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What the hell?
Yesterday it was 70 degrees. My kids were outside, in shorts and tanks, riding bikes and playing basketball.
Right now it's 28 degrees outside, and sleeting/snowing. Wind gust of 50+ miles an hour. Trees are down, power is out to a ton of people.
Geesh. Make up your mind, already. Is it winter, or is is spring?
Notice I didn't say a "good enough parent", but a good parent. What does that mean to you?
I've been musing over this for a while lately. To me, it means giving your child your all. Trying to get inside your child, and know what they are thinking, and what makes your child tick, in a way like no other child. It means taking the time to do the activities that your child enjoys, even if it's the most mind numbingly boring puzzle ever. It means taking the time at night, to put each child to bed individually, not sending them upstairs en masse and yelling a "Good night!' up after. Hearing each set of prayers, wiping each face, talking over each set of frustrations and worries. Spending the time to sit and watch your child learn how the nesting dolls work, and see the delight as yet another doll appears.
It means going to the soccer games, the baseball games, open house at school, ballet class observations, the DARE graduations. Making the cookies, candies, goody bags, halloween costumes, whatever they need. And doing it with a cheerful heart, and a happy spirit. Finding the fulfillment in the little things - the smile on the baby in the stroller as we pass a dog, the joy on a child's face who finds a penny on the street.
It means making my kids feel like they are the most important people in my life, all the time. Standing up for my kid with an unkind teacher, and unfair coach, or a playground bully.
It also means not letting them get away with murder. Giving them rules, and holding them accountable for their actions. Teaching them how to act in public and in private, and how manners can make or break a person. Waking them up to the realization that everyone in the entire world has feelings, and everyone's feelings matter.
I hope that my children will know respect for their elders, and respect for themselves. I want my children to know how to run a household, how to balance a checkbook, how to stay out of debt. How to iron, and sew, and cook. All of them, even the boys.
I want my children to know that they mattered to me, that they were the reason for my life.
I want them to know that I am important as well. That I am a person, with wants and needs and desires. That I am due the respect that I deserve.
Man, I've got a lot to do.
I walked into church today with my family, three minutes before the bells. I had a baby in my arms, and a toddler on the left. She was carrying a can of soup for the food pantry. The preschooler was on my other side, with another can of soup and a box of cereal. The other kids ran on ahead.
We always sit in the same area - on the right hand side of the middle, facing the priest, within five rows from the front. I like to sit there for several reasons - it's close enough that the littles can see the priest and the olders can pay attention, and it's the side that the priest distributes Holy Communion to - instead of using an Extraordinary Minister (a lay person). When we go up for Communion, the littles can get blessed; believe me, they need a blessing in a bad way lately.
I noticed that the front pews were reserved, and inwardly I groaned. I forgot that this was one of the Sundays for the new confirmands. That meant that the service would be longer, and more crowded. I followed The Hubster down the aisle to the other side of the church, where he proceeded to sit in the very last row. Great. Not only NOT in the front, but in the way back. I didn't have a missalette - wonderful. I grumbled inaudibly, "I hate sitting here."
I reminded myself of what I was there for. It's not about me. Who cares where I am sitting - after all, if I was in Rome, in audience with the Pope, I'd be lucky to catch a glimpse of him.
The Hubster left with the preschooler for the Children's Liturgy, leaving me with the baby and the toddler. The baby threw herself into the position for nursing, and I discreetly latched on. Until she decided to lift my top straight up over my head. It's not about me. Who cares if I'm exposed?
Man, was it hot in there. Two little old Filipino ladies squeezed in next to me, crowding the pew further and increasing the heat. The baby struggled to get down, and so I put her onto the floor. She went under my dress and stood up, lifting it with her. Again, I was exposed.
So, I was hot, and crowded, listening to a service that went on and on, and sitting in the wrong place. I brought my glance to the crucifix, to remind myself of where my focus should have been, but it was covered for Lent. Now I was even more annoyed - I couldn't even gaze upon the cross for guidance.
It's not about me. It never was. The minor faults and failures of the day - the petty annoyances, because, after all, that's what they are - only serve to throw my focus inward. I need to strive to get past all of that and focus on what's important. I'm not the center of the world.
I've lost my checkbook.
I HATE not knowing where stuff is, but I hate more not having my checkbook within my grasp.
St, Anthony (patron saint of lost articles) PLEASE help me.
**Update: I found it. It was, in the words of Jeff Foxworthy, in the last place I looked.**
This past weekend, Mackenzie was invited to a birthday party. It was a ballet party - come dressed up in your tights and leotard. She takes ballet at a very serious, professional level school, so she wears a black leotard and pink tights, with her hair pulled back into a neat bun. The school is pretty strict on clothes and hair, which is fine by me. I trained at this school from the time I was 7 until about 5 years ago - I can still do a pretty mean pirouette - but unfortunately for me, I have the wrong body type for professional dance.
Before the party, we went to Wal-Mart to get the gift. We had decided to get a bag and fill it with art supplies. We had a great time picking out crayons, colored pencils, glue, glitter, and a few other things. Mackenzie tossed in a set of Mardi Gras beads from the clearance aisle, and we were set to go. On the way to the register, though, she spotted the piece de resistance. “Oh, Mommy! Let’s get a roll of tape! Kassidy would love her own roll of tape!” Well, she probably would, because Mackenzie sure would. We tossed a roll in the cart and paid for our merchandise.
I had an idea of where I was going, and knew that it was an upscale neighborhood. I had never been very far into it, though - just the first couple of streets. That was far enough to know it was too rich for my blood.
I drove in, and followed the directions. We kept driving further and further, and going deeper into the neighborhood. The houses grew larger and larger. Three and four car garages were standard. Almost every house had a pool, and a few had tennis courts. The majority of the houses had mother in law suites.
We pulled up to the house, and I sighed. Sure, this kid would be happy with a roll of tape. She probably OWNED the tape company.
Mackenzie raced up the walk, leaving me in the dust. Evidence of her severe separation anxiety. I entered the house with trepidation. Yep, just as I thought. We were outclassed here. I glanced at the other girls, and noticed that they all had frou frou, very fancy costumes on. My poor girl, in her serious black leotard, stuck out like a sore thumb. Nothing phases Mackenzie, though - she jumped right in to the party with both feet, calling to all her friends. I kissed my daughter goodbye, and went out to the van, reflecting on what I had just experienced.
Why did I feel so bad? Why do I let this type of stuff rub me so badly? After all, it was Mackenzie’s party, and she wasn’t a bit uncomfortable.
I came back three hours later, to find her in the midst of the fun, manning the stereo for freeze dance. She had a completely wonderful time.
The little girl loved the roll of tape.
There’s a lesson here for me.
