Tomorrow is the day each year that we honor our mothers. It is, in some ways, a manufactured day, driven by consumerism and flower shops and card companies, all getting in on the gig to prod each of us to remember our mothers. Does it really require a special day, set aside just for the purpose of being grateful, for us to recognize the contributions our own mothers have made to our lives? Shouldn't we always be grateful for the woman who gives us her all, and then keeps giving?
This morning I read a small item on CNN, the best gift your mother ever gave you, written by a lot of regular, every day people, about what one thing their mother has done for them that means the most. The list, unsurprisingly, is not about the big stuff of life. I didn't see a single mention of anything that cost much money or which was really, in any way, out of the ordinary. Instead, it was a list of loving actions by a lot of ordinary women who do something extraordinary - raising a child to be a loving, thankful, decent adult.
As a mother, I am all too aware of my failings. I know I have fallen short, not once, but over and over, and yet, my children continue to forgive and forget and love me anyway. I have heard it said that every day is "Children's Day," but in truth, every day that you are a mother is a gift, not only to your children, but to you. Each day is another opportunity to try and get it right, to do something ordinary and yet not.
When my children were little, Mother's Day was not a big celebration at our house. As I recall it, when someone mentioned Mother's Day to my then husband, his response was the predictable line, "She's not MY mother. Why should I do anything?" [At least he's consistent. Then, as now, he has always missed the point. Any point.] But even then, I saw the faintest inklings of what the day would become, because my darling daughter would do her best to make the day special for me - to celebrate me in whatever way she could.
These days, I look forward to Mother's Day all year long, because it's a day for my daughter and me. (My son would be included, too, of course, she would include him in every minute of every day if she could, but he is away at school in finals.) Each year, my thoughtful girl dreams up a different day, filled with activities for the two of us that we love to do together.
She has never missed, whatever she has dreamed up, because she knows me inside and out. We have gone shopping, gone to the park, gone to museums, had a picnic, gone to the zoo, walked the dogs, done ceramic painting. There is an almost endless variety to the things she dreams up for us to do, but it is always fun and special, because she devotes her time to me, and doesn't allow the distractions of her busy life to get in the way for that one special day.
I am really looking forward to the day tomorrow, when she and I will spend the day together. I don't know if the day means as much to her, right now, as it means to me, but I am very aware of how much that day will mean to her when I am not here any more to celebrate with. I think she will someday look back at those special times and be comforted by the memories she will hold in her heart. I am glad that my sensitive child will have those memories to hold on to, because she knows how happy those times make me, and she will never feel guilty about whether or not she showed me how much I mean to her.
I, of course, have my own mother, and I have my own memories. My lovely mother has received more tacky jewelry and salt and pepper shakers than a woman should have to contend with in a lifetime, and always managed to look thrilled and surprised about it all. More importantly, she wore the tacky jewelry in public, where other people could see it, which was a sacrifice I didn't fully appreciate until I had children of my own.
Which reminds me of a funny story, that has a point, I promise. When he was very young, my son proudly bought Christmas presents for each of us. He was then, as he is now, very insightful and thoughtful about his gifts, and he gives a lot of consideration to what gift would be appropriate for each person. This particular year, [as every year,] he was on a pretty small budget, so he had to make each penny count, and he did a superlative job of finding just the right thing for each of us.
I love music, and I love Christmas, and his perfect gift to me, in his mind, combined the two. He gave me a large gold colored plastic bell that played a Christmas carol, a big, shiny decoration that could last forever.
What looks spectacular to a six year old evidently loses its lustre when you are 20 something, because each year, when I pull that bell out of the box, the same thing happens. He groans, he says, "Seriously, mom, you do not have to put that out any more. It's embarrassing. And looks awful." And I laugh, and lovingly put it on the shelf with the other cherished decorations, tacky all, but filled with memories I wouldn't exchange for all the money in the world.
That is, in fact, one of my favorite decorations, of course, something he may never understand (he is a guy, after all.) That plastic bell was the symbol of his love and his desire to show me how much I mean to him, and he gave me something that went straight to my heart. He didn't just pull the first thing he saw off a shelf. He thought about what meant a lot to me, and impractical as it was, he bought me the best of its kind that he could afford. That is love in its purest form. Who could resist?
That is the secret to what makes Mother's Day special, and why most of us love our mothers so much that a day which could be a hokey holiday instead is filled with such meaning. Our love for our mothers, and her love for us, is not about the big stuff. It's about the tiny, everyday moments where she put herself out there for us, and gave us the gift of herself.
My own mother has faced hardship and trial her entire life, and yet, she is probably the most optimistic person I have ever known. Nothing, and I do mean, NOTHING, seems to bring her down off her perch in the clouds. She has endured the unthinkable several times over, and yet, she continues to assure me, whenever anything goes wrong, that it will all work out in the end. She is, in a word, amazing. Some other words might be inspiring, angelic, shy, quiet, beautiful, hard-working, dedicated, loyal, and genuine.
I abandoned all hope a long time ago that I would ever live up to my mother's standards where optimism is concerned. I couldn't possibly face life with the sort of determination that she has shown to the adversities that she has faced. It is seriously ridiculous how upbeat she remains after 82 years of hardships and set-backs.
Her response, when I say something about it, is that you can't just give up, you have to keep on going, because that is what you do. You can't waste your time bemoaning what you don't have, what hasn't gone right. You take each thing as it comes, do your best, and somehow, it will all work out in the end. She is my hero, for a lot of reasons, and I am most grateful to have her to turn to at the end of each day when I am beaten down by what life has thrown my way.
So, on this Mother's Day, as always, I am most grateful for the wonderful grace and faith that my mother has not only talked about, but lived, her entire life. She is the perfect example of Christian hope, and although I don't do it as well as she does, she inspires me to keep my head up and my feet on the ground, putting one foot in front of the other until somehow, some way, I reach the end of the trail.
My mother was truly a Mother's Day gift to me, because I didn't start my life with this particular model as my own. My biological mother gave birth to me, then gave me life by giving me to the mother that I call mine. While I rarely think about the woman who gave me that life so long ago, I am grateful to her each Mother's Day, because she gave me the chance to have the mother and the family that I have today. I am grateful that she recognized her own inability to be the mother I deserved, and gave me to someone who could do the job right.
My mother did many ordinary, and yet incredibly special, things for me over the years. The things that really stand out for me, it will probably surprise her to learn, are the things where she left her practical self behind, and did something unexpected, just because she loved me and wanted to make me happy.
The most important gift my mother gave me was the gift of her undivided attention after school. Each day, when I arrived home, she would listen to me talk about my day. But it wasn't the sort of half-listening thing that a lot of moms do, she wasn't just acting interested, she actually cared.
When the weather was nice, she would have packed up a little lunch, [which if you live in Minnesota, you will understand means an entire meal to sustain you so you can make it to supper in an hour,] and we would go for a walk along the railroad tracks behind our house. She would point out the birds, we listened to the rails for the sound of the train, and we talked [or I talked] until it was time to go home and work again. I will treasure the memory of those days until I take my last breath, and it didn't cost her a thing.
My mother was eminently practical. She rarely indulged either herself or me with things that weren't necessary, not because she was mean, or even just naturally thrifty, but because we had very little, and she had to be a genius at making too little money go too far. So I grew up wearing my cousin's hand-me-down clothes, and shopping wasn't something that we did often.
On one notable occasion, however, we went shopping for a dress. I have no recollection what the occasion was that prompted the shopping trip, I only remember finding the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. When I tried it on, I fell in love with it, and wanted it more than anything I have ever wanted in my whole life. It was a Hallmark moment, right up until my mother realized that it needed to be dry cleaned. [I'll be honest, the words "Dry Clean Only" still bring a little shock wave of horror every time I see them on a label.]
It was immediately obvious that I would never own that spectacular dress. My mother, thrifty and practical soul that she is, would never consent to a dress for a child that required dry cleaning under any circumstances, and I knew it without even asking. I remember standing in the dressing room, understanding the reality, even understanding the reason why, but my heart broken over this silly dress.
The tears welled up in my eyes unbidden, and before I could stop them, rolled silently down my face. And that was when my mother did something so out of the ordinary, I will never forget it. She looked at my face, and she said I could have that dress. She didn't complain, she didn't talk about how expensive it would be, she didn't discuss the impracticalities. She just said yes, and it felt like a miracle to me.
I got a lot of mileage out of that dress, by the way, as did the two cousins who wore it after me. I feel certain that my mother got her money's worth, so hopefully that helped her practical nature feel better about the whole thing. But now that I am mom myself, I have a feeling the look of wonderment on my face when she said yes was probably all the thanks she needed.
As I have mentioned, my mother was a practical woman, and not usually given to fanciful impulses. Shortly after my dad died, I decided I simply could not live without a parakeet. I don't recall how I got the bug in the first place, nor do I have any recollection of harassing her for one, although I suspect I did. All I remember is the excitement of driving down to Rochester to Woolworth's to buy that bird she ultimately consented to let me have.
We got the cage, we got the food and treats, and finally, we got the bird. I remember driving home, so excited I got a migraine, but elated over having this bird. I don't know how my mother felt inside about adding another mouth to feed to the menagerie we already had, but I know that bird brought me a lot of comfort over the years. And I also know that I never think of that bird without thinking about that trip to buy him, and how much that meant to me that she gave me that gift.
The most special moments with my mother are about her and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about playing scrabble, her reading me to sleep when I had a migraine, going for walks, making crafts, and her delicious donuts. They are about her doing dishes while I practiced piano, and about getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We were a team, she and I, and I could not have asked for a better captain.
The most special moments with my daughter are about her and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about singing along to musicals, going to museums, making crafts, and buying new shoes. They are about sitting in her room talking about life, and about getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We are a team, she and I, and I could not have asked for a better player.
The most special moments with my son are about him and me, time spent, not on the important things of life, but on each other. They are about attending concerts, reading during asthma treatments, playing horse in the driveway, going to Disney, and arguing philosophy. They are about learning to lean on him, just as he leans on me, and getting through some of the hardest days of our lives with each other. We are a team, he and I, and I could not have asked for a better player.
When all is said and done, most of us honor our mothers every time we do the right thing, whenever we help someone out, when we are good friends and citizens. But it seems right that one day a year should be set aside to show the person who taught us, in the beginning, what love is really all about, just how much we cherish her.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. And Happy Mother's Day to Adam and Erin, without whom I would not be a mother myself. You give meaning to my life, and a reason to be.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The real race.....
Over the last week, I have had an opportunity to confront, up close and personal, prejudice at it's root. It has slapped me in the face, pummeled me in that part of my psyche where I make the most basic decisions that guide my life, and turned my ideas of who am I and what I stand for upside down. It is a shock, it saddens me, and I am left wondering what I really stand for, if, when the chips are truly down, I can't stand for what I know in my heart and mind and soul is right.
This brief, but compelling experience, made me understand, perhaps for the first time, just how deeply we are divided, what an extremely arduous task it is to overcome the basic life experiences that serve to separate us, and just how far we have to go in order to achieve anything like fairness and equality. It took a brief phone call, which forced me to step out of my personal comfort zone for a few minutes, to open my eyes to my own flawed thinking, and my own instinctive personal biases, setting off a crisis of conscience in my soul that I not only didn't expect, but didn't even realize I could have.
Most people who know me well would probably say that I am fairly color-blind. I have never been, or so I thought, especially aware of skin color or racial or ethnic background when meeting people. Like everyone, I make snap judgments when meeting someone new, based on a list of mostly nebulous criteria. But I judge most people, or at least, so I believed, on the same set of criteria, even if I don't have it strictly laid out in my mind. I have been intolerant, in fact, of people who looked at ethnicity and made judgments based on that alone.
At times in my life, I have been friends with people from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, and I always found it interesting, rather than an obstacle or a drawback, that we had different backgrounds and life experiences. At one point in time, I was even married to someone from another culture, and whose ethnicity is a part of my children's heritage, even though he is long gone.
I thought I had experienced the worst side of racial bias, not only in the way my marriage was viewed by other people when we were out in public, but also with friends from other backgrounds. I have been close friends with women who wouldn't allow me to get out of the car when I drove them home from work, and who refused to go shopping with me for my own safety. I have seen intolerance, I have felt the sting of it against me, and I thought I understood it from the inside out.
I now realize, belatedly, that I foolishly prided myself on my ability to overlook what is, after all, a basic human characteristic. I now realize the reality - you cannot overlook it, because it is part of each person's life experience, and goes into making up how they act and react to the world. That reality is part of each person's life filter, for better and for worse, and to try to ignore it means you are ignoring something fundamental in a person's understanding of the world.
This earthquake in my own psyche occurred in the most innocuous of ways, as they so often do. Last week, in the course of my business day, I had the opportunity to converse with someone from a totally different background - not only the color of our skin was opposite, but our life experiences were clearly a world apart as well. It was an eye opener for me; one which, although clearly needed, turned out to be pretty uncomfortable.
This person called asking for assistance, and my job was to provide that assistance. It is something I do many times a day, for a large variety of people, and I don't generally think about their ethnic background, unless there is a language barrier that makes it difficult to converse.
The woman I was speaking with had definite ideas about the help she wanted, and how she wanted it delivered. And that is where the disconnect began for me. Because she wanted me to come and call on her in her home, to speak to her in person, and to help her sort through the complex maze of information she had received, so that she could make the best decision for her.
The details of where and how I went wrong with her are really not important, because one reason is as bad as another, when it comes to doing the wrong thing. Ultimately, I agreed to meet with her, but reluctantly, and with a certain amount of trepidation, not because I thought I couldn't do the job, but because I felt afraid to go to the part of the city where she lives.
I can make plenty of excuses for myself which sound convincing, if I don't look too closely at the underlying assumptions. The crime rate is high. She wasn't particularly cooperative on the phone. It's a long way from my office, and will waste my time, because she probably won't go with me in the end, anyway. Valid excuses all, and most people wouldn't fault me for using them to escape from a situation that makes me uncomfortable.
But the actual truth, deep down inside where it doesn't normally get exposed to scrutiny, was that I made assumptions based on her location, economics, and the way she dealt with me on the phone, which were more about stereotype than my experience with or knowledge of her.
Because I didn't have any.
I had one brief phone call, and from those few minutes of fleeting conversation, made all kinds of assumptions to justify what I wanted to do, rather than what I needed to do. Or more to the point, what she needed me to do.
I am ashamed of myself, in a way I do not want to be. I know better than to make assumptions based on where someone lives, or the type of car they drive, or how they dress, or the language they speak. I am a more tolerant, more understanding, more compassionate, more enlightened person than that, at least in my own mind. I find it almost unbearable to realize that, in the moment of trial, instead of following the example of Jesus, reaching out to the disenfranchised, I became a Jonah, attempting to run away from the responsibility that had been placed upon my shoulders.
Like the Biblical Jonah, I considered the options for reneging on the agreement. I asked for someone else to be assigned to the job, giving the reasons, all legitimate and valid, why I was the wrong person for it. I thought about simply not showing up, my own personal storm raging around me all the while. I worried and wondered and fretted all weekend about what I should do, how I should deal with this situation that had so unexpectedly arisen, and which made me so nervous and reluctant.
It is humbling to be smacked in the face with one's own wrong minded thinking. To be forced to own the wrong is difficult, uncomfortable. But after some time to think over my initial response, I realized that this woman needed my help, she had asked for it, and I had no excuse not to give it. So I determined that the correct, and only, course of action for me was to simply keep my word and fulfill the promise I had made to her. My own conscience ultimately led me to realize that I could only do the right thing, which was to show up and do what I could to help her sort out the various options available to her, and to assist her in choosing the one that was best for her.
And that is where this story takes a different track, becoming one of redemption and grace. I received a phone call from her the morning I was to visit, asking if I would still be coming. I could hear the mistrust in her voice, and when I told her I would, indeed, be coming, her whole tone and approach to me changed. Suddenly, she was worried about my ability to find her home, whether or not I could make it on my own, if it was, indeed, convenient for me to visit her that day. I assured her I would be there at the appointed time, and she sounded happy and relived.
When I arrived, she was waiting for me in her driveway, waving and calling out to me, happily anticipating the arrival of someone who not only agreed to help her, but who actually carried through on the promise. It was bittersweet for me to be received with such graciousness and joy, when I had started out so begrudgingly.
At that moment, I realized how the difference in our life experiences was the real chasm that divided us. Because she has lived where she lives, and grown up as she has, she has learned never to trust anyone, and that everyone will let her down. It is not the color of her skin that makes her different, it is her whole experience, of which that is a part, which has affected her approach to the world, and other people in it. She can no more ignore that reality which she has lived than I can ignore the realities that have shaped my own skeptical approach to the world. The chasm that divides us is also one for which we can find a bridge, because, in the end, the very differences that divide us also have commonalities.
I had a delightful visit with her, helped her decide what was most important for her, and ultimately, as I knew it would be, we decided that she needed something other than what I could do for her. But the real story, the payment of my commission, came in the moment when I understood that the life experiences that divided us were also what make each one of us vulnerable to the mistakes and rash decision making to which I almost fell prey.
Sometimes, when you take a chance on someone, it pays benefits you never imagined. I have carried that experience with me all week, and pondered the lesson I learned. I hope I now understand how much more complex my own decision making process is than I realized. When I am talking with someone, I know I need to reach them where they are, not where I am, because that is where understanding begins.
That old commercial told us to "Reach out and touch someone." The lovely woman I met this week reached out to me and touched my heart unexpectedly, and I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. The only regret I have is that I ever hesitated in the first place.
Don't be afraid to find a bridge to someone different. You never know until you reach across just how narrow the chasm might be. And you might find a bridge is already under your feet.
This brief, but compelling experience, made me understand, perhaps for the first time, just how deeply we are divided, what an extremely arduous task it is to overcome the basic life experiences that serve to separate us, and just how far we have to go in order to achieve anything like fairness and equality. It took a brief phone call, which forced me to step out of my personal comfort zone for a few minutes, to open my eyes to my own flawed thinking, and my own instinctive personal biases, setting off a crisis of conscience in my soul that I not only didn't expect, but didn't even realize I could have.
Most people who know me well would probably say that I am fairly color-blind. I have never been, or so I thought, especially aware of skin color or racial or ethnic background when meeting people. Like everyone, I make snap judgments when meeting someone new, based on a list of mostly nebulous criteria. But I judge most people, or at least, so I believed, on the same set of criteria, even if I don't have it strictly laid out in my mind. I have been intolerant, in fact, of people who looked at ethnicity and made judgments based on that alone.
At times in my life, I have been friends with people from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, and I always found it interesting, rather than an obstacle or a drawback, that we had different backgrounds and life experiences. At one point in time, I was even married to someone from another culture, and whose ethnicity is a part of my children's heritage, even though he is long gone.
I thought I had experienced the worst side of racial bias, not only in the way my marriage was viewed by other people when we were out in public, but also with friends from other backgrounds. I have been close friends with women who wouldn't allow me to get out of the car when I drove them home from work, and who refused to go shopping with me for my own safety. I have seen intolerance, I have felt the sting of it against me, and I thought I understood it from the inside out.
I now realize, belatedly, that I foolishly prided myself on my ability to overlook what is, after all, a basic human characteristic. I now realize the reality - you cannot overlook it, because it is part of each person's life experience, and goes into making up how they act and react to the world. That reality is part of each person's life filter, for better and for worse, and to try to ignore it means you are ignoring something fundamental in a person's understanding of the world.
This earthquake in my own psyche occurred in the most innocuous of ways, as they so often do. Last week, in the course of my business day, I had the opportunity to converse with someone from a totally different background - not only the color of our skin was opposite, but our life experiences were clearly a world apart as well. It was an eye opener for me; one which, although clearly needed, turned out to be pretty uncomfortable.
This person called asking for assistance, and my job was to provide that assistance. It is something I do many times a day, for a large variety of people, and I don't generally think about their ethnic background, unless there is a language barrier that makes it difficult to converse.
The woman I was speaking with had definite ideas about the help she wanted, and how she wanted it delivered. And that is where the disconnect began for me. Because she wanted me to come and call on her in her home, to speak to her in person, and to help her sort through the complex maze of information she had received, so that she could make the best decision for her.
The details of where and how I went wrong with her are really not important, because one reason is as bad as another, when it comes to doing the wrong thing. Ultimately, I agreed to meet with her, but reluctantly, and with a certain amount of trepidation, not because I thought I couldn't do the job, but because I felt afraid to go to the part of the city where she lives.
I can make plenty of excuses for myself which sound convincing, if I don't look too closely at the underlying assumptions. The crime rate is high. She wasn't particularly cooperative on the phone. It's a long way from my office, and will waste my time, because she probably won't go with me in the end, anyway. Valid excuses all, and most people wouldn't fault me for using them to escape from a situation that makes me uncomfortable.
But the actual truth, deep down inside where it doesn't normally get exposed to scrutiny, was that I made assumptions based on her location, economics, and the way she dealt with me on the phone, which were more about stereotype than my experience with or knowledge of her.
Because I didn't have any.
I had one brief phone call, and from those few minutes of fleeting conversation, made all kinds of assumptions to justify what I wanted to do, rather than what I needed to do. Or more to the point, what she needed me to do.
I am ashamed of myself, in a way I do not want to be. I know better than to make assumptions based on where someone lives, or the type of car they drive, or how they dress, or the language they speak. I am a more tolerant, more understanding, more compassionate, more enlightened person than that, at least in my own mind. I find it almost unbearable to realize that, in the moment of trial, instead of following the example of Jesus, reaching out to the disenfranchised, I became a Jonah, attempting to run away from the responsibility that had been placed upon my shoulders.
Like the Biblical Jonah, I considered the options for reneging on the agreement. I asked for someone else to be assigned to the job, giving the reasons, all legitimate and valid, why I was the wrong person for it. I thought about simply not showing up, my own personal storm raging around me all the while. I worried and wondered and fretted all weekend about what I should do, how I should deal with this situation that had so unexpectedly arisen, and which made me so nervous and reluctant.
It is humbling to be smacked in the face with one's own wrong minded thinking. To be forced to own the wrong is difficult, uncomfortable. But after some time to think over my initial response, I realized that this woman needed my help, she had asked for it, and I had no excuse not to give it. So I determined that the correct, and only, course of action for me was to simply keep my word and fulfill the promise I had made to her. My own conscience ultimately led me to realize that I could only do the right thing, which was to show up and do what I could to help her sort out the various options available to her, and to assist her in choosing the one that was best for her.
And that is where this story takes a different track, becoming one of redemption and grace. I received a phone call from her the morning I was to visit, asking if I would still be coming. I could hear the mistrust in her voice, and when I told her I would, indeed, be coming, her whole tone and approach to me changed. Suddenly, she was worried about my ability to find her home, whether or not I could make it on my own, if it was, indeed, convenient for me to visit her that day. I assured her I would be there at the appointed time, and she sounded happy and relived.
When I arrived, she was waiting for me in her driveway, waving and calling out to me, happily anticipating the arrival of someone who not only agreed to help her, but who actually carried through on the promise. It was bittersweet for me to be received with such graciousness and joy, when I had started out so begrudgingly.
At that moment, I realized how the difference in our life experiences was the real chasm that divided us. Because she has lived where she lives, and grown up as she has, she has learned never to trust anyone, and that everyone will let her down. It is not the color of her skin that makes her different, it is her whole experience, of which that is a part, which has affected her approach to the world, and other people in it. She can no more ignore that reality which she has lived than I can ignore the realities that have shaped my own skeptical approach to the world. The chasm that divides us is also one for which we can find a bridge, because, in the end, the very differences that divide us also have commonalities.
I had a delightful visit with her, helped her decide what was most important for her, and ultimately, as I knew it would be, we decided that she needed something other than what I could do for her. But the real story, the payment of my commission, came in the moment when I understood that the life experiences that divided us were also what make each one of us vulnerable to the mistakes and rash decision making to which I almost fell prey.
Sometimes, when you take a chance on someone, it pays benefits you never imagined. I have carried that experience with me all week, and pondered the lesson I learned. I hope I now understand how much more complex my own decision making process is than I realized. When I am talking with someone, I know I need to reach them where they are, not where I am, because that is where understanding begins.
That old commercial told us to "Reach out and touch someone." The lovely woman I met this week reached out to me and touched my heart unexpectedly, and I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. The only regret I have is that I ever hesitated in the first place.
Don't be afraid to find a bridge to someone different. You never know until you reach across just how narrow the chasm might be. And you might find a bridge is already under your feet.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
In the bank....
I am very proud to reveal, when asked, that I am a Minnesotan, born and raised. I lived there for the first 27 years of my life, and I formed opinions about the state and its people which I cling to, even now.
For example, Minnesota nice is not just a cliche or a catch phrase. Although Minnesotans tend to be extremely reserved, [the hula hoop of personal space for your average Minnesotan is 2.6 times larger in diameter than for the inhabitants of any other political entity,] they are deep down kind, and generally speaking, about as generous of spirit as people anywhere on earth.
Growing up in the midst of the austere and thrifty Minnesota Scandinavian Lutheran crowd, [think Garrison Keillor and you will recognize the town where I spent my childhood,] I formed the opinion that Minnesotans are, by and large, a fairly serious group of individuals. No nonsense and straight forward, low key and lacking in the drama factor found in some other areas of the country, Minnesotans can be counted upon to bring a sober reality to most situations.
I can back this up with statistics, too. I have thoroughly researched this subject in a non-scientific survey. [Okay, it was entirely from my own memory, but still, I surveyed myself, and I think that should count for something.]
This review has revealed that while a number of famous people have called Minnesota home, [Charles Schultz, Charles Lindburgh, Loni Anderson, Jessica Lange, Bob Dylan, Hubert Humphrey, Judy Garland, and F. Scott Fitzgerald come to mind off the top of my head,] I can only think of one comedian that has achieved national fame - Louie Anderson. [Well, there is also the aforementioned Keillor character, but I have a love/hate relationship with his writing, since he seems, at times, to have a love/hate relationship with Minnesota, and especially Minnesotans, so I don't necessarily consider him all that amusing.] I am comfortable with that lack of comedic representation, because there is security in knowing that every situation has been assessed with thoughtful judgment before a plan is put into action.
Thus, it has taken some mental acrobatics for me to accept that along with that sober, this-is-my-cross-to-bear mentality, comes an equally compelling reality. Minnesotans will occasionally go straight off the deep end and do something so totally unexpected, so completely random and off-the-wall, they leave the rest of the country in a daze of shock and awe of which former President Bush could only dream. I don't know if Minnesotans just store up all their stray impulses to release in a single massive pop of the balloon, or if the cold occasionally freezes their brains and causes a collective mental fart.
But I am rather disconcerted, and certainly at a loss to understand, much less explain, episodes such as Jessie Ventura as governor, Al Franken sweeping out a long time politician for senator, or how a guy named Prince could take the world by storm from the confines of a purple world in the middle of Minneapolis.
Well, okay, Prince is a little more obvious, since the alternative music scene in the Twin Cities is one of the most vibrant anywhere. But the purple? Definitely not a color embraced by a sober populace. Although it happens to be my favorite color. Of course, you will notice I no longer live there. More evidence to consider, I think.
Um. Getting back to the topic. In the midst of these musings, I recently read of another departure from the norm that piqued my interest. Apparently, a couple of state senators have come up with a plan to save the state's economy. Forget bailouts and tax credits and fancy economic schemes. They are going to hold the world's most expensive garage sale.
I must admit, I am amused by the idea of state level senators holding a garage sale. I don't think cut rate and thrifty are the first adjectives that normally come to mind when thinking about politicians. So I suppose we can forgive them for not realizing that the first rule of a garage sale is to put a price on your item, then cut it by three quarters. And then expect a fight, while the shoppers continue to negotiate for more favorable terms.
It tickles my fancy to envision the lawn in front of the Capitol dotted with tables of outdated and useless detritus from the mechanics of government. And who will be hawking the wares, I cannot help but wonder? Will we be able to give the legislators a piece of our minds along with a piece of our cash, in exchange for items that the government bought and paid for, but no longer needs? Will their children sell baked goods and soda off to the side to sustain the weary shoppers, who will then look longer and spend more of their stored up pennies?
I don't know about you, but if I were still living in Minnesota, I think I would be a little nervous about the idea of a garage sale as the basis for my state's revenue stream. It seems like a foundation built on shifting sands, since you can't really count on having several billion dollars worth of unneeded items laying around each year to fund your educational and highway requirements.
In truth, I laud the effort of those legislators to try to recapture something of what has been spent on items no longer needed or in use, but I have some genuine concerns, too, especially about privacy. Simply reformatting the hard drive on a discarded laptop won't cut it when it comes to privacy. Your average 14 year old is probably sophisticated enough to recover what was erased, although it will defeat their adult parents who are in the midst of a crashing meltdown at work. Do the state's lawmakers realize that? Hopefully they will check with their resident adolescents before putting this idea into practice.
And if it is good enough to sell to the general public, how come it was replaced with something new? Did that replacement need to occur, or was it replaced because that is what has always been done?
The whole scheme sounds a little sketchy to me, but I do give them points for trying. At least they have proposed a solution, rather than just complaining about the negative situation in which we currently find ourselves. I don't know about you, but I am tired of hearing about what we can't do, and I am more than ready for some brainstorming among our so-called leaders.
I have learned in life that if you continue to do something that isn't working, there is no reason to expect the outcome to be successful. If you want a different outcome, you need to change your methods. Well, clearly our current strategy has not been working, so it looks to me like the time has come for some drastic changes. Kudos to them for at least trying, even if the strategy is a little, well, unusual.
I have heard in the past that many local government entities routinely sell discarded items on E-Bay and other online auction sites. If they have outlived their governmental usability, it's not a bad idea to try and recoup some of the expense. But this is certainly taking it to a whole new level, and I am entertained at the thought of what you might find at that state level garage sale.
Cars? Computers? Books? Desks? Filing cabinets? What would the state sell, if they could? It would be interesting to see what no longer fits into the government that originally thought each item was exactly what was needed. I cannot help but wonder how many of those items would still be in the original packaging, with the price tag still attached? [Come on, we have all done it, and the government is run by people, so you know there have to be oodles of items that have never even been out of the box.]
And how would you determine the price of the items being sold? I don't see it working out for the Legislature to be out there on the lawn debating and passing votes on each pen and stapler. [I can see it now, someone will be waving away a mosquito and will vote to sell the quadriga for a dollar.] And yet, they are the ones who are charged with the ultimate responsibility for state finances, so it seems they should also be the ones who determine the costs and benefits of each source of revenue.
In the meantime, I cannot help but giggle a little at the vision I have in my head of the garage sale on the lawn of the Minnesota State Capitol grounds. We could mix and mingle and learn about our government up close and personal. Perhaps it would even give us some insight into the inner workings of that august body of elected officials, although I, for one, am not really sure I want to know.
Or maybe it would just be a cheap thrill to own a pen once used by Jessie.
For example, Minnesota nice is not just a cliche or a catch phrase. Although Minnesotans tend to be extremely reserved, [the hula hoop of personal space for your average Minnesotan is 2.6 times larger in diameter than for the inhabitants of any other political entity,] they are deep down kind, and generally speaking, about as generous of spirit as people anywhere on earth.
Growing up in the midst of the austere and thrifty Minnesota Scandinavian Lutheran crowd, [think Garrison Keillor and you will recognize the town where I spent my childhood,] I formed the opinion that Minnesotans are, by and large, a fairly serious group of individuals. No nonsense and straight forward, low key and lacking in the drama factor found in some other areas of the country, Minnesotans can be counted upon to bring a sober reality to most situations.
I can back this up with statistics, too. I have thoroughly researched this subject in a non-scientific survey. [Okay, it was entirely from my own memory, but still, I surveyed myself, and I think that should count for something.]
This review has revealed that while a number of famous people have called Minnesota home, [Charles Schultz, Charles Lindburgh, Loni Anderson, Jessica Lange, Bob Dylan, Hubert Humphrey, Judy Garland, and F. Scott Fitzgerald come to mind off the top of my head,] I can only think of one comedian that has achieved national fame - Louie Anderson. [Well, there is also the aforementioned Keillor character, but I have a love/hate relationship with his writing, since he seems, at times, to have a love/hate relationship with Minnesota, and especially Minnesotans, so I don't necessarily consider him all that amusing.] I am comfortable with that lack of comedic representation, because there is security in knowing that every situation has been assessed with thoughtful judgment before a plan is put into action.
Thus, it has taken some mental acrobatics for me to accept that along with that sober, this-is-my-cross-to-bear mentality, comes an equally compelling reality. Minnesotans will occasionally go straight off the deep end and do something so totally unexpected, so completely random and off-the-wall, they leave the rest of the country in a daze of shock and awe of which former President Bush could only dream. I don't know if Minnesotans just store up all their stray impulses to release in a single massive pop of the balloon, or if the cold occasionally freezes their brains and causes a collective mental fart.
But I am rather disconcerted, and certainly at a loss to understand, much less explain, episodes such as Jessie Ventura as governor, Al Franken sweeping out a long time politician for senator, or how a guy named Prince could take the world by storm from the confines of a purple world in the middle of Minneapolis.
Well, okay, Prince is a little more obvious, since the alternative music scene in the Twin Cities is one of the most vibrant anywhere. But the purple? Definitely not a color embraced by a sober populace. Although it happens to be my favorite color. Of course, you will notice I no longer live there. More evidence to consider, I think.
Um. Getting back to the topic. In the midst of these musings, I recently read of another departure from the norm that piqued my interest. Apparently, a couple of state senators have come up with a plan to save the state's economy. Forget bailouts and tax credits and fancy economic schemes. They are going to hold the world's most expensive garage sale.
I must admit, I am amused by the idea of state level senators holding a garage sale. I don't think cut rate and thrifty are the first adjectives that normally come to mind when thinking about politicians. So I suppose we can forgive them for not realizing that the first rule of a garage sale is to put a price on your item, then cut it by three quarters. And then expect a fight, while the shoppers continue to negotiate for more favorable terms.
It tickles my fancy to envision the lawn in front of the Capitol dotted with tables of outdated and useless detritus from the mechanics of government. And who will be hawking the wares, I cannot help but wonder? Will we be able to give the legislators a piece of our minds along with a piece of our cash, in exchange for items that the government bought and paid for, but no longer needs? Will their children sell baked goods and soda off to the side to sustain the weary shoppers, who will then look longer and spend more of their stored up pennies?
I don't know about you, but if I were still living in Minnesota, I think I would be a little nervous about the idea of a garage sale as the basis for my state's revenue stream. It seems like a foundation built on shifting sands, since you can't really count on having several billion dollars worth of unneeded items laying around each year to fund your educational and highway requirements.
In truth, I laud the effort of those legislators to try to recapture something of what has been spent on items no longer needed or in use, but I have some genuine concerns, too, especially about privacy. Simply reformatting the hard drive on a discarded laptop won't cut it when it comes to privacy. Your average 14 year old is probably sophisticated enough to recover what was erased, although it will defeat their adult parents who are in the midst of a crashing meltdown at work. Do the state's lawmakers realize that? Hopefully they will check with their resident adolescents before putting this idea into practice.
And if it is good enough to sell to the general public, how come it was replaced with something new? Did that replacement need to occur, or was it replaced because that is what has always been done?
The whole scheme sounds a little sketchy to me, but I do give them points for trying. At least they have proposed a solution, rather than just complaining about the negative situation in which we currently find ourselves. I don't know about you, but I am tired of hearing about what we can't do, and I am more than ready for some brainstorming among our so-called leaders.
I have learned in life that if you continue to do something that isn't working, there is no reason to expect the outcome to be successful. If you want a different outcome, you need to change your methods. Well, clearly our current strategy has not been working, so it looks to me like the time has come for some drastic changes. Kudos to them for at least trying, even if the strategy is a little, well, unusual.
I have heard in the past that many local government entities routinely sell discarded items on E-Bay and other online auction sites. If they have outlived their governmental usability, it's not a bad idea to try and recoup some of the expense. But this is certainly taking it to a whole new level, and I am entertained at the thought of what you might find at that state level garage sale.
Cars? Computers? Books? Desks? Filing cabinets? What would the state sell, if they could? It would be interesting to see what no longer fits into the government that originally thought each item was exactly what was needed. I cannot help but wonder how many of those items would still be in the original packaging, with the price tag still attached? [Come on, we have all done it, and the government is run by people, so you know there have to be oodles of items that have never even been out of the box.]
And how would you determine the price of the items being sold? I don't see it working out for the Legislature to be out there on the lawn debating and passing votes on each pen and stapler. [I can see it now, someone will be waving away a mosquito and will vote to sell the quadriga for a dollar.] And yet, they are the ones who are charged with the ultimate responsibility for state finances, so it seems they should also be the ones who determine the costs and benefits of each source of revenue.
In the meantime, I cannot help but giggle a little at the vision I have in my head of the garage sale on the lawn of the Minnesota State Capitol grounds. We could mix and mingle and learn about our government up close and personal. Perhaps it would even give us some insight into the inner workings of that august body of elected officials, although I, for one, am not really sure I want to know.
Or maybe it would just be a cheap thrill to own a pen once used by Jessie.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Better or worse?
I read a quote recently that really resonated for me. John Atkinson said, "If you don't run your own life, somebody else will." Truer words have rarely been spoken, I think, because there is always someone out there ready to tell you where you are going wrong, what you should be doing differently, or how you can be better. The bookstores and libraries are filled to the rafters with self-help books designed to make you the better you, to address all your foibles and to create the best version of yourself.
I have a lot of, shall we say... quirks. In fact, I would imagine most people looking in from the outside would probably consider this a pretty quirky household altogether. We are filled with people and pets and even a house itself that is full of our own little nuances, goofy little things that make us who we are, but which may be hard to comprehend to those outside our little circle.
I don't know if every household has the kind of wacky inhabitants that we do. I only have one household, and don't spend a lot of time in anyone else's. [Although the one other household I do spend some time in is definitely as quirky as ours, so I don't know if that means I'm only comfortable around quirky people, or if it means that everyone is quirky.] But it has occurred to me that the quirkiness quotient is rapidly diminishing, as my children get older and presumably will someday live elsewhere.
My son already has one foot in his own apartment, but he still keeps one foot dangling here, as well. And that foot comes attached to a strange memory failure, which occurs whenever he sets foot in this house. Suddenly, out of nowhere the guy with the photographic memory is unable to recognize a waste basket or dishwasher, and can't remember where anything belongs.
My daughter will go off to college in another year, and then will do the same balancing act. She seems to suffer from some type of odd and thus far medically unidentified tunnel vision, which prevents her from identifying her own belongings anywhere but in her own room, which is always spotless, and of which she is inordinately proud.
And me? I will be left with a lot of memories and an assortment of goofy pets. Since I will have only my own quirks to live with, I suspect they will get even more pronounced, as there will be no one to stand in the way of my having everything my way, all the time. Oh, the power I am anticipating. I will enjoy being a despot in my own little kingdom.
What will I do, when I have the entire house to myself, and no one to answer to? Well, I can list a few things I've been dreaming about for the last few years.
I will have popcorn for dinner whenever I want, without feeling guilty about it.
I will no longer have a week's worth of clothing piled on the stairway.
I will not have shoes impeding my progress from living room to kitchen, waiting there like silent ankle assassins, waiting to trip me up on my way to find sustenance in the middle of the night.
I will go to bed at 7 p.m. whenever I want.
I will be able to open a cupboard door and find all my glassware neatly lined up in rows.
Of course, there will also be some things I won't be able to do any more, and I will miss those things as much as I will enjoy the new found freedoms I will experience.
I won't have the fun of taking my daughter shopping at the vintage clothing stores for the prom.
I won't have a daily hug from someone who calls me gorgeous and really means it.
I won't have someone who appreciates my sense of humor around to hear all my silly maunderings and actually laugh at the right times.
I won't have the daily interaction with someone who loves me and takes me at face value, with no facade possible.
I won't have the fun of talking to young people all the time, which keeps me young and in touch with my inner child. How much less rich my vocabulary will be when I don't know slang expressions like tool and poned. [Although, to be honest, my children will tell you I don't know them now.]
I remember when I went to college, and my own mother, an unintentional single mom for many years at that point, since my dad up and died on us when I was 12, told me she missed my mess. Finally, she just laid some of my stuff around the house to remind herself of me. That, my friends, is love.
I have always lived each phase of my life to the fullest, and I will do so in the future as well. I am rarely sorry to see one phase end, because that means another one is beginning. And as the mother of an adult son who is more interesting than most of the other people I know in this world, I can honestly say I enjoy this phase at least as much as any other that I have been through with my children.
Although my life has been an ongoing struggle, and that has not changed, I feel like now I have two other people who are constantly on my side, who care about me almost as much as I care about them, and who can and will be there for me when the chips are down. We are in this life together, and you can't really ask for more than that from your closest relatives.
Going through a divorce (or the death of a parent, for that matter,) tends to make the remaining family members appreciate each other more, and pulls you together, at least in my experience. Although I should have known it from my own life journey, the most surprising thing about getting divorced, for me, was that my kids consider that they got divorced, as well. It wasn't my divorce, it was ours, and they felt the full measure of the pain involved.
But they also understand, in a fundamental way that children who are more fortunate to have smarter parents who chose more wisely do not, that in this life, you have a team of people in the fray with you, and if you pull together, you are all uplifted, and you all benefit. It doesn't compensate, exactly, for what they lost out on, but it's a good thing to know who is really there for you, and who you can count on.
I have never been a very authoritative parent. I have always felt like I was there more as a mentor and advisor than as a coach. My job is to give advice and provide options, and then to be there to help sweep up the mess when things don't work out. I occasionally get criticized by people who don't understand the internal dynamic of our quirky little group, because they think I don't discipline enough, and I am too much of a pushover.
Perhaps that's true. But I also have children who are grown, or nearly so, who are unafraid to talk to me about anything that is on their minds, who call me first when something goes wrong, who ask for my advice and actually listen to the answer, who think I am smarter than anyone else they know, and who call me their best friend.
And although I have come in for my fair share of criticism for my parenting style, as most lenient parents do, I have also had a lot of people ask me for parenting advice, or even telling me to add a book on parenting to the ever growing list of books I need to write. My response, to one and all, is that you have to find your own style, because you can only do what works for you, and what you really believe in. I can't help anyone else to be the best they can be, not even my own children, because that comes from within, and is part of the very core of who you are as a person.
But I certainly have learned some truths along the parenting journey, and today, as I reflect on it, I thought I would share with you my own personal parenting manifesto. If you can take from it something worthwhile, then I am glad. If not, I encourage you to write your own, and find your own style that will work for you. Parenting is a process, not an event, and you will have an almost endless amount of time to keep refining until you get it right. And in the end, just remember, your children are hard wired to love you, no matter what you do wrong. So relax, and enjoy the ride.
Parenting Manifesto
By Me
-Parenting is a lifelong commitment lived on a daily basis. No one action will determine the course of a child’s life forever; for better and for worse, your child will be influenced by your actions over their lifetime. So don’t sweat the small stuff. Choose your battles carefully, and make sure they really matter.
-Don’t waste time feeling guilty over mistakes or misjudgments. Your child will see how you handle those situations, and use your behavior as a template for their own lives. Use mistakes as an opportunity to teach your children how to learn from failure. This will teach them self-esteem.
-Never be afraid to say, “I’m sorry,” or “I was wrong.” This will teach your child about grace and the healing power of forgiveness. Children have an unlimited capacity to forgive. So should you.
-Accept your children for who they are, and they will accept you, too.
-Always be honest. Children learn more from what they see us do than from what they hear us say, and they model their behavior accordingly. If you want your children to be honest with you, you will have to be honest with them first. If you don’t know the answer, admit it, and use it as an opportunity to find out together. You will teach your child to trust and be trustworthy, one of the most important elements in a successful life.
-“No” is not a dirty word. When it is used lovingly and carefully, you are teaching your child boundaries. The limits you teach will become natural, and will make them better citizens, friends, employees, spouses, and parents.
-Respect is a two way street. You are entitled to their respect, and you should demand it. By doing this, you teach them respect for authority. At the same time, make sure they know you respect them, as well. They are doing their best to fit in to a big, scary world with a lot of strange rules that often don’t make sense, especially when they are young. By respecting them for their efforts, you are teaching them that they are valuable, even if they aren’t exactly perfect.
-Basic values are not relative. Some things are right, and some things are wrong, and that’s the way it is. Children will be influenced by many sources, but they will learn their basic values from you. Use your influence wisely, and on a daily basis. Don’t just talk about values ~ live them each day. Values do not come naturally, they must be learned. Children taught values become adults with principles.
-Over the years, you will receive endless parenting advice. This is a part of parenting, and you can’t escape it. Some of this advice will be good, some will be bad, some funny, some bizarre, some helpful, some hopeless, some stupid, and occasionally, there will be a flash of brilliance. Just remember that every child is different, and what works for one child may not work for the next, even in the same family. You should do what works best for your child and your family. When all is said and done, parenting is mostly trial and error, and you will struggle as all other parents have struggled before you. That is part of the joy and pain of parenting, but nothing can give you greater satisfaction in life.
-Love your children unconditionally, but don’t expect your children to love you back in the same way. They won’t. Instead, they will grow up and love their children they way they were loved, in an endless chain. Seeing your grandchildren loved and cherished will be your reward, and it will happen sooner than you think.
-Your children will never know that you love them unless you show them. Hug them every day, even when they think they are too old. Read to them, sing with them, play with them, be with them. Most of all, listen to them. Establish a habit of listening to them in toddlerhood. They grow up faster than you can imagine, and if they learn early that you listen when they talk, they will still be talking later about the big stuff that really matters.
-Teach them the value of a clean conscience. Facing the consequences of a bad choice may be painful, but they will learn from it. Being responsible is a reward in itself.
-Teach them that they can come to you, no matter what. Let them know you will always stand by them and love them, even in times of trouble. This doesn’t mean you relieve them of responsibility for bad decisions; but that you will be there with them to stand by them when they face those consequences.
-When they know they can trust you in the bad times, they will also share the good times. Those are the moments that you dream of, and nothing else in life will mean as much to you.
-Keep your sense of humor. You will need it! Teaching your children to laugh at themselves is an important key to a longer and happier life.
-Walk with God each day. Don’t just talk about God, live a godly life each and every day. Children should hear God in their parents’ voice, feel God in their parents’ presence, and see God in their parents’ actions ~ then will they know the power of God’s love in their own lives.
-The single most important advice I ever received was this nugget ~ your best is good enough. Remind yourself each night when you go to bed that you did the best you could, and let that day go. Tomorrow is a fresh start, no matter what happened today. This is a prescription for good mental health, for you and for your children. Begin tonight, and make it a lifetime habit.
So what advice would I give, when I am the one jumping in to fill the void? Stop worrying about everyone else's opinion of your own quirky family. As long as it is working for you, it's good enough. And don't forget to enjoy the journey.
I have a lot of, shall we say... quirks. In fact, I would imagine most people looking in from the outside would probably consider this a pretty quirky household altogether. We are filled with people and pets and even a house itself that is full of our own little nuances, goofy little things that make us who we are, but which may be hard to comprehend to those outside our little circle.
I don't know if every household has the kind of wacky inhabitants that we do. I only have one household, and don't spend a lot of time in anyone else's. [Although the one other household I do spend some time in is definitely as quirky as ours, so I don't know if that means I'm only comfortable around quirky people, or if it means that everyone is quirky.] But it has occurred to me that the quirkiness quotient is rapidly diminishing, as my children get older and presumably will someday live elsewhere.
My son already has one foot in his own apartment, but he still keeps one foot dangling here, as well. And that foot comes attached to a strange memory failure, which occurs whenever he sets foot in this house. Suddenly, out of nowhere the guy with the photographic memory is unable to recognize a waste basket or dishwasher, and can't remember where anything belongs.
My daughter will go off to college in another year, and then will do the same balancing act. She seems to suffer from some type of odd and thus far medically unidentified tunnel vision, which prevents her from identifying her own belongings anywhere but in her own room, which is always spotless, and of which she is inordinately proud.
And me? I will be left with a lot of memories and an assortment of goofy pets. Since I will have only my own quirks to live with, I suspect they will get even more pronounced, as there will be no one to stand in the way of my having everything my way, all the time. Oh, the power I am anticipating. I will enjoy being a despot in my own little kingdom.
What will I do, when I have the entire house to myself, and no one to answer to? Well, I can list a few things I've been dreaming about for the last few years.
I will have popcorn for dinner whenever I want, without feeling guilty about it.
I will no longer have a week's worth of clothing piled on the stairway.
I will not have shoes impeding my progress from living room to kitchen, waiting there like silent ankle assassins, waiting to trip me up on my way to find sustenance in the middle of the night.
I will go to bed at 7 p.m. whenever I want.
I will be able to open a cupboard door and find all my glassware neatly lined up in rows.
Of course, there will also be some things I won't be able to do any more, and I will miss those things as much as I will enjoy the new found freedoms I will experience.
I won't have the fun of taking my daughter shopping at the vintage clothing stores for the prom.
I won't have a daily hug from someone who calls me gorgeous and really means it.
I won't have someone who appreciates my sense of humor around to hear all my silly maunderings and actually laugh at the right times.
I won't have the daily interaction with someone who loves me and takes me at face value, with no facade possible.
I won't have the fun of talking to young people all the time, which keeps me young and in touch with my inner child. How much less rich my vocabulary will be when I don't know slang expressions like tool and poned. [Although, to be honest, my children will tell you I don't know them now.]
I remember when I went to college, and my own mother, an unintentional single mom for many years at that point, since my dad up and died on us when I was 12, told me she missed my mess. Finally, she just laid some of my stuff around the house to remind herself of me. That, my friends, is love.
I have always lived each phase of my life to the fullest, and I will do so in the future as well. I am rarely sorry to see one phase end, because that means another one is beginning. And as the mother of an adult son who is more interesting than most of the other people I know in this world, I can honestly say I enjoy this phase at least as much as any other that I have been through with my children.
Although my life has been an ongoing struggle, and that has not changed, I feel like now I have two other people who are constantly on my side, who care about me almost as much as I care about them, and who can and will be there for me when the chips are down. We are in this life together, and you can't really ask for more than that from your closest relatives.
Going through a divorce (or the death of a parent, for that matter,) tends to make the remaining family members appreciate each other more, and pulls you together, at least in my experience. Although I should have known it from my own life journey, the most surprising thing about getting divorced, for me, was that my kids consider that they got divorced, as well. It wasn't my divorce, it was ours, and they felt the full measure of the pain involved.
But they also understand, in a fundamental way that children who are more fortunate to have smarter parents who chose more wisely do not, that in this life, you have a team of people in the fray with you, and if you pull together, you are all uplifted, and you all benefit. It doesn't compensate, exactly, for what they lost out on, but it's a good thing to know who is really there for you, and who you can count on.
I have never been a very authoritative parent. I have always felt like I was there more as a mentor and advisor than as a coach. My job is to give advice and provide options, and then to be there to help sweep up the mess when things don't work out. I occasionally get criticized by people who don't understand the internal dynamic of our quirky little group, because they think I don't discipline enough, and I am too much of a pushover.
Perhaps that's true. But I also have children who are grown, or nearly so, who are unafraid to talk to me about anything that is on their minds, who call me first when something goes wrong, who ask for my advice and actually listen to the answer, who think I am smarter than anyone else they know, and who call me their best friend.
And although I have come in for my fair share of criticism for my parenting style, as most lenient parents do, I have also had a lot of people ask me for parenting advice, or even telling me to add a book on parenting to the ever growing list of books I need to write. My response, to one and all, is that you have to find your own style, because you can only do what works for you, and what you really believe in. I can't help anyone else to be the best they can be, not even my own children, because that comes from within, and is part of the very core of who you are as a person.
But I certainly have learned some truths along the parenting journey, and today, as I reflect on it, I thought I would share with you my own personal parenting manifesto. If you can take from it something worthwhile, then I am glad. If not, I encourage you to write your own, and find your own style that will work for you. Parenting is a process, not an event, and you will have an almost endless amount of time to keep refining until you get it right. And in the end, just remember, your children are hard wired to love you, no matter what you do wrong. So relax, and enjoy the ride.
Parenting Manifesto
By Me
-Parenting is a lifelong commitment lived on a daily basis. No one action will determine the course of a child’s life forever; for better and for worse, your child will be influenced by your actions over their lifetime. So don’t sweat the small stuff. Choose your battles carefully, and make sure they really matter.
-Don’t waste time feeling guilty over mistakes or misjudgments. Your child will see how you handle those situations, and use your behavior as a template for their own lives. Use mistakes as an opportunity to teach your children how to learn from failure. This will teach them self-esteem.
-Never be afraid to say, “I’m sorry,” or “I was wrong.” This will teach your child about grace and the healing power of forgiveness. Children have an unlimited capacity to forgive. So should you.
-Accept your children for who they are, and they will accept you, too.
-Always be honest. Children learn more from what they see us do than from what they hear us say, and they model their behavior accordingly. If you want your children to be honest with you, you will have to be honest with them first. If you don’t know the answer, admit it, and use it as an opportunity to find out together. You will teach your child to trust and be trustworthy, one of the most important elements in a successful life.
-“No” is not a dirty word. When it is used lovingly and carefully, you are teaching your child boundaries. The limits you teach will become natural, and will make them better citizens, friends, employees, spouses, and parents.
-Respect is a two way street. You are entitled to their respect, and you should demand it. By doing this, you teach them respect for authority. At the same time, make sure they know you respect them, as well. They are doing their best to fit in to a big, scary world with a lot of strange rules that often don’t make sense, especially when they are young. By respecting them for their efforts, you are teaching them that they are valuable, even if they aren’t exactly perfect.
-Basic values are not relative. Some things are right, and some things are wrong, and that’s the way it is. Children will be influenced by many sources, but they will learn their basic values from you. Use your influence wisely, and on a daily basis. Don’t just talk about values ~ live them each day. Values do not come naturally, they must be learned. Children taught values become adults with principles.
-Over the years, you will receive endless parenting advice. This is a part of parenting, and you can’t escape it. Some of this advice will be good, some will be bad, some funny, some bizarre, some helpful, some hopeless, some stupid, and occasionally, there will be a flash of brilliance. Just remember that every child is different, and what works for one child may not work for the next, even in the same family. You should do what works best for your child and your family. When all is said and done, parenting is mostly trial and error, and you will struggle as all other parents have struggled before you. That is part of the joy and pain of parenting, but nothing can give you greater satisfaction in life.
-Love your children unconditionally, but don’t expect your children to love you back in the same way. They won’t. Instead, they will grow up and love their children they way they were loved, in an endless chain. Seeing your grandchildren loved and cherished will be your reward, and it will happen sooner than you think.
-Your children will never know that you love them unless you show them. Hug them every day, even when they think they are too old. Read to them, sing with them, play with them, be with them. Most of all, listen to them. Establish a habit of listening to them in toddlerhood. They grow up faster than you can imagine, and if they learn early that you listen when they talk, they will still be talking later about the big stuff that really matters.
-Teach them the value of a clean conscience. Facing the consequences of a bad choice may be painful, but they will learn from it. Being responsible is a reward in itself.
-Teach them that they can come to you, no matter what. Let them know you will always stand by them and love them, even in times of trouble. This doesn’t mean you relieve them of responsibility for bad decisions; but that you will be there with them to stand by them when they face those consequences.
-When they know they can trust you in the bad times, they will also share the good times. Those are the moments that you dream of, and nothing else in life will mean as much to you.
-Keep your sense of humor. You will need it! Teaching your children to laugh at themselves is an important key to a longer and happier life.
-Walk with God each day. Don’t just talk about God, live a godly life each and every day. Children should hear God in their parents’ voice, feel God in their parents’ presence, and see God in their parents’ actions ~ then will they know the power of God’s love in their own lives.
-The single most important advice I ever received was this nugget ~ your best is good enough. Remind yourself each night when you go to bed that you did the best you could, and let that day go. Tomorrow is a fresh start, no matter what happened today. This is a prescription for good mental health, for you and for your children. Begin tonight, and make it a lifetime habit.
So what advice would I give, when I am the one jumping in to fill the void? Stop worrying about everyone else's opinion of your own quirky family. As long as it is working for you, it's good enough. And don't forget to enjoy the journey.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Back into the future....
I had the sad occasion of attending my aunt's funeral this past week. It was a grueling two days, but I knew I would always regret it if I didn't go. So I hopped into the car, and eight hours later, I was back to my past.
It is always fascinating to glimpse backwards into my childhood. Even as we celebrated the wonderful, rich life of a dearly loved woman who always had a smile on her face and a song in her heart, I felt myself slipping easily into the role of my childhood - youngest in my generation, never taken too seriously, sort of a frivolous luxury to the extended family, and yet, somehow valued none-the-less.
When the pastor asked if anyone would like to stand up and say something special about my aunt, I thought of so many things I could have said, but once again, felt my own insignificance, and said nothing. I told myself that it would be impossible to sum her up in just a few, brief words. It wouldn't do her justice, because she was so much more than mere words can tell.
But I knew my position in the family held me back as much as the lack of words ever could have, and I'm not complaining. I think that there is an unrecognized value to family occasions, even sad ones such as this. It reminds me where I came from, and tells me a little bit more about myself each time I see those people who led the way for me to be who I am today.
One of my cousins recently laughingly told me that I am still a brat, and I had to giggle at the characterization of myself. It is always surprising to me to remember that is how they saw me way back when, because to me, I was just being me. I am, according to most people, sharply witty, but sometimes the edge is a little too cutting, and it was that characteristic to which my cousin was referring that day. I didn't realize that quality came out of my childhood, but clearly it did, as I have several cousins that seem to have that same trait in evidence.
When I spend time with those people I rarely see, but who are the people closest in relation to me in this life, I see where I came from, and it is evident where my quirky personality derives it's basis. My cousins tease and poke fun and seem to see life in much the same way I do, and in that troubled time, it was comforting to be with people who know so much about you, there is no choice but to simply be yourself.
I think that legacy may be the most important one that our loving parents could have left to us, in fact. We are a family of goofy, irreverent humorists, I realized, and I, for one, am grateful to have a piece of that shared history.
But there are some other pieces of the legacy that have been left to us, as well, and my aunt has her own place in my heart. I am singularly blessed, because she left behind three daughters and a son who remind me, in so many ways, of the person that we have lost, but who lives on in them.
Scent is always a memory keeper for me, and certain smells will immediately call to mind a person or an occasion that I associate with that scent. The scent I associate with my mom is baking bread. [She can't abide store bought bread, which makes me a disappointment, I'm sure, since that's all I ever have, if I have any at all.] The scent of the baking bread is one that fills the entire house, and makes my mouth water just to think of it. I never get a whiff of that scent without seeing my mother right in front of me, pulling the fresh loaves out of the oven, and swatting my hand as I eagerly wait to cut into the freshly turned out manna she created.
Like most women of her generation, my aunt was always in the kitchen. In fact, I cannot recall ever seeing her in any other room of her house. I am sure I did, she couldn't have stayed in the kitchen every waking moment, but it certainly seemed like she did to me.
Since she was out there, anyway, she would make the most delicious treats you can imagine. In fact, her grandson was inspired to go to cooking school to become a chef because of her influence when he was a child. So part of her legacy lives on in him, too, as he delights his customers with his own specialties.
The treats for which my Aunt Alice was most famous were her fattigman and her donuts. Those donuts must have been a lot of work for her, but you never heard her complain as you stole them away from her, hot out of the oil, almost before she could set them down. She was always delighted that she had made someone she loved happy, and it was a mutual admiration society as you basked in the warm glow of her smile.
At the visitation the night before the funeral, [a visitation is sort of the Lutheran version of a wake without the fun,] my cousins had provided some food for everyone to snack on. [Lutherans cannot get through any occasion without food and coffee to sustain them. You will never starve to death around a Lutheran. Trust me on this one. I gain five pounds just thinking about going home.]
Never a big socializer, and entirely disconcerted by the number of people who seemed to know me, but whom I didn't recognize, I fairly quickly located the food room. I decided to hide out in there, while various members of the family came and went. I really enjoyed that smaller opportunity to talk to some of the younger set that I don't really know, except in name. It worked out really well for me, too, until my mother came and found me. Some things never change, even when you are 40 something....
One of my cousins mentioned that Alice's donuts, made by two of her daughters, were in an ice cream pail off to the side. When I rushed to snap that cover off and take one to savor, the amazing aroma came wafting up out of that pail and filled my nostrils, not with the scent of donuts, but with the scent of my Aunt Alice.
It was almost as if she was there in front of me, once again frying those delectable treats for me to gobble down as fast as I could. And it soon became apparent that it wasn't true just for me. When I commented on how they smelled like my aunt to me, everyone in the room agreed, and said that was true for them, too. I know as long as I live, if ever I encounter that scent again, I will be immediately transported back to a little kitchen where my aunt would be creating sweet delicacies for us to devour.
My aunt loved to sing, and she loved it when others sang as well. One of my only talents, which I mostly squandered growing up, was an ability to carry a tune. So sing I did, almost every Sunday of my adolescence. Many of the older people in that little stone church, now mostly gone, were very appreciative of my efforts, [or truthfully, lack thereof,] but my aunt Alice was always so proud of me, it made it worth the little effort I had expended. She would hug me each Sunday, and tell me how much she enjoyed hearing me sing. Not only did I make my aunt happy, but getting that hug had the added benefit of sort of having a little piece of my dad again, too.
My aunt was one of the hardest workers I've ever known. She worked day and night to be sure that her family never did without anything essential. But you never saw her without a smile on her face. She made do with whatever she was given, and didn't waste time regretting what she didn't have.
The last time I saw Alice, I once again saw a glimpse of that lovely, warm smile that lit up whatever room she was in. She was a patient in the local nursing home, her mind ravaged by the Alzheimer's that stole her away piece by piece over the last few years, and she didn't recognize me at all. But she looked at my mother, the sister-in-law from her younger years, and she complimented my mother on her lovely outfit she was wearing that day. The essential good that lived within her was not stolen by the disease that stole her from us, it seems, because she remained gracious, even in her personal fog. And then she smiled at us, and my heart melted once again as I was reminded of her loving presence, gone now, but never forgotten.
As I thought about my loving aunt these past few weeks, I have taken great comfort from Isaiah 40:31: "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." I know my aunt embodied those words, and I am comforted now to think of her soaring and running, and able, once again, to be the spirit that God intended her to be.
I have recently been struggling with my own advancing age. I can't quite believe I am pushing 50, since I still feel 25, and it doesn't seem possible that the adults of my childhood are now in their 80's and 90's. I had an age related moment of laughter in the midst of the sadness last week, however. My cousin, over 60, and with children not much younger than me, said with a bemused look on her face that she supposed since both of her parents are gone, and with her older brother gone as well, that makes her the oldest one in her family-by-birth, so she must be a grown up now!
I can only hope that as my generation picks up that torch and leads the way for the generations that follow us, we can do it with as much grace and goodness as the one that led us into the future.
It is always fascinating to glimpse backwards into my childhood. Even as we celebrated the wonderful, rich life of a dearly loved woman who always had a smile on her face and a song in her heart, I felt myself slipping easily into the role of my childhood - youngest in my generation, never taken too seriously, sort of a frivolous luxury to the extended family, and yet, somehow valued none-the-less.
When the pastor asked if anyone would like to stand up and say something special about my aunt, I thought of so many things I could have said, but once again, felt my own insignificance, and said nothing. I told myself that it would be impossible to sum her up in just a few, brief words. It wouldn't do her justice, because she was so much more than mere words can tell.
But I knew my position in the family held me back as much as the lack of words ever could have, and I'm not complaining. I think that there is an unrecognized value to family occasions, even sad ones such as this. It reminds me where I came from, and tells me a little bit more about myself each time I see those people who led the way for me to be who I am today.
One of my cousins recently laughingly told me that I am still a brat, and I had to giggle at the characterization of myself. It is always surprising to me to remember that is how they saw me way back when, because to me, I was just being me. I am, according to most people, sharply witty, but sometimes the edge is a little too cutting, and it was that characteristic to which my cousin was referring that day. I didn't realize that quality came out of my childhood, but clearly it did, as I have several cousins that seem to have that same trait in evidence.
When I spend time with those people I rarely see, but who are the people closest in relation to me in this life, I see where I came from, and it is evident where my quirky personality derives it's basis. My cousins tease and poke fun and seem to see life in much the same way I do, and in that troubled time, it was comforting to be with people who know so much about you, there is no choice but to simply be yourself.
I think that legacy may be the most important one that our loving parents could have left to us, in fact. We are a family of goofy, irreverent humorists, I realized, and I, for one, am grateful to have a piece of that shared history.
But there are some other pieces of the legacy that have been left to us, as well, and my aunt has her own place in my heart. I am singularly blessed, because she left behind three daughters and a son who remind me, in so many ways, of the person that we have lost, but who lives on in them.
Scent is always a memory keeper for me, and certain smells will immediately call to mind a person or an occasion that I associate with that scent. The scent I associate with my mom is baking bread. [She can't abide store bought bread, which makes me a disappointment, I'm sure, since that's all I ever have, if I have any at all.] The scent of the baking bread is one that fills the entire house, and makes my mouth water just to think of it. I never get a whiff of that scent without seeing my mother right in front of me, pulling the fresh loaves out of the oven, and swatting my hand as I eagerly wait to cut into the freshly turned out manna she created.
Like most women of her generation, my aunt was always in the kitchen. In fact, I cannot recall ever seeing her in any other room of her house. I am sure I did, she couldn't have stayed in the kitchen every waking moment, but it certainly seemed like she did to me.
Since she was out there, anyway, she would make the most delicious treats you can imagine. In fact, her grandson was inspired to go to cooking school to become a chef because of her influence when he was a child. So part of her legacy lives on in him, too, as he delights his customers with his own specialties.
The treats for which my Aunt Alice was most famous were her fattigman and her donuts. Those donuts must have been a lot of work for her, but you never heard her complain as you stole them away from her, hot out of the oil, almost before she could set them down. She was always delighted that she had made someone she loved happy, and it was a mutual admiration society as you basked in the warm glow of her smile.
At the visitation the night before the funeral, [a visitation is sort of the Lutheran version of a wake without the fun,] my cousins had provided some food for everyone to snack on. [Lutherans cannot get through any occasion without food and coffee to sustain them. You will never starve to death around a Lutheran. Trust me on this one. I gain five pounds just thinking about going home.]
Never a big socializer, and entirely disconcerted by the number of people who seemed to know me, but whom I didn't recognize, I fairly quickly located the food room. I decided to hide out in there, while various members of the family came and went. I really enjoyed that smaller opportunity to talk to some of the younger set that I don't really know, except in name. It worked out really well for me, too, until my mother came and found me. Some things never change, even when you are 40 something....
One of my cousins mentioned that Alice's donuts, made by two of her daughters, were in an ice cream pail off to the side. When I rushed to snap that cover off and take one to savor, the amazing aroma came wafting up out of that pail and filled my nostrils, not with the scent of donuts, but with the scent of my Aunt Alice.
It was almost as if she was there in front of me, once again frying those delectable treats for me to gobble down as fast as I could. And it soon became apparent that it wasn't true just for me. When I commented on how they smelled like my aunt to me, everyone in the room agreed, and said that was true for them, too. I know as long as I live, if ever I encounter that scent again, I will be immediately transported back to a little kitchen where my aunt would be creating sweet delicacies for us to devour.
My aunt loved to sing, and she loved it when others sang as well. One of my only talents, which I mostly squandered growing up, was an ability to carry a tune. So sing I did, almost every Sunday of my adolescence. Many of the older people in that little stone church, now mostly gone, were very appreciative of my efforts, [or truthfully, lack thereof,] but my aunt Alice was always so proud of me, it made it worth the little effort I had expended. She would hug me each Sunday, and tell me how much she enjoyed hearing me sing. Not only did I make my aunt happy, but getting that hug had the added benefit of sort of having a little piece of my dad again, too.
My aunt was one of the hardest workers I've ever known. She worked day and night to be sure that her family never did without anything essential. But you never saw her without a smile on her face. She made do with whatever she was given, and didn't waste time regretting what she didn't have.
The last time I saw Alice, I once again saw a glimpse of that lovely, warm smile that lit up whatever room she was in. She was a patient in the local nursing home, her mind ravaged by the Alzheimer's that stole her away piece by piece over the last few years, and she didn't recognize me at all. But she looked at my mother, the sister-in-law from her younger years, and she complimented my mother on her lovely outfit she was wearing that day. The essential good that lived within her was not stolen by the disease that stole her from us, it seems, because she remained gracious, even in her personal fog. And then she smiled at us, and my heart melted once again as I was reminded of her loving presence, gone now, but never forgotten.
As I thought about my loving aunt these past few weeks, I have taken great comfort from Isaiah 40:31: "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." I know my aunt embodied those words, and I am comforted now to think of her soaring and running, and able, once again, to be the spirit that God intended her to be.
I have recently been struggling with my own advancing age. I can't quite believe I am pushing 50, since I still feel 25, and it doesn't seem possible that the adults of my childhood are now in their 80's and 90's. I had an age related moment of laughter in the midst of the sadness last week, however. My cousin, over 60, and with children not much younger than me, said with a bemused look on her face that she supposed since both of her parents are gone, and with her older brother gone as well, that makes her the oldest one in her family-by-birth, so she must be a grown up now!
I can only hope that as my generation picks up that torch and leads the way for the generations that follow us, we can do it with as much grace and goodness as the one that led us into the future.
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