March, 2003: Our Chevy Nova

I was crossing the playground during recess on my way to the school office last Wednesday when Jacob’s permanent teeth ran by.

Jacob was, of course, attached to his permanent teeth, and I’m pretty sure my little boy’s other body parts ran by as well. But all I saw were his two front permanent teeth. In a strange split second of a mental hiccup, my brain grabbed images of my son at every stage of his life, and I saw baby-toddler-preschool-second grade Jacob all at once. Running towards me was the 1995-model Jacob I had originally been given, except now a couple feet taller and with two large teeth where his tiny baby ones had been.

The infant I used to carry tucked snugly in the crook of my arm is now a kid who runs around at recess with permanent teeth. The thought is startling.

I am beginning to realize this growing thing isn’t temporary. It keeps happening. Just when I get used to a new phase of parenting, it ends and turns into something else. 

For me, parenting started very slowly. I was aware of each day of both my pregnancies’ first trimesters; every morning, the clock would creep toward 11 a.m., when the nausea would finally pass. Once the babies were born, an hour pacing or rocking in the middle of the night seemed to contain ninety, rather than sixty minutes.

But things started picking up speed after the one-year mark for each of the boys. Rather than anticipating milestones, as I did when I waited for baby Jacob to roll over or for baby Liam to grow hair, the milestones started crashing into me.

Baby books told me what to expect that first year. Peeking ahead, I knew I was supposed to take note of my sons’ first smiles, babbles and steps. I waited for these events and duly recorded them on the appropriate pages. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure why I was writing them down. How much difference is there, really, between a baby who rolls over and one still working on that skill?

Permanent teeth are endlessly more significant than rolling over, and no one warned me about them. Permanent teeth mark the beginning of the end of cute.  While kindergarteners, still awaiting their first visit from the tooth fairy, are darling, and first graders, with gaping toothless grins, are simply ravishing, second graders are growing out of cute and into good-looking. You can’t easily scoop a second-grader into your arms.

My son’s permanent teeth are his first outward sign of a still-faraway adulthood. While his arms and legs will continue to grow and his face will change as he gets older, his two front teeth are as big as they’ll ever be. And it makes me wonder what else about him is “permanent.” His quiet, thoughtful personality seems pretty well set. He’s not one to grab center stage, and I doubt he ever will be. He’s loved learning about undersea life for about three years now; I used to think dolphins and whales were a passing phase, but I’m not so sure anymore.

I’m realizing the milestones of childhood that stand out to me are those moments when I glimpse — if only for a moment — the people my children are becoming. They are the moments I sense “permanency”—when I know that I’m not seeing a developmental period that my sons will grow out of, but rather a personality or passion that they’re in the process of growing into. Milestones now have less to do with mastery of skills and more to do with emerging values I see — those times when my sons make a 

February, 2003: Parenting is holy work

When I am looking for inspiration on becoming a better parent, my parish priest is not the first resource I usually think of. While we have two excellent priests at Saints Peter and Paul, the fact remains they are celibate males, and therefore rarely have to say things like “Don’t lick the window,” or “Remember, you need to lift up the toilet seat before you start going.”

            Some may argue that a priest who has never had to utter either of these statements can indeed preach effectively to those of us who must say them on a regular basis, but I’ve never been so sure. Following Jesus when you’re only responsible for yourself is difficult enough. Following Jesus when your nerves are frayed because your baby will only sleep if you are standing up and swaying at 3:00 a.m. is another thing entirely.

            So when I went to Mass two Sundays ago, I did not expect the homily would be the most clear explanation tying together parenthood and being a follower of Christ that I had ever heard. 

            I don’t remember how Fr. Joe Juknialis began his homily. By the time the Gospel ended, I was in the back of the church pacing back and forth with our new foster daughter, Luchita, age 15 months. We had gone through all toys and books of interest during the opening prayer, a Ziplock bag of Cheerios during the first two readings, and a half bottle of milk during the Gospel. As Fr. Joe started the homily, Luchita was frantically kicking her arms and legs in need of some motion.

            So I took my place in the very back of the church, pacing, as Fr. Joe spoke. Luchita, comforted by the step-step-bounce pattern of my walk, relaxed in my arms and I could listen.

            In the Gospel, Jesus had cured a leper, and in doing so, became so sought after that he could barely walk through the town. In taking away some of the leper’s pain, Jesus, in essence, brought discomfort and pain upon himself. This is what being a Christian means, Fr. Joe said. In an effort to lessen another’s pain, we take some of their pain on ourselves. He said that parents do this constantly — a parent will stay up with a sick child — and in the process often become sick, too — so that the child is not alone in his or her sickness. A parent  will listen to a child’s sorrow, and take some of that sorrow as his or her own so as to lighten the child’s burden. In doing this, he said, parents are acting as true followers of Christ.

            As I walked with Luchita, Fr. Joe gave other examples, but I hung onto the parenting ones. Luchita had come into our lives about ten days earlier, part of the Milwaukee County child welfare system. Her arrival, while very welcome, had rocked our world. Full nights of sleep were now a memory, and our small Toyota Corolla seemed to have shrunk two sizes with the addition of another carseat. The constant motion of a toddler added intensity to our already-busy family life. Implicit in Father Joe’s words, though, was that our family took a hit of instability so that Luchita’s life could be more stable.

            I thought of my friend Patty, mother of five, who had told me about an argument she helped her ten-year-old twins work through. She had known the twins were angry with one another, and she acted as a facilitator to their argument, allowing each twin to say what she needed to say, but preventing the fight from getting ugly or out of hand. Patty absorbed and diffused some of their anger. In choosing to become involved in their conflict, Fr. Joe would say she acted as Jesus, releasing some of her daughters’ tension by taking it on herself.

            The reason parenting is so exhausting is that we are living our own lives plus those parts of our children’s lives that they are not up to yet. Every fanny wiped, every hotdog cut into small bits, every comforting hug after a nightmare is a way of taking a child’s difficulty and making it our difficulty. Parenting is the constant shelving of our own wants in favor of a child’s needs. And the twist that makes it even more difficult is that what we know is best for our children is not always what they themselves want. Parenting would be almost easy if children’s wishes reigned — four or five hours of TV a day, lots of junk food, no bedtime, no vegetables, no need to get dressed or be anywhere on time. The “no’s” we say, the limits we set, and the anger or tears or pouts we encounter because of those no’s and limits are also part of being Christ to our children. We absorb the momentary fury of a child rather than compromise that child’s future growth, health or development.

            When Mass ended, I tried to thank Fr. Joe for his homily, but could just manage a few words before I had to run after Luchita, who, exhilarated with the freedom of finally being put down, was careening toward the steps. I caught her before she fell, helped Liam blow his nose, and held Jacob’s books while he zipped his jacket. I glanced at a nearby mother who was bundling her baby before going out into the cold. She nodded at me and smiled. Our work was holy.

November, 2002: Permanent Teeth

I was crossing the playground during recess on my way to the school office last Wednesday when Jacob’s permanent teeth ran by.

Jacob was, of course, attached to his permanent teeth, and I’m pretty sure my little boy’s other body parts ran by as well. But all I saw were his two front permanent teeth. In a strange split second of a mental hiccup, my brain grabbed images of my son at every stage of his life, and I saw baby-toddler-preschool-second grade Jacob all at once. Running towards me was the 1995-model Jacob I had originally been given, except now a couple feet taller and with two large teeth where his tiny baby ones had been.

The infant I used to carry tucked snugly in the crook of my arm is now a kid who runs around at recess with permanent teeth. The thought is startling.

I am beginning to realize this growing thing isn’t temporary. It keeps happening. Just when I get used to a new phase of parenting, it ends and turns into something else. 

For me, parenting started very slowly. I was aware of each day of both my pregnancies’ first trimesters; every morning, the clock would creep toward 11 a.m., when the nausea would finally pass. Once the babies were born, an hour pacing or rocking in the middle of the night seemed to contain ninety, rather than sixty minutes.

But things started picking up speed after the one-year mark for each of the boys. Rather than anticipating milestones, as I did when I waited for baby Jacob to roll over or for baby Liam to grow hair, the milestones started crashing into me.

Baby books told me what to expect that first year. Peeking ahead, I knew I was supposed to take note of my sons’ first smiles, babbles and steps. I waited for these events and duly recorded them on the appropriate pages. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure why I was writing them down. How much difference is there, really, between a baby who rolls over and one still working on that skill?

Permanent teeth are endlessly more significant than rolling over, and no one warned me about them. Permanent teeth mark the beginning of the end of cute.  While kindergarteners, still awaiting their first visit from the tooth fairy, are darling, and first graders, with gaping toothless grins, are simply ravishing, second graders are growing out of cute and into good-looking. You can’t easily scoop a second-grader into your arms.

My son’s permanent teeth are his first outward sign of a still-faraway adulthood. While his arms and legs will continue to grow and his face will change as he gets older, his two front teeth are as big as they’ll ever be. And it makes me wonder what else about him is “permanent.” His quiet, thoughtful personality seems pretty well set. He’s not one to grab center stage, and I doubt he ever will be. He’s loved learning about undersea life for about three years now; I used to think dolphins and whales were a passing phase, but I’m not so sure anymore.

I’m realizing the milestones of childhood that stand out to me are those moments when I glimpse — if only for a moment — the people my children are becoming. They are the moments I sense “permanency”—when I know that I’m not seeing a developmental period that my sons will grow out of, but rather a personality or passion that they’re in the process of growing into. Milestones now have less to do with mastery of skills and more to do with emerging values I see — those times when my sons make a choice in behavior that comes not from a fear of a time-out, but rather from a desire to do right. And these moments are not listed in the baby books. They’re left for parents to discover at odd times; in unlikely places.

            When I left Jacob’s school that day, recess was ending, and my son was lined up with his class. The magical baby-toddler-kid was gone, and I once again saw Jacob as I usually do — a skinny seven-year-old with a sprinkling of freckles and smiling hazel eyes. But as Jacob walked into the school, I couldn’t help but think about those permanent teeth. And wonder about the other permanent things I could not see.

October, 2002: Oh Yeah, Life goes on....

Little ditty about Jack and Diane. Two American kids growin’ up in the heartland.  John Mellencamp’s popular song makes me uneasy. Whenever it comes on the radio as I’m making the bed or driving the kids to school, I stop and listen. And the refrain that comes shortly after that famous beginning always startles me. Makes me swallow hard. Makes me bite my lip and check to see if it is true for me yet.

            Oh yeah, life goes on,

 Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

            Part of me wants to believe there is no truth to the lyric at all — that life gets more exciting the older you get, with the golden years — not the teenage ones — topping out as the best. But another part of me hears the reality in the lines. There is something unequivocally thrilling about being young. I see it in my own children. My son, Liam, 4, actually starts to bounce when he is offered sprinkles on his vanilla ice cream cone, and Jacob, 7, yowls in delight at the announcement of a family walk to the park. Children’s developmental changes between birth and young adulthood mean that every year they’re doing things they’ve never done before, whether it’s riding a two-wheeler or catching a football or kissing someone for the first time.

And even if they’ve had ice cream with sprinkles or walks to the park before, they’ve surely not had them hundreds of times. They’re in their first round of these little treats. And that’s why it’s thrilling.

Parents have the privilege of some vicarious thrills. Listening to Jacob read his first book, beginning to end, would fall into the ‘thrilling’ category for me. And anyone with a toddler knows the oddly victorious feeling that comes from witnessing the first tinkle on the potty.

While experiencing second-hand thrills through my children is undoubtedly one of the sweetest parts of parenting, Mellencamp’s song reminds me I need to be careful not to allow these second-hand thrills to become my only thrills. My husband and I need to have thrills that are ours alone. And in the midst of a house littered with the socks, toys and grubby fingerprints of small boys, it can seem like personal thrills come few and far between.

Oh yeah, life goes on,

Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

 One reason that childhood and adolescence are arguably more thrilling than adulthood is that children are not allowed to stay in one place for long. First grade is replaced by second and J.V. becomes varsity. Change is a regular part of the life of a child or teen, and change automatically brings challenge. And thrills.

Adults don’t have the luxury of someone else moving us along. Whether or not we stay in a job that’s comfortable, but too easy, is our own decision. The ruts we often fall into — cooking the same spaghetti recipe every Monday, sticking with the same hobbies or exercise plan, even praying the same way we’ve always prayed — are ours to keep if we choose. While no one would allow a child to remain in kindergarten a few years because she doesn’t want to replace finger painting with reading and math, few question an adult’s choice of comfort over challenge. But the decision not to change or challenge ourselves is what makes the lyric of this song come true.

Oh yeah, life goes on,

Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.

We have a magic marker sign, made by Jacob, taped to our pantry door. It says, “Holy Spirit, Help us to be brave, strong friends of Jesus.” It’s decorated with three crosses, a couple stars and yellow zigzags.

That sign has become a prayer to me as well as a challenge. It’s also the closest thing I have to a rebuttal to Mellencamp’s refrain. By definition, you can’t be either strong or brave if you’re not doing something difficult. And conquering the difficult is always thrilling.

Jacob’s carefully drawn words of  “Help us to be brave, strong friends of Jesus” remind me that living as a Christian should be thrilling, because Jesus’ way is very different from what is easy and ordinary. The sign tells me that during those times when I wonder if the thrills are fading, I need to delve deeper into what bravery and strength mean in terms of Christianity.

I know a couple who, in their early thirties, left stable jobs and took their two young children to Tanzania, Africa, for a couple years of volunteer work. Another couple I know — with five children — regularly opens their home to poor women and their children who need a hot meal or a temporary place to stay.  No worry about the “thrill of livin’” leaving anytime soon for these two families.

Every thrill starts with fear. The thrilling moment comes when we break through that fear — the moment we decide: “I’m terrified, but I’m going forward anyway.” 

And when this decision to go forward despite fear is applied to following the teachings of Jesus — to loving others, to standing up for justice, to serving the poor — we become both brave and strong. We become people alive with the thrill of Gospel living.

September, 2002: Abduction of Values

This past summer and spring, it seemed that each week, there was news of a new child abduction. From Milwaukee’s little Alexis Patterson to Utah’s Elizabeth Smart, each case left me nauseated and afraid. For awhile, I reacted to the stories as if my responsibility as a mother was to assume an abduction could happen to my two boys — ages 7 and 4 — anywhere, anytime. I hovered on the porch as they played in front of the house. I took note of unfamiliar cars in our neighborhood. My husband and I reviewed the “don’t go with strangers” rule and rehashed our “these body parts are private” discussions.  We amended our talks about being nice to everyone and gave our usually-polite little boys  permission to yell and scream and bite and kick if anyone ever tried to take them. Mostly, we walked the tightrope between not scaring the boys with too much information and giving them enough to offer some protection.

Protection. The more I thought about the role my husband and I have as our children’s protectors (in addition to being their cooks, garbage collectors, chauffeurs and entertainers), the less likely abduction by a stranger seemed and the more likely abduction by society in general became. While strangers snatching children is still so rare and terrible that it makes front page news, the abduction of a child’s value system is so common, many of us don’t see it anymore.

I decided I needed be less worried about some nameless villain lurking in the shadows and more worried about the dominant American culture kidnapping the souls of my sons.

Every generation of parents has had its own enemy to fight in terms of protecting their young. Ages ago, cold winters, starvation and wild animals posed the biggest danger to children. In the more recent past, parents were terrified of polio. Today, the biggest threats to our children are insidious and in disguise. Materialism, consumerism, and a culture that glorifies violence, casual sex and self-centeredness prey on our children on a daily basis.

For the first time in human history, many stand to gain more — at least in the short term — by corrupting children than by caring for them. 

There is money to be made in selling children toys they don’t need and clothes that will go out of style in six months; in convincing them to buy food that corrodes their arteries and entertainment that corrodes their minds. There’s money to be made in taking teens’ natural interest in sex and using it to sell everything from CDs to TV shows to glossy girls’ magazines. Too many stand to make a huge profit if they can convince children that in all things, more is not enough.

I realized, as I watched my little boys play in the front yard, that the Gospel values of living simply, caring little for possessions and reaching out to the marginalized are not only different than the values of society at large, but are actually at odds with those values. And that’s where abduction comes in. Because in order for big corporations to convince my sons that they need to watch a cartoon with rude or violent characters, buy countless plastic action figures or judge people by the brands they’re wearing, they will first need to convince my children that the values they have been taught at home are wrong. They will need to steal our family’s — our faith’s — teachings. And they’re working hard to do it — with clever billboards, slick commercials, and even by using those children whose value systems they’ve already stolen.

But my husband and I, and many parents we know, are working just as hard. Having been given the gift and responsibility of parenthood, we are holding tight to our children, even as our culture strains to pull them from us. We are seeing through the empty promises of commercials and are teaching our children to do the same. We are deciding that driving past is often better than driving “thru.” We are acting as guardians and protectors of our children — making decisions about what music, TV programs and clothes are welcome in our home — and which are not. And most importantly, we are making choices in our own lives that teach our children that we value helping people and protecting the earth over buying more and more stuff. 

And yet, I know no matter what we do, it is still possible that our children’s values may be abducted, for there are no guarantees. We offer them the best protection we know and send them out into the world — and we pray they will not be taken.