October, 2005 They keep saying "no"

My children are all telling me “no.” Each one of them is doing it somewhat differently, but the effect is the same. Jamilet, who just turned two, often yells the word in mid-air, squirming feverishly as I try to redirect her from some imminent catastrophe — an outlet, a stove knob, a pair of scissors — to a toy — any toy.

Liam, 7, uses a bit more sophistication with his no’s. Liam already understands that he shouldn’t say no to a parent and has decided to substitute “but” instead.

            “Liam, time for bed.”

            “But I’m not finished with my book.”

            “Liam, put your socks in their drawer.”

            “But Jacob didn’t put his away.”

            Jacob, 10, occasionally falls back on Liam’s technique, but is moving towards something even more ingenious — the “yes” that means “no.”

            “Jacob, pick up your school uniform from your bedroom floor.”

            “Okay.”  Fifteen minutes later, the uniform is still there.

            When I first became a parent, I felt like I had a new understanding of God. I stared in wonder at newborn Jacob, overwhelmed by my love for him, and marveled that this love I felt for my son was just a sliver of God’s love for me.

            Now, with the newborn years a cozy memory, my children continue to help me understand God as parent.

            God the parent has requests and demands of us, just as I have demands and requests of my children. Sometimes we feel what God is asking of us in the deepness of our being — we hear God’s call in our souls. Other times, God speaks to us through scripture — a reading at church, a Bible verse at home. And still other times the Holy Spirit moves through a conversation and we sense what God is asking of us.

            And while sometimes we say, “yes,” right away to what God asks of us, more often we respond like Jamilet, Liam and Jacob. Like toddler Jamilet, we don’t always see when we’re headed for self-destruction — we think if we can just get to that stove knob, everything will be great. Intent on our own pleasure, we ignore God’s warnings and pleas for our safety.  Like Liam, we tell God “but.” We point out to God that He isn’t asking our neighbors to do the same thing. We make excuses for not doing God’s will. We try to put God on hold. And finally, perhaps we’re most often like 10-year-old Jacob. We hear a reading or homily in church — we know what God is asking of us and at that moment, we say “yes.” But then, too quickly, we forget what we agreed to do.

            While I understand that my children’s “no’s” are all developmentally appropriate, I also know that for our family to function effectively and for my children to learn responsibility, I need to teach them to say “yes.”

            I have to make Jamilet realize that when I say “no” and she doesn’t stop, she will be physically lifted away from the danger. Liam needs to know that no matter how many “buts” he comes up with, the end result will be the same — he’ll need to do as I asked. And Jacob needs to understand that if he doesn’t put the clothes away the first time, he will still need to do so 15 minutes later, and by then I probably will have added another job.

            My experience is that God operates similarly. When we ignore God or tell God “no,” God the parent doesn’t back off. Instead, God continues to call us to what would be best for us or for the greater world. Just as my children don’t always understand why they need to go to bed, stop playing with the scissors or help keep the house neat, we, as adults don’t always fully appreciate where God is leading us. Too often, because we can’t see the bigger picture of where our life fits into God’s plan, we choose not to summon the courage to trust God’s vision over our own.

But when we do summon that courage to trust; when we do say “yes” to God’s call; it is then that we begin to glimpse the bigger picture. We start to see where it is we fit. And we begin to understand that everything God asks of us is within our capabilities.

My plan is that someday, I won’t even need to ask Jacob to pick up his uniform from the floor. He’ll do it on his own. On that day (and I hope it’s coming soon), Jacob and I will have a shared vision of a bedroom without crumpled clothes on the floor. Someday, Liam will notice on his own that he’s tired and should go to bed. And someday, Jamilet will realize that I really do have her best interest in mind when I don’t let her play with the knives.

I don’t know when that day is that my children will see the bigger picture — when their “yes” to me will come before I even make the request. Right now, it’s enough for me that I see progress. Liam, after all, no longer lunges for the stove knobs like his little sister. And despite Jacob’s struggles with the clothes on the floor, he has become very good at going to bed with just one reminder. Everyone’s moving forward, and as a parent, that’s all I’m asking for. Hopefully, God sees the same progress in us.

           

             

October, 2005 We have too much stuff

There is a Bernstein Bears children’s book called Too Much Stuff. In the book,  Mama Bear looks around the house and decides the family needs to give away many of their things to the needy.  Papa bear has fishing supplies he hasn’t used in years. Brother Bear and Sister Bear have more games than they could ever play with. And Mama Bear herself admits there is no need to save stacks of magazines and scraps of material from her sewing projects.

We recently moved, and I’ve been feeling a lot like Mama Bear. Our family has too much stuff. It took six adults nearly five hours to move boxes and boxes of our things to our new house. Then, the following weekend, four young, strong professional movers spent another couple of hours moving our furniture. After that, Bill and I still needed to return to the old house for about four or five carloads of “just what’s left in the garage.”

I’m not completely sure what all this stuff is or where we got it. I doubt that we need more than half of it.

“Live simply so that others may simply live,” said St. Elizabeth Ann Seton. Mama Bear would have very much agreed with this. All over the world, there are families who struggle just to put together enough rice and beans for one meal. Our family has so much food that packing the pantry of dry goods to move from house to house took several large boxes. In our own city, there are families who would look at the dressers filled with clothes and boxes of shoes we were moving and assume we must have eight or nine kids, not three. We have enough toys to open our own daycare center, enough paper, pens, markers and art supplies to operate a small school, and enough books to keep every kid in the neighborhood busy reading for the rest of the summer.

In my early twenties, Elizabeth Ann Seton’s  “Live simply,” philosophy was mine as well. I lived in community for a year. Fifteen young adults, we worked in the Chicago’s central city, serving the poor and came home each night to a converted convent where we each had our own tiny room. We shared all other living quarters. I remember in-depth discussions of whether buying a package of cookies was in keeping with the simple life. When I left my year of service work, I fit all my belongings in my parents’ car, with both of my parents and my sister also in the car. What has happened to me?

Family life happened. It used to be all I needed to go running was a pair of running shoes. Now, I need a running stroller for the baby and bikes for each of the boys so that everyone can join in. Every age of childhood seems to come with its own equipment, and since there’s an eight-year gap between two-year-old Jamie and ten-year-old Jacob, it means we have both baby-toting equipment and big-kid sports equipment in the garage and basement.

Birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Baptisms and First Communions bring a rush of presents from well-meaning relatives buying more stuff for us. And I can’t blame it all on the kids. As Bill and I have moved from the “Early Marriage” style of decorating (think futons and framed posters) to having specific tastes, we have accumulated quite a bit on our own. And living as a family, rather than in community necessitates a certain amount of material things — from having enough plates so as to be able to invite people over, to owning power tools so that we can fix the house on our own.

So what is the answer? In the Bernstein Bears, the Bear family, under Mama’s direction, gives away much of their excess stuff to the needy. Everyone grumbles a bit, but they feel good in the end. In our family, the move has taught me to question our possessions.  We had the St. Vincent De Paul Society make one pick-up at our old house and two at our new, so far. I’m now less likely to hold onto something thinking we might find a use for it. If we haven’t used it or worn it in six months, it’s better to go to someone who has a more pressing need. Picturing myself packing, moving and unpacking the item gives me an immediate sense of if the item is all that important.

Almost three weeks into our life in our new house, we still aren’t completely unpacked. Yet, the kids play with toys, we eat three meals a day, wear clothes, and use a pretty operable office. The unopened boxes speak directly to the question of too much stuff, as we certainly aren’t missing what’s in those boxes.  I want to simplify, but don’t have all the answers yet. I’m praying to St. Elizabeth Ann Seton for guidance. And maybe I’ll read that Bernstein Bears book one more time.

            

September, 2005: Jamie in the buff

It was an unseasonably warm fall day and two-year-old Jamie and I were in the backyard. I had turned the hose on so that she could water some flowers, but Jamie had other ideas — she quickly found our plastic wading pool left over from the summer and began filling it up. When she had a few inches of water in the wading pool, she wriggled out of her sundress, whipped off her diaper and climbed in.

As naked Jamie splashed around in her outdoor bathtub, it struck me as to how completely unselfconscious she was. Every so often, she’d get out of the pool and run to another part of the yard to get a toy. Sometimes, on her way back to the pool, she’d stop to drive her kiddie car around the patio. It didn’t occur to her that there was anything unusual about this, that there was anything to be embarrassed of.  And as I watched my daughter, I felt wistful. For a flash of a second, I felt as God might have, watching Eve in the garden of Eden — hoping it could last forever. It’s not that I didn’t want my daughter to someday have appropriate modesty for her private body parts. It’s just that I knew that soon after children are old enough to realize some body parts are private, they begin to gauge their own bodies against what they see as an ideal. Girls especially begin to find fault with their bodies.

My daughter, who is so comfortable in her light brown skin right now, may someday feel that her skin is the wrong color. Someday, she may compare her legs or belly to someone else’s and find fault in her own. While now, she is no more conscious of her tush than her toes, someday, she may put a dress or a swimsuit back on a rack because she doesn’t like how it makes her behind look. Even though my plans for my daughter include helping her see herself as beautiful and complete, I know that that it will be hard to compete against magazines filled with gorgeous models and a culture that has a very limited vision of what female beauty can be. 

One of my favorite school Masses last year included a song by my son’s first grade class that had this line: Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re anything less than beautiful; don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re less than whole. The song made me cry, and as I looked around, I noticed the other first-grade moms around me were tearing up as well. I think our tears came because all of us, at some time, had been made to feel less than beautiful. To hear our children sing those words, was to wish, for a moment, that our children might escape that hurt. The chorus gave voice to the unspoken hope of every mother that her child would always be seen as precious.

I can’t help but think that part of my job for my little daughter is to keep her living in her Garden of Eden as long as I can. I have to believe that every year of early childhood that she feels positively about her body is one more year to fall back on when she is an anxious pre-teen. I plan to tend to her little Garden of Eden by limiting her TV, by not bringing fashion magazines into the house, by not buying into the little girl make-up sets and telling Barbie and her friends to come back when they have more normal proportions. I don’t know if all this will work. I’m hoping that if I couple it with giving my daughter a taste of outdoor life and sports — and a sample of dance and drama, that she’ll discover that bodies are for work and for play.  And maybe, when she’s in first grade, her teacher will have her class sing that song: Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re anything less than beautiful; don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re less than whole. My beautiful daughter.  I pray she will always feel whole.

August 2005: Julie Mooney

On Saturday, August 27, a friend of mine died. Julie Mooney, 41, had breast cancer that metastasized to her bones. She was the mother of two boys — Quinn 10, who is in my son Jacob’s class at St. Monica, and Dylan, 13, an 8^th grader there.

            Her death was not a surprise. We all knew it was coming for quite awhile. The day before she died, I received a call letting me know she most likely had fewer than 24 hours. And the moment the phone rang at 6 a.m. that Saturday morning, I knew what the message would be. Yet, despite the fact I have nothing to be surprised about; despite the fact I knew about the chemotherapy and radiation and morphine; despite the fact that it was expected; part of me is still shocked. Part of me still looks at her age at death and thinks it’s unfair — that she only had half a life. She didn’t get to finish everything. She had to leave right in the middle of being a mom, when there are still lunches to be made and carpools to drive, hugs to give and birthday presents to wrap. She had to leave before she and her husband could celebrate any milestone anniversary like 20 or 25.  She had to leave too soon.

            But while part of me rails at the unfairness of it all, the other part understands that there are no guarantees — that while most people are older than 41 when they die, some are even younger. Before Julie’s breast cancer had metastasized to her bones in May of 2004, she had been cancer-free for the five previous years. The breast cancer that she had had when her boys were tiny was nowhere to be found for five years, and during that time, Julie had the chance to see her two little boys turn into bigger boys. She saw them learn to read and ride two-wheelers.  She coached their classes’ variety show numbers and volunteered in their school. She smiled her enormous smile thousands of times in those five years, and those of us fortunate enough to know her were able to enjoy her unbelievably positive personality.

            On the morning of her death, our family went to St. Monica for the morning daily Mass. After the opening song, the priest announced that the day was St. Monica’s feast day — St. Monica, patron saint of wives and mothers. My husband and I looked at one another, first stunned, then with that sense of “of course.” Of course God chose St. Monica’s feast day as the day for Julie to enter eternal life. Julie’s children and husband were her life. I saw her death on St. Monica’s feast day as recognition from God of the goodness of Julie’s devotion to her family. I also see the day as significant for another reason. While I believe Julie will continue her mothering from heaven, she is now unable to do the practical, day-to-day things that keep a household running. I see her death on St. Monica’s feast day as a call to the St. Monica community to help Julie with her parenting. I believe that Julie, with the help of the Holy Spirit, will inspire some of the mothers and fathers of the parish to know what her sons need. I believe she will put the right words in our mouths to give comfort to her boys, to help nourish them and guide them. The date of her death reminds us of our responsibility.

             Looking toward this coming year, I cannot imagine how difficult it will be for Julie’s family to go on without her. I find myself talking to St. Monica — mother of 3 — more than I used to. And I’m pretty sure St. Monica and Julie are talking to each other — discussing a plan to help Dylan and Quinn, and her husband, Dan.

 Two mothers, together in Heaven, working together.

August, 2005: Frozen Boys

My boys were playing freeze tag with some friends the other night and having finished the dinner dishes, I sat on the front porch and watched. Liam, 7, had only played the game a couple times before, and was taking the rule about being frozen very seriously. While his older brother, Jacob, 10, would stop and casually stand in one place when tagged, Liam held the exact position he had been in at the time of the tag. I watched with amusement as Liam struggled to balance on one foot, arms extended, not even blinking, until someone ran by to unfreeze him again.

            If I could, I would freeze the current ages of my two boys for a couple of extra years. At 7 and 10, they are full-throttle in the middle of childhood, and it’s my favorite stage so far. Their 3 ½-year age difference, which seemed like quite a gap when they were younger, has finally narrowed. They can play together well, and Jacob is kind enough to go easy on his little brother to keep Liam’s frustration at bay. They no longer need the constant supervision their 2-year-old sister requires. A nice mix of dependence and independence, they’re old enough to put their own pajamas on, but young enough to still want to be tucked in.

            Maybe it’s the former junior high teacher in me that wants to gently tap each of my boys and tell them they’re frozen at 7 and 10. I know about the attitudes that can come when kids turn 12 or 13, and I’m enjoying the absence of eye-rolling and talking back while I still can.

As far as I can tell, our boys are holding onto their childhood a little longer than some of their peers. Bill and I have limited their exposure to TV, movies and even popular songs. It has left them a little out of sync with pop culture, but I think it’s also kept them innocent longer. With no cable, no Game Boy, Game Cube and I-pod, there’s nothing for them to do but play and read. Nothing to do but be a kid.

But while I can keep them from growing up before their time, I can’t freeze them in mid-childhood forever. I can’t freeze them at 7 and 10 any more than I can hurry their sister through the unreasonable two’s and toward the more rational three-year-old stage. I can’t freeze them any more than I can freeze my own age. Time dictates its own pace.

What I’m hoping, though, is that I can learn from my current desire to hold onto the present. So often, as a parent, I’ve looked ahead or behind. When the boys were babies, I longed for the time when I could sleep through the night. When they started school, I looked back wistfully to our lazy mornings cuddling together. Now, rooted in the present, I’m (finally) appreciating them for the age they are. Fully enjoying my boys at their current age makes me wonder if what I’m looking for is not a forever 7- and 10-year-old, but rather, a spirit of enjoyment and wonder for my children, no matter what their age.  Maybe I’m looking for the grace to see the beauty in every age — even those ages that might seem more difficult, like two or thirteen.

I will pray that God will give me the grace to enjoy my children when they’re teens just as much as I enjoy them right now. And who knows, maybe when Jacob is 16 and Liam is 13, I’ll say it doesn’t get any better than this, only to be proven wrong again when they’re 24 and 21. I don’t know. I do know though, that 7 and 10 is wonderful. Scooters and soccer. Freeze tag and kickball. Popsicles and chapter books. I can’t freeze it, but I can savor it. I can drink it in. And I am. I certainly am.