Reading between the lines

Confession: I write in books*-- do you?  When a turn of phrase takes my breath away, when I love a passage or thought, I underline. I scribble in margins. Sometimes I create my own little index inside the back cover with a brief description and page #.  I got this from my mom, I think, who also turns up the bottom corners to mark passages she loves (and the bottom of her books also tend to bear the telltale watermark of the bathtub, where she often reads). 

Lauren was recently thrilled to find a spare afternoon and was looking for a book to read.  We looked around a bit and I pulled out The Hiding Place from my shelf. "I think you'll love this."  She nestled into the couch right away to dive in.

An hour or so later she called to me in the kitchen.

"Hey mom, reading the passages you underlined is so revealing. I feel like I'm peeking into your brain."

"Oh yeah? Which ones?" 

"Umm...let's see. I just read the one about the train and the suitcase.  All of the sudden I think I get your parenting." (We have had a lot of classic firstborn child-parent discussions about what freedoms and responsibilities she's ready for.  Sometimes we agree, sometimes we don't.  I won't lie--this newfound understanding was refreshing.)

I knew the one right away; I've used it in talks and lessons before: 

...Seated next to Father in the train compartment, I suddenly asked, "Father, what is sexsin?"

He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case from the rack over our heads, and set it on the floor.

"Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?" he said.

I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning.

"It's too heavy," I said.

"Yes," he said. "And it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you."

And I was satisfied. More than satisfied--wonderfully at peace. There were answers to this and all my hard questions--for now I was content to leave them in my father's keeping (pp 26-27).

Maybe we transfer the suitcase earlier today than they used to in the early 20th century but I think this is a lovely analogy of one of our roles as parents: to know our children and be sensitive to what they're ready for and what they're not.  It's a tough balance and I'm sure sometimes I've been too cautious and others too premature (in fact, my children will all have specific and vivid examples of this, I'm sure).  But for one afternoon, thanks to a marked up paperback printed in 1971, at least one of them understood that we do it from a place of love.  Hey, I'll take it.  And pass along more of my marked-up books.

*Maybe some day I can move on from writing in books to writing them.

Parentese. Parent ease? Parent tease?

 

I'm thrilled to have Tessa Meyer Santiago at Letters to a Parent this week.  She wrote about, among other things, a familiar feeling I've had as a mother, too. Kind of an identity crisis of sorts. It started when I had my first baby and, after a few days, couldn't shake the feeling that I was somehow waiting for her 'real' parents to pick her up pretty soon, just faking it until someone more qualified showed up.  And then, later another epiphany emerged when I realized that my kids see me as That Central Person the way I saw my mom.  Was I Grown-up enough to qualify for that? Ah, but Tessa says it so much better than I do:

I am simultaneously small Tessa, knobbly-kneed in green school uniform, and someone’s mother. The years run through me like it was yesterday, today and tomorrow at the same time...

I thought getting older meant I would suddenly be transformed into the competent, unruffled, self-assured adults who surrounded me as children–at least from my vantage point closer to the ground...

I am learning that, sometimes, it requires tremendous courage and nerve to simply show up, to be present in a particular day. 

Check out the whole essay here.  (It's a little longer than LTOP's usual posts but completely worth the extra minute or two.)

. . .

Do you have a post about parenthood you'd like to see on Letters to a Parent? Would you like to tell us about an experience or lesson in your mothering/fathering learning curve? Or even a photo, poem, image that distills what parenting is to you?  Send it, lovelies.  Do.  And, psst, pass it on.

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A gentle assignment

January delivered a beautiful day today. Yesterday was rainy and chilly and gloomy; this morning is blue skies and mild temperatures, full of false spring teases.  So I did what many a New Englander does on rare days like these: I went on a walk. Glorious vitamin D therapy! Fresh air in my lungs!

On the way home I passed a mom on the bridge, one child in the jogging stroller and one dawdling behind her. The stroller baby was asleep and the dawdler was poking at sticks and peering over the bridge at the water and squatting to examine bits of something-or-other. The mom was relaxed and watching, crouching sometimes to examine right along her son.* 

As I trudged up the hill and left the trio behind, I regretted not crossing the street and telling her how awesome she is + how lucky that boy is to have someone who lets him set the pace now and then + how she's making the world a better place a little at a time, every single day.

Shoot. I think I'm going to regret that all day.

So my gentle assignment to myself (and you, should you choose to accept!) is to catch a mom who's doing a good job and tell her.  Write a note, pipe up in the grocery store, leave a wide smile and a compliment.  

We all can use a little feedback + cheer now and then, right?

{Let me know how it goes + I'll do the same.}  

. . .

*Ah, I miss having a three-year-old dawdler, although I'm not sure I appreciated as much as I should have at the time.  I should channel that child wonder pace in my life now and then. Stop and look. Marvel and wonder.

friday night fever

Last night was the traditional Sixth Grade Spaghetti Supper and Dance.  It's their first dance EVER so they invite sixth graders and their parents to eat pasta and then the kids go have the dance in the gym while the parents socialize in the cafeteria (remember when it was Maddy's turn?).  Dance training wheels.  Kids run in and out, chatting with parents and going back, and parents sneak in to the dance to watch and embarrass their kids.  It's a win/win (or maybe a win/lose in the parents' favor, depending who you ask).

We tried to sneak a peak at Sam but couldn't find him in the 11+12-year-old blob.  There was lots of chasing going on, and I mean literal running after each other, playground style. And it smelled like teen spirit. But our spy assignment failed.

Later on the ride home we tried to get details.  

"How was it?" Fine.

"Did you dance?" Yes.

"Who did you dance with?" Friends.

"Did you slow dance?" No.

Then, as we pulled into the driveway Sam forgot his one-word policy.  As he got out of the car we hit gold, information wise.

"Ouch! My knees hurt from doing the air guitar slide during 'Don't Stop Believing.'"

Ohhhh, so that's how he rolls.

Awesome.

Notes on a Monday morning

Or: Hindsight is 20/20. And less grumpy.

5:00 a.m. G leaves for the airport for a business trip. Bye, babe.

5:22 a.m. I am the early seminary driver. I have had less than three hours of sleep due to very fun visitors. I don't do early mornings very well. Drag myself up for the 5:35 departure time.

5:30 a.m. I remind daughter (who is eating breakfast) that we have to leave soon to pick up E. and drive the 20 minutes to the church. Forget to use "good morning, Mary Sunshine, voice"

5:35 a.m. I wait in the car, watching through the windows while the daughter dashes upstairs to find something, then down, then to the kitchen, then back to the upstairs. My pet peevery feelings activate, with the assistance of early morning grumpiness.

5:41 a.m. Daughter comes out, juggling folders, toast, glass of water, cell phone. No backpack. Daughter dashes back in to find backpack.

5:47 a.m. Finally we leave the house. My grumpiness breaks the dam and I gush a flash flood/ loud lecture on the benefits of advanced planning, being on time, courtesy, adding a flourish by throwing many other items into my dawn discourse. Daughter sits, silently picking at her toast. I go on far too long. And I don't feel any better afterwards, incidentally.

5:53 a.m. Pick up E.

6:10 a.m. I drop off the girls at church and drive home feeling ashamed of my tirade. Think of how awesome it is that a 16-y-o girl wakes herself up at 4:45 in the morning and goes to daily early morning religious instruction not only willingly but with eagerness. I deflated that over a 10 minute delay? Sheesh.

Can I have a do-over?
{Well, yes I can. Every morning this week.}

I'm going to bed early tonight just to be sure.