Tough-skinned Mamas

The Bible says that mirth is God's medicine. Indeed, while it may be beneficial to laugh and to not take ourselves too seriously, there seems to be a consensus that acquiring thick-skin on the mothering journey is also advantageous. Children that you love, for whom you would give your life, to whom you are committed beyond reservation do say the darnedest things. These are kids that love you back but that, in the innocence of child-likeness or the thoughtlessness of adolescence or the busyness of adulthood,  blurt out blatant stomach punches. Some leave us almost breathless.

With shrieks coming from the nursery one morning many years ago, I ran to comfort a distraught toddler awakening from a nightmare. Rocking and consoling my child who was notoriously a bit of a grumpy Eeyore when waking up,  I tried my best to cajole him. "I am so sorry you were frightened. Mother's here now. What was your bad dream about?" "YOU!" came the unexpected reply. Groan. When the day starts on that note, you know it is going to be an uphill climb.

No doubt we have all taken our mother's cork under a time or two. I recall a particular blunder when I was probably eight years old. Mother and Daddy did not often go out (I mean, where is there to go in Bucyrus, Ohio, alias SmallTown, USA?) but this particular evening, they had a date, just the two of them. Mother floated down the stairs like a princess, wearing those notorious high-heeled pumps that carried her petite frame so nimbly, all clean and good-smelling, twirling in a dusty pink and black print, full skirt. She wore a black blouse that had elastic circling the short sleeves and the scooped neckline and a wide, stretchy black belt wrapping her tiny waist. The style, I believe, at that time was called a "peasant look". I had never seen anything more exquisite. Wide-eyed, I pronounced  adoringly that my mother was as beautiful as a gypsy. I truly could not think of a description that would be more fancy or fun. My mother's smile faded just a tad (she knew I meant well) and I am pretty sure that little outfit was retired at evening's end.

                                     

Another time I announced to my teacher, who was matching names with food items to be brought to the school carnival, that my mother was making the potato salad in the bath tub. Ever after, even when she became the president of the PTA, my mother endured teasing because she had jested about needing to mix the large quantity in the tub. I, the kindergartener-in-the-know, had taken her literally. 

My friend's bout with cynicism was at the mercy of her son who has recently become infatuated with a young lady. When asked to describe "Miss Right" he announced that she was nothing like his mom,  that he would never want to marry someone like his mother. Although, a brother tried desperately to smooth  things over, the young man with stars in his eyes, stuck to his guns. While Prince Charming is very close to his mom,  he, nevertheless, would not be persuaded to retract his statement. Just weird marrying someone that reminds you of your mom, I guess. But I will bet it happens more often than those cavalier suitors recognize.

My own offspring have humbled and pummeled me along the way. I have overheard remarks like, "My mother makes the best" (my heart was swelling with pride during a split-second pause)....."cereal." Or here is another, "Did they have old-fashioned toys when you were little, or were they all new then?" And "I love you so much. I'm glad the Indians didn't kill you when you were a little girl." (Me, too. Pocahontas and I had it made!)

Grandchildren help with the added epidermis layer, too. A grandson recently plopped onto the sofa, and exclaimed,"When was the last time someone was on this couch? I just sat down and all this dust flew up in the air." (Technically, he dive-bombed to his seat and we prefer to refer to those little particles floating around as "sunshine" streaming through the windows.)

So, as our skin gets thicker (more wrinkled, too) maybe like the velveteen rabbit we are toughened up but more soft and mellow inside knowing we are loved. Afterall, a mother is supposed to be the one who extracts the intended meaning from the words and "with a breath of kindness blows the chaff away". Besides, the little love notes we save & tuck between pages of books to re-discover later, often misspelled and grammatically disheveled, make the spoken faux pas worth it. 

"I love you Mama. I will tickle you in the morning."

"I love you so, so, so,  HO, HO, HO much" (tied to the Christmas teapot)

"I hop you will lik ths pctur. You r my favrit. You r the goodest muthr."

                                      

                                          

Lord

Grant me the grace You extend to me in my oft carelessness of words. Help me to form the mind of Christ as I respond to loved ones, to not look solely on the outward appearance [expression] but to look on the heart.

1 Samuel 16:7

Gift from the Sea

The waves come sooner now than then,

Relentlessly......again. Again.

I used to catch my breath between

And now the swells seem twice as keen

Be Thou my Rock on which to lean.

The waves tumultuous, varied hue,

Some sparkling, effervescent, new.

Though tis not Fate from which they come

At times the musings where they're from

Leave spirits dulled and senses numb.

Teach me to breath along the way

Amidst the waves of storm or play.

When threatened by the undertow

Or choking in the tides that flow

Thy grace that I may fully know.

                                  

On a day nearly two decades ago, the lines of this poem came to me as I walked along the shore. The details  of life's circumstances on that day are unclear in my memory. History today. But I penned the words that are now glued  to the back of a black and white photo of tumultuous waters and stuck picture and poem together between the pages of my Bible. I reflect on them often. 

Twenty years ago, my oldest sons were just emerging from their teens. I still had a baby in arms and children sprinkled every age in between. Baseball games and ballet recitals. Bicycles, skates and doll  carriages in the driveway. Someone was eating their first  solid food, then sprouting a first tooth, or saying their first word. Another was taking first steps, or reading a first book, or winning the geography bee...getting braces put on their teeth...acquiring a drivers license...getting braces taken off their teeth ...applying for college. The transitions occurred predictably as each child wove  their way through developmental plateaus  with a kind of rhythm. But one day, when I turned my back, the consecutive changes turned into simultaneous swirling. The waves were gathering momentum and looming larger with tsunami symptoms.

                                  

I cannot remember the issues that concerned me so and inspired the poem. Yet, I remember the expanse of ocean as vast and magnificent as it is today and the sense of being anchored in the assurance that its Creator, whose footsteps are in the deep, would and could sustain me. He is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. He can turn the tides, and does. He knows the way I take and my sighing is not hidden from Him. Those fragile-looking seagulls inspired me to face the wind. 

                              

A young friend having just birthed her fifth child shared with me genuine joy over her everyday days. At the same time she reflected that life had never been so difficult. "This is what I always wanted to do when I grew up," she mused. " I have always wanted to be a wife and mother and I am living my dream, but I have never had so many children at so many different ages and stages before....and it's never been this hard." Then she looked at me quizzically, as if a light had gone on, "Or else, maybe I made the last stage more difficult than it needed to be." 

Profound. My young friend was surprised to hear that her words had struck a chord in my heart....that her plight is right where I dwell today. I have never had so many children (and grandchildren) at so many different ages and stages before. The numbers (and waves) are certain to increase just as surely as my capacity for white-water rafting diminishes. I have often made it more difficult than it needed to be. The letting-go and learning to trust is a process. The stakes become higher, the climb more steep, the way more narrow. It is well. It is well, with my soul.

                                     

Psalm 107

      23Those who go down to the sea in ships,
            Who do business on great waters;

      24They have seen the works of the LORD,
            And His wonders in the deep.

      25For He spoke and raised up a stormy wind,
            Which lifted up the waves of the sea.

      26They rose up to the heavens, they went down to the depths;
            Their soul melted away in their misery.

      27They reeled and staggered like a drunken man,
            And were at their wits’ end.

      28Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,
            And He brought them out of their distresses.

      29He caused the storm to be still,
            So that the waves of the sea were hushed.

      30Then they were glad because they were quiet,
            So He guided them to their desired haven.

      31Let them give thanks to the LORD for His lovingkindness,
            And for His wonders to the sons of men.

                                       

        

Home Grown

 

                  

Sparkly sliver and glistening crystal water goblets going clink when the ice water is  poured. Linen napkins are creased deliberately and a delicate orchid anchors the table-center. Fragrant teas being poured through strainers into china cups awaiting sugar cubes and a host of accompaniments on which to feast our eyes and palates. Tea at the Ritz, a rare but favorite treat for me and my daughters. This year we celebrate the birthday of Diana as she turns the page to begin her twenty-fourth year. (For all who know  well that I do not do numbers, let me clarify that I am perfectly aware that she turned twenty-three.) 

We speak of many things. Female gibberish about the outrageous costume on the young lady at the next table, the precious family of four generation tea-takers including a child's doll clustered at the fireplace setting, and the carefree ease with which some of the guests seem to weave in and out of what we consider an almost surreal adventure. As we are prone to do on birthdays in our family, one of the sisters asks Diana to reflect on a highlight from the previous year and to share goals for the year ahead. When I inquire about favorite childhood birthday memories, Diana playfully responds, "The ones when you were home." Gales of laughter erupt from my daughters, but I hesitate before I can join the spontaneity of the teasing.

Birthdays are a big deal at our house. We begin the countdown at least a week ahead. Is there anything else you still want to do as a ten year old? This is your last Thursday to be eleven. Presents are not a spectacle, but the celebrant choosing the menu and cake-flavor with your picture-fan front and center are the order for the day. So, how could this child pull up the birthdays of my absence as those most memorable? 

Eventually I laugh. Harrumph. (You know how mothers are.) Indeed, I did miss two birthdays out of the twenty-three. Once, when I took the oldest sister to England to visit the school she would attend after high school and another when in Hawaii while Dennis attended a conference. This child, by the way, had a stash of little surprises to open every hour on the hour to assuage my guilt complex. 

Nonetheless, I was grateful for the message and for the track record. Grateful to have been able to be home with my children. Grateful that they noticed when I wasn't there. Grateful that even though I missed the mark in many ways, I heard the Lord's prompting that my presence was important. Sometimes, on those "Alexander and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad, day" days I would quip that I could be wearing high heels and carrying a brief case and threatened to put my crew on the next yellow bus that came down the street. But they  knew I was joking. I was home, where I wanted to be even on "those days".

My own mother was my mentor through example more than words. During my growing up years in the Leave it to Beaver era, she was ironing when I returned from school or gathering the wash from the line or baking apple dumplings, all in her black, straight skirt, white blouse and high (as in spiked) heels. I remember a season when Mother was asked to be the Welcome Wagon lady in our small Midwest community. That meant she was given a car  to drive to  greet  newcomers, to acknowledge a baby's birth or to congratulate first-time homeowners. She was responsible for recruiting local merchants who donated their wares that comprised the welcome-basket she gifted to recipients she visited on one or two days per week. As I went off to school one morning I asked if she would be home when I returned. Mind you, my daddy's office was in the home, so one of my parents was ever-present. When mother replied to the affirmative, I told her I was glad...that I liked it when she was there when I got home from school. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe new people stopped moving into our little burg or maybe the dealership that loaned her the car needed it back. Anyway, Mother peeled the welcome-wagon decals off the side of the loaned vehicle and I never knew her to make another call after that day. She knew it meant something to me when she was home when I got there.

There are mothers who wait years for that affirmation, or calculate that when their kids hit their teens, their presence does not matter. Nancy, my friend, waited in  the kitchen each afternoon for that moment her son returned each day from high school. For four years, she busied herself with something--just anything--to be there when he walked through the room, never making eye contact or saying a word to her.  Still she made it a point to be home, to let her interest and love and concern speak what his teenage, rebellious state did not want to hear in words. It would be years later when, in a crowded room, she overheard her thirty year old son telling the group of young parents gathered how much it had meant to him that his mom was always home when he returned from school.

To be ever-present as a mom is not necessarily a virtue. But to be fully present, consistently engaged and genuinely interested are gifts long-remembered. It is not only quality but quantity. Kids thrive on  both.

                                

And so, li'l missy....recently turned "mrs" I am so grateful to have shared this birthday with you. Soon you will be off to Wisconsin with your beloved to start a new chapter of your lives together. And whenever you are and wherever I am, you will always be "home in my heart" on this day.