I remember when one of the kids was heading out into the cold and I was helping zip a coat. Maybe kindergarten, possibly first grade. Todd called me out on it and asked what was happening. We weren’t the kind of parents who coddled or did anything for our kids that they could possibly do for themselves. I sheepishly responded that I was just helping him, it was such a cold day. An isolated instance, we figured they could do it themselves, ask for help, or be uncomfortable. Same with even bringing a coat in the first place. We’ve always been the kind to allow and push our kids to do things on their own and for themselves; for the most part, we figure they can handle their stuff.
But this year I regressed. The kids were supposed to leave ideally by 6:20 to make it to their early-morning class by 6:30, but as the year stretched on, they wouldn’t leave till 6:45 or later. Like a lot of parents, we were flummoxed. The kids can do it. They wake up on time for jobs, hunting, trips, school, all sorts of things. We told them how disrespectful it was. We told them a few minutes of extra sleep really doesn’t make that much of a difference. We told them ways they could prepare better. I berated myself for not having taught them better manners or how to be more responsible. I had no solution and went in circles with it all.
Until I thought, I’m up at 5:30 anyway, I can totally make them breakfast and lunch. In fact, it’s the least I could do. When I thought about it in that light, I berated myself for being so self-centered all these years and just exercising when I could’ve been helping my kids out!
So I started making them breakfasts: egg, ham, and cheese sandwiches, cream of wheat, leftovers from dinner, breakfast casserole, smoothies, oatmeal, toast, breakfast burritos, yogurt parfaits, muffins, bagels, whatever I could find. Lunches were the same: pb and jam sandwiches, maybe turkey and cheese, vegetables with tiny containers of dip, cut up apples, energy balls, homemade fruit leather, chips or crackers, little baggies of raisins and peanuts and pretzels, salads with croutons separate, along with little containers of dressing, cookies and brownies, string cheese, pasta salad, yogurt, soup or chili in thermoses, muffins, granola bars, nothing fancy, just regular mom kind of lunch food.
I spent from 6-6:30 every weekday doing breakfasts, loading water bottles with water and piles of ice, starting the truck in frigid negative temps, and packing lunches. Even on Tuesdays when I would leave at 5, I’d pack their lunches the night before and make their sandwiches fresh before I left. And when he’d have a meet, I’d pack extra, making two sandwiches and a big batch of cookies for the road. It was fine, it became the routine, I had it in me, I just listened to my podcasts and got things handled. It was early, so I knew better than to expect any sort of acknowledgment or conversation, but we always had a prayer before they left, and that was just the way it went. For months.
Todd was always against it. And I knew our philosophy, of course, for sure, I was totally on board. But this was different, I thought. I hated that weren’t there for their teachers, and so if there was anything I could do, I would give up my value of teaching them independence in lieu of teaching them to be on time and to be respectful of their teachers’ time.
I don’t even know what the trigger was that made me want to end it all. Most likely I finally heard what Todd had been trying to tell me. And I realized all my assistance had been for nought. Nothing had changed. They were consistently late no matter what I did. So I just told them I was done. Dad and I would be on our walk in the mornings (mostly so I didn’t have to watch it) and they were on their own.
So here we are, the school year is over, and as I look back on our experiment, I still don’t know if there is a right or a wrong to it all. I think what happened was my values clashed. I wanted them to have healthy food, balanced meals. I wanted them to get to their class on time and not have to waste more of their precious morning time doing something I could easily help them with. I wanted them to have warm cars to drive to school in since we all have to park outside and so many winter mornings it’s below zero when they leave. I’m a stay-at-home mom, I have all day to do my things, this was the smallest of sacrifices, I wanted to help. I loved my reasons. And I still do. But Todd and I decided from the very beginning—even as we encouraged our babies to hold their own bottles and our toddlers to wipe and use knives safely—that we wanted to raise our kids to be able to leave us. We wanted them to be confident and capable on their own, and nearly every decision we’ve made in our parenting supports that one axiom.
So I met them halfway and bought all sorts of food that went against my values of homemade and minimal packaging and health. But they started doing their own lunches. I’d see Callum with his pre-packaged foods and cooler laid out the night before. I’d see B making a sandwich and gathering her granola bar and crackers. I have no idea what they ate for breakfast and we did away with saying a prayer. Todd and I just left with the dogs and they figured it out or went hungry or spent their money eating out, I have no idea. I just think this is better. I could see an immediate change. We're back to being roommates, which is what feels best at this stage. They're simply too old to be doted on like that. Subconsciously, I think it feels empowering to be independent even though most kids' default is to want to take the easy way.
So I guess what I learned is that I should’ve stuck with what we decided on long ago and that we had done with our other three. Maybe. I’m to the point in my mothering where I can pause take a look back and wonder what I would’ve done differently. I wonder if I should’ve been more nurturing, if I should’ve coddled more, if I should’ve done more for them. I wonder if they would’ve felt more loved and cared for. Did they feel like I didn’t care or that I was just lazy? Did I choose the right values to focus on? Should I have made exceptions? I have no idea. I can only look at where they are now and how they’re living as young adults. If I have a brave moment, I might ask them if they felt like it worked out ok or if we did it all wrong. For now, we are still muddling through, just trying to make the best decisions we can based on our hopes for their futures. I just hope that one day they’ll be in a place to understand why we did it the way we did and know that everything we did was out of love and to teach them how to be adults of their own someday.
Wednesday, June 8, 2022
Tuesday, June 7, 2022
Play ball!
An outgoing and persuasive girlfriend asked me to join her for pickleball one evening last month. I’ve been invited to sleepovers and themed parties as an adult that have pushed me right out of my comfort zone, but never to this extent. Everyone I know knows me better.
But I agreed. Because I’d actually played an impromptu game with our older neighbors one evening. And because I’ve wanted to take up tennis again. And because I/we need hobbies. And friends. And because I want to be the kind of person who says yes to invitations whenever possible. But I honestly had no context for what it would be like, moms getting together in an athletic setting? What would it feel like, how would this work, how bad would I be, how awkward would this all end up?
I realized I had no idea what people wear to activities like this. Back in the day it would’ve been short tennis shorts or sweats pushed up to our knees. I ended up with a painting shirt, leggings, and old beat-up running shoes, a far cry from a tennis skirt and cute polo and tennis shoes. But I was saying yes, I was showing up, I was venturing out of my comfort zone. I know that sounds dramatic, but this really was completely new territory for me, playing like this with other women.
I couldn’t get jr. high p.e. out of my head. I hated our uniforms. And how pale I was. We were always sharing lotion in the locker room, the least I could do for my scaly white skin, but it was still bad. Just like my skill level in every single sport we had to try. The idea was to expose us to all sorts of sports: softball, soccer, basketball, running. I have a girl’s words etched in my memory as I was assigned to her basketball team, “Why do you have to be on our team?” Every p.e. period was honestly a nightmare, and it was even worse when we combined with the boys. The only thing I was good at was running the fire lane back to the locker room and getting a check mark for having walked through the showers.
High school was no better. More of the same, except we added swimming in the outdoor pools to the mix. Refusing to dive and swim across the pool, I was relegated to the small shallow pool with a blond cheerleader/swimmer as my personal trainer. I thought jr. high was bad, but this really was the worst. As a sophomore I finally had a choice; and even now, I count the decision to do racquet sports as one of the best of my life. I abandoned any hope of hanging out with the cool kids at the gym and followed my own inclination. I didn’t know any other kids in the class, but I loved learning racquetball, badminton, and tennis and even played with friends on the weekends and in the evenings both in high school and college. I never became any good, but I’m still so glad I did it.
Fast forward to finding myself with a racquet in hand after all those years. Some of the moms were like me, but some had played before and some are just naturally athletic. I tried to focus on the rules as she explained them and took a deep breath. I couldn’t back out, there wasn’t a big enough group, they needed all of us.
And I was bad. Of course I was bad. I wonder if being teased when I was younger and telling myself I’m not athletic played into it.
But the watercolored summer evening was enchanting. I felt at home on the court and with these women. Sure, we’d socialized and served together for years, but this was different. And so refreshing, moms taking some time away from our usual duties to do something just for ourselves, with our only goal being to have some fun.
Surprising my family, I ordered my own pickleball racquets after that. When the package came, I had an almost reverent feeling undoing the tape; this was something of my very own. Clean yellow whiffle balls. Brand new racquets wrapped in plastic. The perfect black zippered bag to hold everything, reminding me of my ballet box from elementary school. I took it to my room, but I had no context for it. Our garage sale badminton and tennis racquets live in the shop, but this was special. New. Just mine. I didn’t want it to get dusty and full of cobwebs. So it just sat against the bedroom wall all week, waiting for a place. As I left the next week (this time in cut-off sweats), I grabbed it as if I’ve always had an athletic bag, feeling slightly like a fraud. I’m not an athlete by any definition. But I liked carrying it. My very own, brand new hobby equipment. Because it symbolized something for me. Independence. Being proactive. Courage even. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. And saying yes again. For sticking with it even though I’ve got no natural inclination for sports whatsoever. I’m grateful for friends who will laugh with me and who accept me and who, despite my being a weak link, continue to include me.
We all know that play is one of the best connectors. Which is why businesses have retreats and Escape Room parties and rope courses. I remember cross country skiing a couple years back as a family and how awkward it was at first but how it was a fertile ground for creating closeness. Same thing when we’ve played Spike Ball, croquet, or badminton as a family. Games around the table are common for us, but the ones outside where we’re using our bodies and moving and jumping and laughing together feel even better. As much as I love conversation, even I will admit there is nothing better to make connections than play.
So as I’ve spent these evenings on the courts, I’ve realized how much I enjoy being outside moving in a way I haven’t really since I was just a kid myself. It’s still a little uncomfortable, I don’t like being watched or letting my team down. But I didn’t know I could be this kind of person. I thought I’d lost that part of my personality, that I was destined to be a serious church mom, dusty, structured, and boring. But it’s awakened a latent side of me, challenging me to deepen friendships, to try something new, and to be more than what I’ve always told myself I am.
But I agreed. Because I’d actually played an impromptu game with our older neighbors one evening. And because I’ve wanted to take up tennis again. And because I/we need hobbies. And friends. And because I want to be the kind of person who says yes to invitations whenever possible. But I honestly had no context for what it would be like, moms getting together in an athletic setting? What would it feel like, how would this work, how bad would I be, how awkward would this all end up?
I realized I had no idea what people wear to activities like this. Back in the day it would’ve been short tennis shorts or sweats pushed up to our knees. I ended up with a painting shirt, leggings, and old beat-up running shoes, a far cry from a tennis skirt and cute polo and tennis shoes. But I was saying yes, I was showing up, I was venturing out of my comfort zone. I know that sounds dramatic, but this really was completely new territory for me, playing like this with other women.
I couldn’t get jr. high p.e. out of my head. I hated our uniforms. And how pale I was. We were always sharing lotion in the locker room, the least I could do for my scaly white skin, but it was still bad. Just like my skill level in every single sport we had to try. The idea was to expose us to all sorts of sports: softball, soccer, basketball, running. I have a girl’s words etched in my memory as I was assigned to her basketball team, “Why do you have to be on our team?” Every p.e. period was honestly a nightmare, and it was even worse when we combined with the boys. The only thing I was good at was running the fire lane back to the locker room and getting a check mark for having walked through the showers.
High school was no better. More of the same, except we added swimming in the outdoor pools to the mix. Refusing to dive and swim across the pool, I was relegated to the small shallow pool with a blond cheerleader/swimmer as my personal trainer. I thought jr. high was bad, but this really was the worst. As a sophomore I finally had a choice; and even now, I count the decision to do racquet sports as one of the best of my life. I abandoned any hope of hanging out with the cool kids at the gym and followed my own inclination. I didn’t know any other kids in the class, but I loved learning racquetball, badminton, and tennis and even played with friends on the weekends and in the evenings both in high school and college. I never became any good, but I’m still so glad I did it.
Fast forward to finding myself with a racquet in hand after all those years. Some of the moms were like me, but some had played before and some are just naturally athletic. I tried to focus on the rules as she explained them and took a deep breath. I couldn’t back out, there wasn’t a big enough group, they needed all of us.
And I was bad. Of course I was bad. I wonder if being teased when I was younger and telling myself I’m not athletic played into it.
But the watercolored summer evening was enchanting. I felt at home on the court and with these women. Sure, we’d socialized and served together for years, but this was different. And so refreshing, moms taking some time away from our usual duties to do something just for ourselves, with our only goal being to have some fun.
Surprising my family, I ordered my own pickleball racquets after that. When the package came, I had an almost reverent feeling undoing the tape; this was something of my very own. Clean yellow whiffle balls. Brand new racquets wrapped in plastic. The perfect black zippered bag to hold everything, reminding me of my ballet box from elementary school. I took it to my room, but I had no context for it. Our garage sale badminton and tennis racquets live in the shop, but this was special. New. Just mine. I didn’t want it to get dusty and full of cobwebs. So it just sat against the bedroom wall all week, waiting for a place. As I left the next week (this time in cut-off sweats), I grabbed it as if I’ve always had an athletic bag, feeling slightly like a fraud. I’m not an athlete by any definition. But I liked carrying it. My very own, brand new hobby equipment. Because it symbolized something for me. Independence. Being proactive. Courage even. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. And saying yes again. For sticking with it even though I’ve got no natural inclination for sports whatsoever. I’m grateful for friends who will laugh with me and who accept me and who, despite my being a weak link, continue to include me.
We all know that play is one of the best connectors. Which is why businesses have retreats and Escape Room parties and rope courses. I remember cross country skiing a couple years back as a family and how awkward it was at first but how it was a fertile ground for creating closeness. Same thing when we’ve played Spike Ball, croquet, or badminton as a family. Games around the table are common for us, but the ones outside where we’re using our bodies and moving and jumping and laughing together feel even better. As much as I love conversation, even I will admit there is nothing better to make connections than play.
So as I’ve spent these evenings on the courts, I’ve realized how much I enjoy being outside moving in a way I haven’t really since I was just a kid myself. It’s still a little uncomfortable, I don’t like being watched or letting my team down. But I didn’t know I could be this kind of person. I thought I’d lost that part of my personality, that I was destined to be a serious church mom, dusty, structured, and boring. But it’s awakened a latent side of me, challenging me to deepen friendships, to try something new, and to be more than what I’ve always told myself I am.
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