I think we all know by now that reading this blog will in no way help with your meal planning, with creating memorable birthday parties, or with your gardening (unless quesadillas, streamers and pizza, and dried flowers stuck in a vase are your cup-of-tea). It's more than a full-time job for me, just keeping the clothes washed, my kids (kind of) clean and in one piece, and our schedule from collapsing in on itself. Yes, it's usually past 5:00 pm when I begin to rack my brain for ideas on what to serve my family for dinner (sigh). Today, though, I found myself surprisingly unoccupied for a few moments while Priss and Ben were at school, Elijah was working independently on an assignment and Mary was entertaining herself in the living room. I knew that if I sat down with a book, or tried working on the computer, the calmness and quiet would immediately be shattered – no I had to stay in the kitchen, out of sight. On an impulse, I reached for my stained, red-and-white checked Betty Crocker cook book and leafed through the pages haphazardly until reaching the cookie section. I didn't have chocolate chips (darn it!), or walnuts or cocoa powder or lemon zest, but wait… I did have flour, and butter, and sugar, and oatmeal! No more than 20 minutes later, I was sticking a baking sheet full of teaspoon-sized dough mounds into our oven.
I am embarrassed to admit how giddy my kids became when the smell of warmth and spicy sweetness wafted all heavenly-like through the house. "Are you making…cookies?" asked Elijah. Then, what do you know, I became an instant hero by confirming it was true, and that, no, they were not for a neighbor, or for daddy's work, or for church. The homemade treats (plain old humble oatmeal cookies) were just for us.
When Priscilla got home, I fixed her a plate of those cookies and sliced apples. I poured her some milk. I sat across from her with my coffee while she worked on her homework.
It felt really, really good.
I can easily get hung-up on all I can't be or do for my loved ones. But then again, if I'm diligent about looking for them, there are also plenty of affirming and precious reminders, like today,in the crumb dotted smiles of my kids, of how little it actually takes to make a normal afternoon seem special. I don't have to be Martha Stewart-ish to be a great, caring, loving and devoted mother. Deliberate eye contact, plenty of affection, and impromptu offerings of my time, cover a multitude of crafting/cooking deficiencies.
So I might not have it in me to make a paper mache anything or sew doll dresses, but I can certainly laugh at a knock-knock joke and be appropriately enthusiastic when Benjamin announces triumphantly that he, "For sure did not get a time-out in his kindergarten class this time."
They're only young once, for goodness sake! I'd best enjoy them more (and fret less) while I still can.Read More
"How to Eat Like a Child"
Waiting for the play to begin
Elijah, with a friend and fellow cast member, after the show
As soon as that spotlight hit my son, I became emotional. I hadn't known what to expect, it being his first real play performance and all. He'd been so secretive the last couple of weeks, hinting at but never expanding upon the story line, his role, or the lyrics to the songs he'd be singing. "I want it to be a total surprise," he kept telling me.
Elijah has always had this way of embedding himself into my heart and then filling it to capacity with his larger-than-life passions. Recently, however, he has been more vigorously pushing at its borders, sometimes so forcefully I fear I will not be able to stand, even for one more minute, the piercing pain/ecstasy of that said heart being stretched in order to accommodate his swelling moods, ambitions and desires. Too often, I try to make him understand, right now, what took me decades to figure out via trial and p-l-e-n-t-y of error. Too often, I become so fixated on reigning in his "dangerous" impulses, I forget to marvel at and thoroughly appreciate his, straight-up extraordinary, creativity.
He came alive on that stage, and I relished, with tears in my eyes, the look of joy and satisfaction on his face. "Did you like it?" he asked me afterwards, and I promised him, while embracing him, that I did. It is good, sometimes, to let that "mommy guard" down – to delight, without any stipulations, in your child, just exactly as he or she is.
Bravo, sweetheart! I am very, very proud of you! You worked hard, you gave it your best, and it showed.
A big thank you to my dear friend, Beth, and my godson, Thomas, for keeping us company this weekend. Your presence was (as always) truly healing and refreshing. We sure do love you!
“DID YOU HEAR ME?” I yell up the stairs, my voice tight with
annoyance. “Wha-a-at?” comes the maddening reply from my kids, whose
response time has been slowed down considerably this morning by sleepiness and
a general slow-pokiness you’d think by now I’d have grown accustomed to but,
judging by my high frustration level, apparently not.
“GET DOWN HERE FOR PRAYERS!” I repeat for the third
time. “RIGHT THIS MINUTE!” After a second or two, I can make out the sound of
footsteps – footsteps not hurrying: stomp
(pause), stomp (pause), stomp (pause), and here they come, all
sour-faced and on my every last nerve.
We gather together around a small brown shelf holding four
icons, two pussy willow stems and a candle. I am wondering now whether this edgy
and bristly atmosphere is an appropriate or inappropriate environment in
which to offer up intercessions to God, in front of his saints and the most
Holy Theotokos. Pausing to gain my composure, I take a deep breath and proceed,
despite my misgivings. “O Heavenly King, O Comforter, O Spirit of Truth…” we
By the time we reach the morning prayer of Metropolitan
Philaret, I have quickened the pace a bit; my four and six-year-olds are
getting wiggly. The words come effortlessly to my lips; I know them well: "…In all my acts and deeds guide my thoughts
and feelings. In unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by you. Teach me to act firmly and wisely without
embittering or embarrassing others…" SMACK!! Ouch! I’ve been struck again, unexpectedly, right where it
I’ve always considered myself a, for the most part, calm and composed kind of girl.
It has never been all that hard for me to keep from gesturing out the window
when a car cuts me off on the expressway, or to refrain from unloading my exasperation
on a distracted store clerk, an inattentive waitress or a persistent
telemarketer. In general, I truly do strive to give the benefit of the doubt to
those I come into contact with, which is why I’ve been lying awake in bed at
night wondering why, oh why, it’s been so difficult for me lately to restrain
myself when dealing with the attitudes and behaviors of my own children.
I go through seasons as a mother – seasons of growth and
rebirth, and seasons of stagnancy. What I’ve fallen into presently is what’s
known as a good old-fashioned rut – one in which I act, act and react all the
time, unconsciously. I find myself
talking at, more like lecturing,
lecturing angrily, my oldest son and he is scowling, scowling
self-protectively; he is hardening his heart. JUST OBEY! I want to
scream, I’m too tired and too busy for
your outbursts and interruptions! But
here’s the thing – he’s a human being, not a pet, not a houseplant, or an
inconvenience. My kids can sense
when they’re being tolerated rather than treasured.
It’s a tall order for us parents, having to figure out how
to lovingly discipline without embittering or embarrassing our children. It
takes a real and concerted effort to garner the insight necessary for setting
limits that are solid and yet respectful of the individual receiving them. It
is far easier to vent, reprove and summarize than to consistently,
unemotionally, with authority and kindness, address conduct that is rude,
unhealthy or deceptive. There is no trick to it – no fool-proof method I can
apply that will override my own sinfulness or exhaustion. Thus, there will be periods of tension and
misunderstanding within our household. I will undoubtedly succumb to reactionary, and ultimately ineffectual,
methods of child rearing. The question isn’t, “What if I screw up?” but rather,
“How long will it take for me to pick my head up from out of the sand and
realize I need to shake myself off and start over, lest I continue on for
way longer than necessary being burdened by guilt and aggravation?”
Quite undeservedly, I was gifted with a much
hungered for spark of enlightenment. So comforted it made me feel, and yet also
ashamed – like how the sun’s rays can fill a room with its brightness and
warmth while simultaneously drawing attention to the dust and lurking cobwebs
in its corners. I was not being the right kind of firm. I was not being wise.
My children were embittered and I was
embarrassed, when confronted by this prayer, because of it. But overall, I was, deep down, very thankful – thankful that despite my selfishness and lack of discipline Christ cared for me enough to tap me again on the
shoulder and whisper, “Hey now, let’s pay attention.”
Elder Porphyrios wrote,
Pray and then speak. That’s what to do
with your children. If you are constantly lecturing them, you’ll become
tiresome and when they grow up they’ll feel a kind of oppression. Prefer prayer
and speak to them through prayer. Speak to God and God will speak to their
hearts. …. Say, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, give Your light to my children. I entrust
them to You. You gave them to me, but I am weak and unable to guide them, so,
please, illuminate them.
Pray and then speak. That’s what to do
Ah. Yeah, I see the problem. I have not been doing that. Period.
I’ve not been rising early enough to offer my sons and my daughters up to God before the busyness of the day overtakes
us. I have not been imploring Him in the evenings for forgiveness, guidance and
direction. What must I look like,
flailing my limbs and gasping for breath next to a big old neon life ring, within
reach? You know what, friends, I am really tired of fighting so hard against
the current – I think I’ll grab on now, allowing God, our God who is compassionate
and omnipotent, to keep me afloat.
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on my
family. Please, I need your help to become a devout, a patient, a prudent and
forgiving parent to my children whom you love fiercely and unconditionally.
This, is one tired, cranky, stubborn little girl – not napping:
I turned thirty-five-years-old on Saturday (Thirty-five?!). Guess what I got? Guess! Do you give up?