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
"My Favorite Decisions"
Since turning 60 on June 25th, 2006, I've been trying to graciously accept "little old lady" status. I guess it's not so bad. Just because little old ladies have "been there, done that" doesn't mean we're through being and doing. And even though people may not pay attention to what little old ladies say, they finally stop interrupting.
Let the record reflect that little old ladies don't become little old ladies without making some dumb decisions, but . . . we can talk about that later. I'd like to talk about the decisions I made that opened a lifetime of exciting possibilities. They may not be right for every woman, but they were precisely right for me, and I wouldn't trade them for all the botox in Hollywood. For what it's worth, here are a few of my favorites;
- to be a "sunbeam" for Jesus (about 1949)
- to marry Dan Hawkley because I was madly in love with him even though we spent his life savings on an alarm clock the day of our marriage (1966)
- to prove to my dad that I could finish earning a college degree (1969)
- to help Dan follow his dreams of becoming an Air Force officer and an attorney (1967-77)
- to spend a large chunk of my childbearing years wearing double-knit maternity clothes when having a large family was out of fashion (1968-85)
- to be a stay-at-home mom (1969-98 . . .I wish it had been longer)
- to stick it out and never give up when things got tough (1990)
- to stop expecting perfection in myself and others (2001)
- to be happy anyway (2002)
And . . . (drum roll) . . . my newest-best-tried-and-truest decision;
- to let God be the boss (2004 and counting).
The Exhausting, Exhilarating World of Motherhood
When I hear Oprah say, "Being a mother is the hardest job on earth," it feels good . . . good enough to make me cry. As a thirty-five year veteran in this business, I have lots of proof to back up her statement. Being a mother IS the hardest job on earth. It’s also the best one.
Motherhood is a profession of extremes. It’s the oldest job on earth . . . as old as Cain and Abel. It’s also the newest . . . as new as the newest infant born today.
It’s the most exhausting job on earth . . . as exhausting as caring for a colicky baby and two preschoolers with chicken pox. It’s the most exhilarating job on earth . . . as exhilarating as watching a son score several three-pointers in a basketball game.
It’s the most stressful job on earth . . . as stressful as having a stranger call to say your child is being rushed to a hospital with chest pains in a faraway city. It’s the most calming job on earth . . . as calming as hearing your child play "Blackbird" on his guitar.
It’s the most heart-wrenching job on earth . . . as heart-wrenching as having an angry teenager storm out the door and drive off into the night. It’s the most heart-warming job on earth . . .as heart-warming as when your child comes back home.
It’s the saddest job on earth . . . as sad as having a miscarriage. It’s the happiest job on earth . . . as happy as hearing the words, "It’s a girl!"
It’s the most maddening job on earth . . . as maddening as discovering that your child found a box of matches and burned all the yarn tassels off the quilt his grandmother tied. It’s the most gladdening job on earth . . . as gladdening as knowing that through some miracle, the house didn’t burn down with your child in it.
It’s the most prideful job on earth . . . as prideful as hearing your daughter and her husband sing a lovely duet. It’s the most humbling job on earth . . . as humbling as answering the phone at 3:00 a.m. to have a policeman ask if you know where your son is.
It’s the most mundane job on earth . . . as mundane as figuring out "What’s for dinner?" for the 4,000th time in a row. It’s the most adventurous job on earth . . . as adventurous as trying to get to sleep while being sandwiched between two squirrelly grandchildren in a sleeping bag.
It’s the most stressful job on earth . . . as stressful as having a child wet his pants on the "Pirates of the Caribbean" ride at Disneyland. It’s the most encouraging job on earth . . . as encouraging as having a tall, handsome son put his long arms around you and refer to you as "my little Mommy."
It’s the most sorrowful job on earth . . . as sorrowful as realizing that I still make mistakes. It’s the most joyful job on earth . . . as joyful as knowing my children still love me anyway.
Where Seldom Is Heard a Discouraging Word
Most Americans can sing "Home on the Range." Dreams of "a home where the buffalo roam" are now far-fetched, but it’s still possible to have a home "where seldom is heard a discouraging word."
From the time a baby starts putting paper clips in her mouth, throwing Cheerios and reaching for electrical sockets, a parent responds with, "No, no!" A certain amount of knee-jerk answers are required to keep homes intact and children safe. However, constant negative responses can be discouraging and can actually do damage.
Several years ago, while shopping, I heard a mother continually berate her children. They seemed listless and beaten down by her approach. When I got home, I decided to listen to myself interact with our children. I discovered that, while I wasn’t using obvious negative labels, I WAS overdosing on the word "no" and the negative contractions "can’t, won’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t and don’t." I decided to change and found that it IS possible to turn any negative statement into a positive one.
Start like I did, by playing a personal mind game. Every time you hear yourself belittling a child, saying "no" or using one of the contraction words, try to think of a way you could have turned your negative words into positive ones.
For example, your six-year-old asks if he can go out to play. Instead of saying, "Not until your bed is made," say, "Yes, as soon as your bed is made." Your baby starts reaching for a tube of lipstick. Instead of grabbing his hand and saying "No, no" . . . move the lipstick and give the baby something else to play with. When your child runs toward his bike, say, "Stop! Remember to put your helmet on" instead of "Don’t get on that bike without a helmet!" It may be a subtle difference, but ask yourself, "Which directions would YOU rather receive?"
Establishing positive language habits takes devotion and a marathon mentality. For me, it continues to be a challenging task. However, it’s worth the effort to turn our "home on the range" into one "where seldom is heard a discouraging word."
Confessions of an Amateur Parent
Here are chapter titles for the book, Confessions of an Amateur Parent, which I intend to write in a future life, when I’ll have lots of extra time for such things:
Confession 1 . . . I Thought My Parents had it Easy
Confession 2 . . . I Thought I Had Life Figured Out
Confession 3 . . . I Had No Idea What I Was Getting In To
Confession 4 . . . I Didn’t Know Parents Throw Tantrums, Too
Confession 5 . . . I Thought My Kids Would Be Like Me
Confession 6 . . . I Thought I Could Get the Laundry Caught Up
Confession 7 . . . I Thought Being a Mom Was Probably Going to Get Boring
Confession 8 . . . I Thought Everybody Needed to Take Piano Lessons
Confession 9 . . . I Thought Being a Parent Meant You Got To Do What You Want
Confession 10 . . . I Thought I Could Get My Whole House Clean at Once
Confession 11 . . . I Didn’t Know How Much Everything Was Going to Cost
Confession 12 . . . I Thought My Teenagers Were All Home In Bed
Confession 13 . . . I Thought My Kids Would Never Grow Up
Confession 14 . . . I Thought I’d be a Perfect Parent by Now
Confession 15 . . . I Thought I Would Be Done As a Mom When My Kids Turned 18
Confession 16 . . . I Didn’t Know Very Much About Life or Love before I had Kids
Confession 17 . . . I’m Glad We Had One More . . . And One More
Confession 18 . . . The Only Thing More Fun than being a Mom is being a Grandma
Save the Bunnies
By Renee Hawkley
(This article is from the files of summers past.)
Our daughter, Janette, is an animal lover unfairly saddled with parents and seven siblings who are not. She wages a lonely crusade to preserve squirrels that live in our backyard trees, a grey-and-white bunny named Lightning, a remarkable 29 cent goldfish, and a white cat named Sesame that insists on rolling in the dirt every time he is outside.
That’s why I knew there was trouble brewing when the two adolescent boys next door, who love to tease, became the owners of a VERY pregnant rabbit that gave birth to a batch of bunnies much sooner than any of us could have hoped. Their plans for the bunnies, outlined in graphic detail within earshot of Janette, are kindly censored.
Janette and her friends have enlisted me as an ally. I’m not an animal lover, but well . . . the bunnies ARE so cute, and . . . here are some of the girls’ ideas for possible rescue strategies:
- Make a "Bunnies for Free!" sign and set it up on Five Mile Rd.
- Call pet store owners and ask them if they need bunnies to sell.
- Go door-to-door around the neighborhood asking people to save one bunny each.
- Give two bunnies to Anna, two to Cary, and two to Melissa if there are leftovers.
- Make Lightning’s rabbit cage bigger. Put the mamma rabbit and her babies in the cage with Lightning and hope that Lightning is a girl rabbit, too.
This one gets my vote:
- Call a rabbit farmer and volunteer the bunnies to make more bunnies for his farm.
Let the Games Begin
August . . . the hot . . . sticky . . . dog days of summer. Time for your kids to pick your brain like a seagull picks a beach at low tide, searching for answers to the question, "Mom . . . what can we do?" Here are a few ideas, ready for recycling:
- Blow bubbles
- Play ‘Dress Up’
- Catch bugs in a jar and then let them go
- Play ‘Tag,’ ‘Backyard Baseball’ or ‘Dodge Ball’
- Make a lemonade stand
- Collect pretty rocks
- Make paper chains
- Play ‘Garbage Can Basketball,’ ‘H-O-R-S-E,’ and ‘21’
- Find a four-leaf clover in the grass
- Play ‘Kick the Can’ or ‘Hide and Seek’
- Play jump rope or marbles
- Run through the sprinklers
- Play ‘Leap Frog’
- Draw pictures with sidewalk chalk and play ‘Hopscotch’
- Play ‘Follow the Leader’
- Paint the house with water
- Play ‘Duck, Duck, Goose’ or ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’
- Make mud pies
- Have a tea party
- Play ‘Mother May I’ or ‘Simon Says’
- Play ‘One Potato, Two Potato’
And, my personal favorite, load the kids into the car and make a
- Trip to the air-conditioned library.
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.
No Comfort Zones for Moms
It’s hard for moms to get into a comfort zone because there are always new and improved ways for moms to make mistakes. Here’s a modest sample from my bucket of memories;
- Driving into the side of the hospital after an appointment with my obstetrician, who had just delivered the unsettling news that I might be carrying twins.
- Starting to mix a batch of bread in the largest container I had at the time, which was an 8-cup mixing bowl.
- Taking my eyes off our three-year-old son while he was pushing a stroller in a crowd of 100,000 at a Washington D.C.
- Fourth of July fireworks celebration.
- Forgetting to tell a vanload of teenagers when and where to meet after dropping them off at the Twin Falls Mall.
- Driving ten miles in the direction of home before discovering I had left our five-year-old son at church.
- Putting a gallon container of honey on the bottom shelf of the cupboard.
- Telling our son he did NOT have to go to the bathroom right this very minute.
One of the benefits of being a mom is that most mistakes are made "in the family." In that case, we get plenty of chances to make corrections.
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 Can Help God Bless America?
Who can help God bless America? This task is reserved for people with courage, dedication, patriotism, diligence and love . . . like firefighters, military personnel, policemen and presidents. But they aren’t the only ones who preserve the "land of the free and the home of the brave."
Since I left home for college in 1964, my mother has written me a weekly letter telling me the news from home and updating me on the activities of my brothers and sisters and their families. Sometimes, the letters are four or five pages long . . . no margins allowed. Each of my five siblings gets the same treatment. My mother is dedicated. She helps God bless America.
Recently, my husband and I watched Judy Andrews run a dramatic segment of the Olympic torch relay as it threaded its way toward a cauldron-lighting ceremony in Boise. She had her four young children with her. Their family was stationed at Mountain Home Air Force Base nearby when her husband, Evander Andrews, became the first American casualty in the war against terrorism. Judy has patriotism. Judy helps God bless America.
I met my friend, Bonnie, at a wedding reception, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. They’re a congenial clan and were having a delightful time. If I didn’t know the facts, I wouldn’t believe that her feet had been amputated less than eighteen months ago. Bonnie has courage. Bonnie helps God bless America.
Every Sunday morning, at 8:58 a.m., my friend Connie and her husband come trooping into our chapel on McMillan Rd. with their four children, all under eight years old. Every shoe is tied, every shirt and dress is clean and every freckle has been polished. The faces of the children almost sparkle. Church starts at 9:00. Connie is diligent. Connie helps God bless America.
My friend, Carol, wanted a family more than she wanted a promising career as a concert pianist. She is the mother of two and teaches piano to many budding musicians. Carol’s 20-year-old son, Chris, has cystic fibrosis. His life and health are ever fragile. Carol has learned to appreciate every moment and continues to be there every step of the way. Carol has love. Carol helps God bless America.
In every neighborhood across these United States, American citizens rise up to meet their ordinary and extraordinary circumstances with courage, dedication, patriotism, diligence and love. Each one helps God bless America. It is my belief that ordinary American mothers are among those who do it best.
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.
Can't She Control Her Children?
I’ve been thinking about a question raised by a fellow shopper in a grocery store checkout line. While observing the behavior of a mother and her unruly young children, the shopper turned to me and asked, "Can’t she control her children?"
Good question. Not one to be figured out in the express line.
On second and third thought, this is THE question of all time. It first wriggled its way to the top with Adam and Eve, seized a firm hold with Cain and Abel and continues to demand full attention through the long thread of history. The answer to the question, "Can parents control their children?" appears to be . . . simply . . . "No." They can’t.
This is a difficult concept for parents. I know because as a parent, I’ve been trying to "get it" for 34 years and counting.
While they are young, we control our children’s environment and attempt to provide them with a foundation for temporal and spiritual safety, health, material needs, education and opportunities for development. But our children do not belong to us. They are not our property. We do not purchase them as if they are horses to "break" and to be used for our own purposes.
It is true that as parents, we have the opportunity to influence, teach, bless, direct, guide and lead our children. As we go along, we can learn valuable skills that will help us be more effective in this awesome task. We provide examples for them. We love them. We cherish them. We have faith in them. We pray for them. However, in the final analysis, their thoughts, words and actions are their own . . . not ours.
Look around. Even God doesn’t control His children. I guess that’s why we’re called human BEINGS. We are the masters of our own thoughts, words and actions. We get to BE what we choose to be. It’s the plan.
Children Provide Brain Munchies
You don't have to be a parent very long to figure out that providing brain munchies for adults is one of the things children do best. For example, at a local elementary school, a bulletin board displayed one classroom’s punch lines to common sayings that are unfamiliar to children. Here are a few;
The pen is mightier than . . . the eraser.
It’s always darkest before . . . bedtime.
In every cloud, there’s a . . . bunch of raindrops.
You can lead a horse to water, but . . . don’t get behind it.
Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and . . . you get a runny nose.
Happy the bride that . . . gets the cake.
Never underestimate the power of . . . school.
There’s no business like . . . McDonald’s.
Money is the root of . . . buying.
If you lie down with the dogs . . . they will probably get up and run away.
A penny saved is . . . not a lot.
Children are to be seen and not . . . hurt.
A bird in the hand is worth . . . buying a cage.
The grass is always greener on the other side of . . . a fire hydrant.
And, my personal favorite;
Don’t bite the hand that . . . . belongs to your mom.
I Am An American Mother
Marcia Ford, my friend and national president of American Mothers, Inc., asked me to write something short that would encourage mothers as they go about their important work. She wanted it to go along with the purpose of AMI, which is to strengthen the moral and spiritual foundations of the family and home. It sounded like an easy assignment that would take a couple of hours . . . three at the most.
Wrong.
As it turns out, we worked on it for weeks. Marcia and I went back and forth through the email network trying to get it "just right" until we ran into a deadline and decided it was finished. It appears on the new AMI brochures that will be distributed to mothers across the nation.
Here it is. I hope it does what it's supposed to do, and most of all, I hope you like it. Pass it on to a mother near you.
I am an American mother . . .
My home shelters the soul of a moral nation;
My family links a country's past to its future;
Our prayers are the pulse of freedom;
I shed and dry tears that heal this wounded land,
Nurturing faith where fear abounds
As I cradle the tender wings of hope and joy.
My heart and hands help God bless America.
-2002-
Families Gotta Eat!
In the "olden days," family mealtime was a life-sustaining habit. It was a time to meet regularly, to share plans and shape attitudes. When I was growing up, my parents gathered their family three times a day around a meal prepared from scratch by my mother. After the meal, Mother washed and dried every dish and began thinking about what she was going to cook for the next meal. Fast food, microwaves, dishwashers and busy schedules have changed nearly everything about mealtime. However . . . one stubborn fact remains. Hunger is as predictable as the sunrise and several times as frequent. Families gotta eat!
While meal preparation and cleanup have gotten easier, meeting regularly as families has gotten MUCH harder. I would be the last to propose a return to milking cows, plucking feathers from chickens and churning butter. However, there are still many ways of blending family members and food regularly in order to share plans and shape attitudes. Families of the 21st century must be vigilant and creative to ensure that modern time-savers are used in ways that unite family members rather than divide them. For example, who says you can’t keep your red and white checkered tablecloth in the car and spread it out at the park after you stop at a McDonald’s drive through? Try it! Your imagination is the only limit.
As I write this article, three of our sons are gathered around a bowl of microwave popcorn to discuss which of two people had a bigger impact on history, Marilyn Monroe or Ghandi. A puzzling topic. Three brothers . . . sharing food and testing ideas with people they care about. Regardless of which boy’s argument prevails, my family is winning . . . one kernel at a time.
Just Bathe the Baby
Anyone who thinks mothers are unskilled laborers should try giving a newborn baby a bath. Here’s a simple set of instructions for this entry-level skill:
- Set aside thirty minutes of uninterrupted time. Telephones, doorbells, dryer buzzers, sibling rivalry in the other room and oven timers must be ignored.
- For best results, select a time when baby’s tummy is midway between full and empty.
- Assemble all paraphernalia, including baby’s tub, disposable diaper (better bring two), shampoo, washcloth, soap, receiving blanket, skin preparations, clothing, towel and soft-bristled hairbrush. Consider earplugs and additional towels if baby’s siblings are "helping."
- Fill tub with water set at the exact temperature between lukewarm and too warm.
- Spread towel beside tub and lay baby on it.
- Remove baby’s clothing and prepare for reaction when cold air assaults baby’s body.
- Wash baby’s face with damp washcloth before transferring baby to tub.
- Place baby in water, being sure to give firm but gentle support to baby’s head and shoulders with one arm while managing the washcloth, soap, paraphernalia and baby’s siblings with the other. Wash baby with washcloth, paying particular attention to removing "dirt" from under the toes, between clenched fists and fingers, under neck creases, behind ears and from other cracks and crevices.
- Shampoo and rinse baby’s hair.
- Throughout process, soothe and entertain baby with loving words, reassuring baby of steps taken to ensure baby’s comfort and informing baby of plans for the day.
- Whisk baby from bath water to towel, wrap baby in towel loosely and dry baby, paying particular attention again to all cracks and crevices.
- Apply skin preparations, including diaper rash ointment and lotion as desired.
- Diaper and dress baby, brush baby’s hair and wrap baby in receiving blanket.
- Feed baby to full line while rocking gently.
- After baby falls asleep, place in crib and cover with blanket if necessary.
- Clean up mess.
- Breathe sigh of satisfaction.
- Proceed to the "unskilled labor" of keeping baby healthy and happy.
The Myth of the Perfect Mom
You know those perfect moms . . . the ones with the figure of Barbie, the homemaking skills of Martha Stewart, the moral certainty of Dr. Laura, the poise of Laura Bush and the compassion of Mother Teresa.
I used to know some perfect moms, too. Then, I got to know them, and guess what. Every single one of them is really NOT perfect after all. Not even close. Some of the moms I thought were perfect have bulges and warts. Some feature macaroni and cheese as their gourmet meal, and others raise their voices when they know better.
Come to find out, the road of mothering is NOT like Dorothy’s yellow brick road that leads to the land of finished products. Moms don’t ever "arrive" because motherhood is more like this big map with endless possibilities than just a defined journey from one location to another.
In some ways, it’s kind of exciting to know there isn’t a stagnant set of directions for being a mom. It’s also comforting to know there’s no rush to the finish line. It’s a process, not a product.
Nonetheless, there are checkpoints along the way . . . labor and deliver, baby’s first tooth, putting a child on the bus for the first day of school, report cards, driver’s permits, vacations, graduations, weddings, your daughter’s labor and deliver, your grandchild’s first tooth . . . you get the picture. Each checkpoint introduces a new set of hurdles as well as rewards.
Improvements to the never-ending yellow brick road of motherhood are always possible and even necessary. Just as streets leading through bustling communities must be periodically torn up, rebuilt and repaved to aid the flow of traffic, mothers must plan for improvements, evaluate and evolve to best serve their own needs and those of their families.
As for me, I think I’ll start wearing a T-shirt with this logo: "Patience . . . mom under construction."