End of the Year Gauntlet

Life got incredibly busy here in the last couple of weeks. Between hockey tournaments, swim meets, lacrosse games, end of the year school events, end of the year school meetings, end of the year…fill in the blank, life has gotten crazy. It feels like this every year, and every year I forget the gauntlet that the last couple of weeks becomes full of extra events and extra obstacles.

Goodbyes to families moving away, summer plans needing to be organized, all the papers and pencils and random school supplies coming home and piling on every counter available, library books missing, end of the year reviews letting you know you need to be concerned about your kid's future - all of it individually is taxing but together in one or two weeks is overwhelming.

I feel like I am treading water in the deep end and I am not that good a swimmer.

And the worst part is the resentment than can build. All of this activity centered on my kids takes me away from me. And while most of the time I love being home for them, at this time of year, it feels leechy. (That's not a word I know but that is what happens to my brain when I have to keep all these plates spinning.) I just want my time back. My empty days. My margin.

And yet, summer is coming. Days of no plans and no structure that we all dream of now, will soon be exhausting in their time without end quality. When the exploring and adventure taking becomes trying not to scream at the kids whining about having to have fun.  When the kids boredom mimics your own because days can be long and it's really hot outside and we've been creative and done all those things on the picture shared over and over again on Facebook. When the screen time rules go out the door in exchange for some sanity and some peace and quiet.

But maybe, just maybe in the midst of it all, there will be one perfect night of firefly catching and s'more making. One afternoon at the beach with friends, running in the waves and digging the world's biggest hole. One morning with a couch full of boys in pajamas reading books side by side. One night watching the fireworks over the lake at the grandparents house that makes the drive and the mosquito bites worth it.

Maybe, just maybe my kids will actually get to rest and rejuvenate after a long year of new schools, new friends, new sports, new challenges.


Maybe, just maybe…

Swimming in the deep side of the pool

Recently my middle son has joined a beginner swim team. He loves the pool, always has.

I on the other hand have not always been a fan of the pool, at least not since becoming a parent. One of the first homes we rented when we moved to California had a pool, and I had three small children under five. We tested the extra tall gate, we gave the pool safety talk, we locked the backdoor, we did everything we could to keep our tiny ones safe and even then we knew that bad things happen in the world.

When the baby was sleeping, I would take the older two boys for a swim. Our pool was deep, so I put life jackets on them and held onto the younger one the entire time we were in the pool. I was always right there, watching them, experiencing the water with them.

As the boys grew, I signed them up for swim lessons. I hated swim lessons. I hated getting ready for the pool, I hated how hot and sticky the room felt as we sat off to the side, and I really, really hated helping the kids get dressed after they had finished their lessons. Three tired boys, needing showers and dry clothes which somehow always ended up just a little damp.

Once the boys could swim, I was able to sit farther away from them in the community pool. No longer arms reach, they were venturing further and further from me. When we went to a friend's house with a pool, I could sit in a chair nearby, talking with friends while keeping a casual eye on the pool - mostly to keep them from too much rough housing.

And now I have a boy who I can drop off at swim team practices. A boy who goes in by himself when I have to rush off to get another boy to hockey. A boy who packs his own bag, works hard at his practice, and then heads off to the locker room all by himself.

Isn't this so like parenting. The constant care and worry and precaution taking, slowly replaced by baby steps and feeding themselves, to heading off on their own to school or practice or the real world. My son no longer needs me to be there.

He does still need a ride.

So I'm not done parenting yet.

Job Description: Motherhood

Remember that video that went viral last month. The one with the job applicants being interviewed for the hardest job in the world. The one where the candidate is bewildered by the insane expectations of the job. And then at the end the applicant is told that someone already does that job.

Motherhood is the hardest job in the world, they say.

I hate that description and I supposedly have that job.

Except that motherhood is not a job. Motherhood is a relationship. Yet we keep hearing that motherhood is the hardest job, the best job, the most important job. The penultimate of all jobs.

Do you want to know what happens when you tell a generation of women who left their professions to stay home with their kids that motherhood is a job? We treat it as a job. We take all of our job skills, our training, our professionalism, our goal setting, our hopes for advancement and approval, our need to be productive and contributing members of society and we put all of that on our children. We turn our role as mother into the title CEO of our homes. We turn our birthday parties into corporate event planning. We take our kids' homework as a group assignment that needs to be done right. We become professional volunteers at our kid's school unless of course we are becoming full time teachers at our home school.

These are not bad things in and of themselves.

But when we treat motherhood as a job, we treat our kids as our product, our client, our boss, our subordinate.

Motherhood is not a job.

It is a relationship.

Where did we get the idea that motherhood is a job?

Child care is a job. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, party planning, teaching, bill paying, gardening, chauffeuring, tutoring... These are all jobs. These are things we can do ourselves or hire out. These are jobs. So is being a coal miner or a fire fighter, an emergency room nurse or a combat troop, except I would argue that those are actually harder jobs because let's be honest, no one is sacrificing to be a stay at home coal miner.

Motherhood is a relationship.

It is why I get up with my little guy in the middle of the night when he's had a nightmare.

It is why I may spend hours looking for the right Pokemon character to put on the top of my son's birthday cake.

It is why I say no sometimes and why I made my kids learn how to make their own breakfast and lunch.

It is why I ask about my kid's day when we are driving to hockey practice or before bed.

It is why I pray with my kids at the end of the day before I tuck them in for the night.

It is why my heart breaks when my kids fail or get hurt.

It is why we care so very, very much about these little people in our lives.

Motherhood is not a job.

Motherhood is a relationship.

We do hard things for people we love. We stay up too late, get up too early, give up vacations for summer camp fees, and new purses for new school backpacks. Love is why we do whatever we can to help our kids become the best they can be, not a job description.

And maybe if we stop seeing it as a job, we can let go of our performance driven parenting. We can stop seeing our children as our performance review and go back to loving our kids for who they are and helping them be awesome.

And then maybe we can also remember that we are not just mothers. We are also friends, sisters, daughters, wives, and we are ourselves.

To The Sunday School Teachers

Dear Mrs. Wybenga,

It was third grade. That was a tough year for me. That was the year my mom spent time in a mental hospital after attempting suicide. I was 8.

That was alto the year that you were my Sunday School teacher. I honestly don’t remember much about the actual class. It was a Baptist church so I am imagining we heard Bible stories and did little crafts while our parents sat in big church. I can’t remember the particulars but the love I felt, that struck deep.

And you showed up week after week. Do you know how much that meant to a girl whose own mother left unexpectedly one morning in an ambulance and then stayed away for more than a month? You showed up week after week.

I remember going to your house once or twice for a special activity with the other girls in our class. It was a small group of third graders. Again, I don’t remember the activity, it didn’t matter really. You had invited us into your home. You made time outside of the Sunday morning commitment you had made. You had time, for me.

I remember your home was quiet. So unlike the chaos of my house filled to the brim with my two brothers and the six teenage foster girls that lived with us. At any moment, my house could erupt with a shouting match, name calling, swearing that would make a sailor blush. I heard stories that an eight year old should never hear, stories of sex and abuse. Your house felt calm and peaceful, which is how I felt whenever I was with you.

Oh how I needed that respite, that quiet space. It often felt like my whole childhood was defined by the drama. Everyone knew our family, if not for the group home kids that lived with us, than for my mom’s mental health issues. You though saw me, little me. And you told me that Jesus loved me, little me.

People, after hearing my story, often ask how I turned out so normal. My answer always points back to God and the people that showed me God’s love.

Many, many years ago, you gave up your Sunday mornings to sit with a group of third and fourth grade girls. You told us stories about God’s love, His protection, His provision. You listened to us and made our silly ideas and random prayer requests seem like the most important thing in the world. Because they were. Because I was important to you, I believed I was important to God. And that belief was deeply planted, the roots holding me tight when I sometimes forgot myself.

So thank you. Thank you for all those Sundays. Thank you for the prayers I now know as an adult that you prayed for me. Thank you for sharing your life, your home, your time, your Jesus with me. You made a difference in my life.

For all the girls,
Me