they SHOULDN’T do. They shouldn’t try a first cigarette just to see if they like smoking. They shouldn’t cross the street before looking both ways.
We worry about what they MIGHT do. They might break curfew. They might lose their retainer. They might tip over when the bicycle training wheels are taken off.
We worry about what they might NOT do. They might not fasten their seat belts when "cruising" with their friends. They might not stop picking their chicken pox scabs.
We worry about what they DO. They run when they should walk. They walk when they should run. They do dishes too slowly and watch TV sitcoms too quickly.
We worry about what they DON’T do. They don’t do their homework. They don’t clean their rooms. They don’t brush their teeth enough, and they seldom floss.
Over the years, mothers turn worry into an art form. The reason I’m so sure of this is that I visited my 87-year-old mom a few days ago. As I started for home, she set her mental clock for three-and-a-half hours, when I’d be calling her to report that I got home safely. She still worries about me, you know.
Bridging the Teenage Years
Our sixteen-year-old daughter, Janette, is diligently working toward crossing the bridge into adulthood. According to the psychology books, an adult sees the "big picture" and understands that he or she isn’t the sun around which the universe revolves.
This summer, Janette has a job at a local frozen yogurt shop. Part of the job includes training sessions and going to bed at a reasonable hour so she can get to work on time. Here is a note, quoted exactly, that demonstrates some of the hurdles faced by parents AND teenagers during the transition years:
"Hey, Mom and Dad,
I have a training thing on Overland at 1:00 p.m. so it is IMPERATIVE that a car is here for my escortation to Overland! Also, PLEASE see that I am awake by 10:30 a.m. because I have lots to do before I leave for Overland at 12:30! Thank-you! Love always, Janette"
To be sure . . . she received the wake-up call on schedule, and the car was available at the appointed hour. She also received, free of charge, the lecture on going to bed at a decent hour so that she could avoid assigning duties to OTHER ADULTS that could be delegated to an alarm clock.
Janette did such a good job at the training sessions that in less than a month, her boss promoted her to the position of supervisor. As the supervisor of a frozen yogurt shop, Janette is qualified to make a ba-zillion delectable yogurt concoctions, manage the behavior of workers on her shift, keep a steady stream of customers happy at the drive-thru window, smile for seven hours through braces that were just readjusted, wash a sinkful of dishes and sterilize all the equipment for tomorrow’s business.
I’m impressed. I’m particularly impressed because I believe this is the same individual who has difficulty scrubbing the sink out in her bathroom once a week.
Graduation Day
By Renee Hawkley
(This article was first published in May, 1986, reprinted in Reader's Digest in May, 1989 and continues to be asked for.)
I never thought it would come to this.
Our oldest son is graduating from high school. The eighteen-year-old whirlwind is about to relocate.
One day soon, I will enter his "untouchable" room. I expect to find out once and for all what causes that persistent smell . . . an intriguing aroma best described as something between sweaty socks and peanut butter cups. I will rummage through the pile of whatever-it-is on his bed and unearth the pair of matching sheets. After laundering them, I'll put them back on the bed just like they looked in the catalog I ordered them from. I'll put the matching pillowcase on the pillow, breathe a grateful sigh that the blanket his Grandma Thomas hand-quilted for him is still intact, and align the lengthwise part of the bedspread with the lengthwise part of the bed.
I will go through the stuffed bottom drawer of the chest and count the candy-bar wrappers. I will marvel that its owner has never had a cavity.
I will hide the weight set in the closet and examine several gouges in the walls made by one sports apparatus or the other. Yes, I know. It was an accident, Mom. With any luck, my husband and I will be able to fix most of them with spackling compound and a can of paint.
I will vacuum corners, scrub walls, disinfect mopboards and shine windows. I will confiscate, eradicate and eliminate all dust-ball families that have been breeding with the gum wrappers and dirty combs under the bed.
Then I'll organize the stamp collection and baseball cards for storage. I'll gather all the camera parts and put them in their little compartments in the camera case. I'll bag pairs of holey sneakers for the garbage can. Then I'll close the door, fully expecting to open it later to the organized sight I left behind.
Just A Mother
Once in awhile, I hear a mother respond to the question, "What do you do?" with, "Oh . . . I'm just a mother." It makes me sad to live in a culture that doesn't value the contributions of everyday moms. To me, they do the most important work on the planet.
You see . . . a mother just wakes up at 2:00 a.m. for middle-of-the-night feedings and plays "This little piggy went to market" with your toes. A mother just feeds you strained carrots and changes your messy diapers even when they're full of strained carrots.
A mother just wipes mustard from the corners of your mouth with her wet thumb. She just shows you a picture of a horse in the clouds. She just fixes your hurts by kissing them better. She just makes you eat as many peas as you are years old.
A mother just teaches you how to flush and how to floss. She just reads you a favorite story until you have it memorized. She just takes your temperature and cleans up the mess when you throw up on the carpet.
A mother just scolds you when you don't fasten your seat belt. She just frames your first grade drawing of a bear and hangs it in the living room. She just rewards your dental checkup with a candy bar. She just wipes Popsicle juice off the floor and buys the first glass of Kool-Aid from your lemonade stand after providing all the ingredients. A mother just comes to your kindergarten program to hear you sing off key and claps loudest after your part.
A mother just shows you how to comb your hair so the cowlick will stay down. She just keeps buying shoes and gets embarrassed when you wear socks with holes in them to the shoe store.
A mother just hollers for you to turn the music down so you won't damage your hearing. She just reminds you when you drive too fast. She just informs you when you have too much makeup on. She just brings you a towel when you're dripping wet in the shower.
A mother just says she can't wait until you're more independent and then cries all the way through graduation. She just sheds more tears when you get married and when you tell her you're going to have a baby.
A mother never receives a gold watch when she retires because she never retires. She just adds "grand" to her title. A mother just brags to all her friends about her grandchildren and then proceeds to spoil them rotten.
A mother just loves you from the first day to forever.
I Could Be a Better Mother If ...
After more than a quarter century of motherhood and years of research, I've discovered that the best mothers are male psychologists who devote their careers to writing parenting books. Honestly. I could be a better mother if I didn't have kids. Being a "real" mother has a way of bringing you down a notch or two . . . and that's before the alarm clock goes off each morning.
The best handle I had on being a great mom was when I was in my teens. At the time, I could tell that my mom was making some big mistakes. I could have offered her some great suggestions . . . perhaps even a list . . . but she never asked.
For one thing, she kept hollering down the stairs for me to get up for school every morning. Sometimes, she hollered as many as two or three times in one morning! Mothers aren't supposed to holler. I assured myself that when I became a mother, I would tiptoe quietly downstairs in the mornings and gently nudge my sleeping teens with an offer of cold cereal and orange juice on a tray.
I've learned a few things about being a mom since I was a teenager . . . the first of which is that my mom is a whole lot smarter than I gave her credit for. Right now, she has the perfect qualifications to be an excellent mom. Trouble is, she's at a stage in life where she needs her sleep.
Which brings me to this point . . . the whole mothering operation is all backwards. A mother needs qualifications early instead of late. To be a good mom, you need more than knowledge . . . more than natural talent . . . more than stamina. You need wisdom . . . and the character to use it every single moment of your life. It's an easy formula to write down, but trust me. There are complications. This coveted state of being takes the better part of a lifetime to acquire.
I'm just too young to be a good mom. Still . . . I seem to be making some progress as a mother, even though it's slow. At least, I don't holler downstairs two or three times every morning in an attempt to wake my teenagers up. That's because their bedrooms are upstairs.