An Outside Glimpse

My four-year-old son had been going through a whiny phase. I found it difficult to hear his words clearly, and frequently told him (probably less-than-patiently) that I could not understand a word he was saying unless he spoke more clearly. Without the high-pitch accompaniment of whines. After my reactions, he usually just stopped trying to say whatever he had been saying. So I would feel bad for shutting him down, and he probably felt worse for not being able to express whatever he wanted to say.

My mom was driving, and I sat in the passenger seat. The three kids all sat in the back seat. My son was talking aloud to himself, which he rarely does. He was going on and on in a very impassioned manner so I tuned in to hear what he might be saying.

“No one understands me!” He was exclaiming to himself, building up a whole case in his little sing-song voice. I tried to reassure him that as long as he spoke clearly, he would be understood. I left it at that, although his self-talk continued.

That weekend, my sister came for a visit with her teenage son. I entered the living room that evening and heard my son telling a story to his aunt and cousin. They were sitting captivated as he narrated the entire tale of how we traveled from India (a couple of months before), including details on the airplane ride, the things he saw, ate, experienced.

After he completed his tale, I told him it was time to get ready for bed. He turned to go, but then added a final line to his narrative: “I need to go now and that’s about all the information I have.”

My sister was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. My nephew commented, “He knows words I didn’t learn until sixth grade!”

The next day, my four-year-old told his plane traveling story to someone else, who also looked extremely impressed. He added a few details, cut out some other parts and had to double back when he forgot something, beginning the story once more from that point on. He breathlessly reached the end of the story with, “And that’s the end of my story of how we came from Bangalore to America.”

Another successful tale. Another impressed listener. My son was happy once more. And I stood in wonder at that outside glimpse. Seeing my child through someone else’s eyes. His amazing vocabulary. His gift of storytelling.

Often, without even realizing it, we put our children in a box, labeled neatly with our perceptions and our assumptions. My son: the whiny one. My son: the strong-willed one. My daughter: the complainer. The boss. The sensitive one. The spoiled one.

Sometimes we put ourselves in those boxes too. But when we’re in boxes and they’re in boxes, we can’t easily reach out and connect. Maybe it takes an outside glimpse. Maybe it takes an intentional stepping out from those labeled boxes. Perhaps a recognition of who they are and who we are beyond those labels. To help us see just how special and unique each one of us truly are.

The Greatest Teachers

I consider myself a decent teacher. From the time I was a teenager, I had tutored younger students. I tutored the children of friends and acquaintances before I became a mom.

And once my daughter was born, I began planning ways to teach her. I sat and watched “Your Baby Can Read” videos with her from the time she was a few months old. I created giant word cards and flashed them at her long before she had learned to talk. I bought a set of math dots and used those. I put up pictures of colors along with that color word right in front of her bouncer-seat: green grass and grapes and trees and a mug and a sweater.

When my sons came along, they got the same input (along with the extra input that an older sibling or two provides). I loved to make the most of teachable moments, a gift my mother instinctively had and a skill I tried to build.

I considered myself a decent teacher.

Then Allen, at three years old, climbed onto my lap one morning. “I love you,” he told me, and before I could answer, he went on to say, “And I love Daddy and I love Aiden and I love Jessica…” He continued until he had named pretty much every person he knew or could remember at the time.

And I realized there is more to teach than words and numbers and facts. And my son was teaching me this.

A few days later was Aiden’s first birthday. That evening, Allen began giving a multitude of kisses and cuddles to my husband. Aiden, who was fully focused on his birthday gift, placed it down and crawled up to daddy. He copied his brother’s behavior and started giving his daddy “kisses.”

Love. Forgiveness. Time. How often do I withhold those? Give them only to those who I feel deserve it? When three-year-olds (and one-year-olds) naturally spill over with contagious love. Perhaps a reason Jesus said we should be like children—not only to enter the Kingdom one day, but to find a place of joy, peace, spontaneity, and love today.

I still consider myself a decent teacher. But I’m also a student. And sometimes my children teach me far more than I teach them.

When You Thought I Wasn’t Looking

Excuse Me for Breathing

I don’t know if there is anyone who doesn’t smile at the sight of baby. Fresh and new, unblemished, ready to begin life on earth. We smile at the innocence, the beauty, the miracle.

I think I began my life as a mother in a similar way. Innocent, hopeful, full of wonder and excitement. Of course, trepidation was a common feeling too. “How am I going to manage this ‘mom’ thing?”

As my children grow, I see their experiences molding and shaping them year by year. I take note of their minds and hearts working as they learn to make decisions for themselves. I try to give them helpful counsel as they learn to react to and interact with others. All too often, I wish I could protect them from hurt and difficulty, from the scars I know life will bring. Brought on by those same things I have faced and sometimes continue to face, even as a “grown up”.

Sometimes I even wish I could protect my children from myself. From the fears I haven’t faced, the hurts I haven’t quite gotten over, the skewed perspectives I have. I think how nice it would be if I could do the “mom thing” from that same unblemished, perfect state babies seem to have when they enter the world.

Sometimes it takes years to realize something I encountered long ago still affects me … and my interactions with my children. The way I relate and respond to them. Not long ago, I felt hurt by a friend’s attitude toward my kids, and didn’t know why. Then I realized why it affected me the way it did. Years ago I had been hurt by the words of another “friend” who was vocally opposed to my second pregnancy and let me know in no uncertain terms that she felt me and my children were only a burden. The hurt I felt by her remarks remained in a place so deep I didn’t consciously realize it was there.

But it was. I became one of those parents constantly hovering over my children, hushing them if they became too loud, telling them not to disturb this person, and not to bother that person. Yes, it is good to help children grow in awareness of others and to understand there is a good and a not-so-good time to ask for things, but my hovering was borne of fear that I would again face—or worse, that my children would face—someone letting them know they are a burden, an unwanted load.

I was often preoccupied with making sure my children were “good” and “quiet” so they wouldn’t become an issue for someone else. But I don’t want to make the mistake of raising children in fear or negativity. Enough negative and harmful things face my children simply because we live in a broken world. My duty as a mother is to provide a haven of security, peace, and helpful boundaries. Not to exude an “excuse me for breathing” mentality.

Most of all, I bear the responsibility and privilege of showing them unconditional love. Children are a gift. To us, their parents. To the world. They don’t need a reason or an excuse. Each child is a treasure with the potential to change the world for the better.

Seeing each day through the eyes of a child can help me remember every day is a chance to start over.

A Father’s Day Letter to Dad

My Dad, with Jessica (22 months), at Yosemite. 2006.

I was 18, on a one-month visit to my family in California. I would be heading back to India in a week or two. My dad was driving me to the DMV to get my ID card renewed. I don’t remember the details of our conversation, but it went something like this:

“You’ve been in India for nearly two years now,” my dad observed.

I didn’t really need him to do the math, but I knew he was getting at something. “Yep,” I answered.

“Your mom and I were missionaries for a while. Sometimes it takes a lot out of you. I want you to know that we are proud of your, whatever you choose to do. We do everything we can to support all our children.”

“I know,” I told him.

“If you ever want to pursue a different path, we will fully support you. You can stay with us for as long as you like.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I didn’t say much more. I wasn’t very communicative in my teens, especially in matters of the heart or mind, matters I didn’t completely understand or hadn’t fully worked through on my own.

But my dad’s words stayed with me, because I was struggling at that time. I held the struggle inside, as I did with so many things. For my first few years in India, I felt very alone, even when surrounded by people. I struggled with my sense of purpose and the way it seemed to mingle freely with depression.

I returned to India a couple weeks later, but it meant a lot knowing that I had a home to return to if ever I chose.

***

I was 21, sitting in a chair, a friend across from me helping with a last-minute application of eye shadow. It was the big day. My wedding day. The phone rang and a friend ran it over to me. “It’s your dad.”

I don’t remember much about the exchange, only that he wished me well, told me that he loved me, and that things would turn out okay. I tried valiantly to hold back the tears. I was in India, 8,000 miles from my family. None of them had met the man I was about to marry. Most of them were very concerned about that fact. We were in a Catch-22 because my husband could not get a visa to visit the U.S. unless we were married, so I hoped my family would trust my judgment. But the distance and uncertainty wasn’t easy … for any of us.

In some ways, I felt like I was having to choose between marriage and a supportive family, and I hated that. At 21, it was a hard decision, especially not knowing whether my husband would be accepted into my family. I knew that they just didn’t know him; if they knew him, they would love him, like I did. All they knew was that they didn’t know him. And he was marrying their daughter. Or for my siblings, their little sister.

When my dad called, I felt for a moment that connection with home. I knew things would turn out okay.

And they did. That uncertainty I felt is a distant memory. Twelve years later, we as a family are very close … in location, and in heart and spirit. (And everyone in my family prefers my husband’s cooking. Including me.)

***

It’s Father’s Day, and I was thinking that if there was a single word that could describe my dad, it would be supportive. The support that he has given in countless ways, to me and my five siblings, has shown a lot of things about his character. His reliability and loyalty. His love and concern.

His trust in God.

Over the years, I’ve realized just how much my dad’s supportive nature has been grounded in a deep faith in God, that everything would work out alright. That God had things in His hands. The whole world, as the song goes, and his children as well.

My kids are not yet teens, but when those years come, I only pray that I will have a portion of the faith and trust that my dad has shown over the years. I pray that I can show them, through my words and deeds, my faith in God’s perfect plan, my trust in God’s purpose for their lives, and my love for them no matter what roads they take.

To my dad: Happy Father’s Day! Thank you for being the best example a father can be, by pointing the way to the Heavenly Father with your words, your actions, your life.

A Busy Summer

Within a week, my children will be in school, after a three-month summer break. It was a summer I had hoped would be focused on them. Outings. Stories. Fun. Togetherness.

It was, in fact, a busy summer. It began with an in-depth “spring cleaning” (yes, in summer) after my sister and her kids moved out of our home. It continued when my husband began a new work-from-home venture by building a small voice-over studio in our family room. And when I had three separate courses to plan from scratch and prepare for teaching at an adult school: working from home, blogging, and living on purpose. In short, it was not a sit-around-and-relax summer.

But we did some things as a family.

1. We got season passes to a water park and went nearly every week.

2. We took a weekend camping trip, waded upstream until someone spotted a freshwater crab, and stargazed beneath a diamond-strewn sky.

3. Nearly every morning, we read stories from the Bible or a kids’ devotional, or watched a video from the “Creation Today” show.

4. We had a memory verse contest, where every ten verses memorized was rewarded with something special: a sleepover or a special snack.

5. I read stories to the kids nearly every evening. Jessica and I have been reading through Madeleine L’Engle’s “Wrinkle in Time” series. Allen and I, first through The Sugar Creek Gang and then the “Little House on the Prairie” series.

Still, I feel that in many ways I spent too much time sitting at the computer; much of it was necessary work, some of it was unnecessary browsing, but all of it was time not spent with the kids. They keep themselves busy, yes. Our daughter reads books as if we’re about to enter a Fahrenheit 451 realm of existence and she needs to experience every book at least once. Our older son occupies himself with drawing and creates artwork that is beyond my skill level. Our younger son designs complex patterns with his hot wheels cars, and more recently has been expressing an interest in drawing and coloring. I’m thrilled to see them develop skills, create make-believe worlds together, and utilize their God-given imagination.

But I was still feeling guilty and I didn’t do more with my kids. Then I remembered a few summers ago, when I created an intricate summer schedule for myself and the kids. It included learning Spanish twice a week, a baking project once a week, a weekly science class, guitar lessons, times tables, and more. I wrote a blog post about the summer plan, and my mom made the following comment:

We all had certain jobs that were year round. Summers were spent hanging out with friends. When they put a community pool across the street, we swam every day. I walked for miles to visit friends. I played solitaire when I was bored. I embroidered. When we were younger the parents would shove us out the door to play, and sometimes locked it so we couldn’t get back in. I don’t remember my mom having to entertain us. It’s admirable that the kids want to learn and do things. In all your planning, remember: summers are for teachers (and that’s what you are besides being a mommy) to recharge and get things done they have neglected throughout the school year. God worked 6 days and rested on the 7th. Down time. We all need it. Kids too.

She was right. As it turned out, we moved that summer, and much of the schedule went out the window.

This summer, I might not have been doing something with my kids every moment, but they still learned. They grew. And I didn’t have to do it all. I tend to believe that I need to take an active (or over-active) role in the lives of my family, but sometimes I need to let go. Every year, as my children grow, I will need to let go more and more. This includes not feeling like if I don’t do everything I intend to do, I have failed as a mother.

I will never be what I would consider a “perfect mom.” But I love my children. And the times I spend with them are the best moments of my life. Sometimes, I suppose, perspective rather than perfection is enough.

I hope you had a wonderful summer with your children and family as well!

Mother’s Day Writing Contest Winners

Congratulations to our winners: Gaby (73 likes), Helen (72 likes), and Charlotte (71 likes)! It was so close! I wish everyone could have won something because every story is so special. Every memory. Every moment.

Every mother!

I so enjoyed reading these memories and reflections on mothers and memories from childhood that I’m thinking about writing some posts with memories of my childhood.

The idea also developed with an assignment from my photography class. For the final assignment, my professor said we can choose one subject and take 20 photos on that theme. My immediate choice (naturally) was my children. Then I began to wonder, “What kind of pictures should I take?”

The concept began to form: take pictures that coincide with my own childhood memories. Images began flooding into my mind. Eating ice cream while sitting on the back of a station wagon with my siblings, running through sprinklers, playing shadow tag, moving the lawn with a push-mower, pillow fights and raking leaves, fishing, jumping on a trampoline. So many iconic flashes. I hope I can capture them all.

More than that, I hope that my children are developing images of their own. I pray that special memories are forming in their minds, things they can carry with them always. To remind them of being loved.

Because no matter what else I might have to offer, or might not have … one thing I can unequivocally give my children, one thing we can all offer our children, is love.

The love of a parent. Imperfect, yes. But somehow unconditional. Somehow transcendent and beautiful and enduring. Even if it’s all we have to offer our children … it is enough.

Mom is a Superhero

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Mistakes are a Part of Life

Ambitions for a Perfect Motherhood

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