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Dear Son and Daughter of Mine

by with No Comment BlogParenting

 

 notebook

First Week of School

 

Dear Son and Daughter of Mine,

I love that my heartbeat was the first one you heard and that my hand the first to hold yours. That God entrusted broken me with you two is humbling and overwhelming.When I first became a mother to you I had no idea. About so many things.For starters:I had no idea that combined you would say some form of “mom” or “mama” or “mommy” a dizzying number of times a day. Every. Day. For. Years. Or that I would follow you around for months on end cleaning up messes. (Eventually I got a clue that “messes” were a stage not to be outgrown. I surrendered and began to make messes WITH you. I love that part. You taught me that messy memories are the best.)

 

I didn’t know that I would hum the tunes of Disney movies daily. Or that I would pretend I know how to dance when you wanted to wear your princess crown. You took my hand and led me to those places and it awakened something in me. Thank you princess. I had no idea that you, my blue-eyed boy, would humor the young girl in me and find a jacket and a flower and play “wedding.” Your toddler hand would take mine and dance. Your smile reflected that of your father’s and it halted me. Your scraped knees and tree-climbing and endless curiosity exhausted me some days. But I found my true calling in those moments. You led me by the hand to the mission of being a mom.

I had no idea that in 3rd grade, 7 years into our dance, you would flash your toothless grin over your backpack in the hall of that elementary school. And that your doing so would undo me. That I would fight to breathe through tears as I walked to my car, knowing that this was a milestone. One that needed to be fully felt and photographed. And held. The only camera I had was my heart, and so there it has stayed. Frozen in time. Just like the image I hold of those handfuls of flowers your sister gave me. Over and over, plucked from the backyard. Dandelions and daisies were never so beautiful.

I had no idea that laundry would overtake me. And that I would lose some of myself in it. That some days I would feel like that unmatched sock, wondering where I belonged. Existing between the changing, the feeding, the shopping, the cleaning, the rocking, the bottles and bibs.

You didn’t stay in any of those stages very long. You moved on and I jogged alongside you. I covered myself up in room-mom duties. I researched creative snacks for Valentine’s Day and marked school picture days on my calendar. I sewed Halloween costumes. I re-learned multiplication tables and wandered around school carnivals while you tried to win a fish or a new friend.

I didn’t know that I would see your passions before you did. And that I would push you out of your comfort zone toward them. I often doubted myself, but never you. I had no idea that my brain would fail to work when you were sick or that my heart would ache alongside anything that injured yours. Or that I would Google “how to treat a gecko bite” and other ridiculous scenarios that I had no clue how to handle.

  The calendar spins around a few more times. You are teens.

Girl of mine? I pin your hair for a dance and I consult you on lipstick shades and I listen about boys when you let me.

Boy of mine? We play tennis. And I remember my Chris Everett racquet and how it felt to hold it in my hand on that court when I was 12. I sit on the edge of your bed as you play guitar and I try to pluck a few insights about your day out of you.For the two of you combined? I pack lunches. And pack your bag for your theatre production. I pack your tennis bag. I make sure you have pants that fit.

And I pack more lunches.

I have laughed with you until my stomach hurt and my eyes watered.

I have cried. A lot. But in your presence I am mostly strong. I have conviction and answers to questions and snacks when you’re hungry and appointments when you feel sick.I have worried. A lot. But in your presence I am decisive. I calm you and have courage and your favorite dinner when you have a bad day.

I supply a fresh box of Kleenex and moosetracks ice cream when you are confused.It’s what I do. It has become who I am. A mom.And now, you, my babies, 14 and 16? You stand in our kitchen before school as you have a thousand mornings. We measure each other by the fireplace. Suddenly you are taller than me.I only cry after you have swept past me, backpacks flung and murmuring ” Don’t forget about voice lesson tonight! and “Please call the tennis coach!”And finally, through the now-closed door:”Love you mom.”

I stop right here in the kitchen where dirty dishes are piled and remnants of your morning routine surround me. To be thankful.

Because the truth is that at each stage you have blessed me in ways immeasurable. In fistfuls of flowers and doodles and the day-to-day knowing of you. Through your guitar music and all the hours I have sat on bleachers cheering for you. Your crayons and concerts have marked my place in the world.

It’s absurd how much I love you.

I had no idea that my entire world could abandon its axis and jump to revolve around you. And how much of me it would take to do so. And how now, teetering on the edge of you being on your own, I can’t imagine my axis jumping again when you are gone and on your own.

It is approaching fast. You, sweet girl…..now like a younger and more beautiful, better version of myself. Driving a car and going to prom and navigating high school hallways. You, all boy….your blue eyes startling and your laugh contagious. Wanting less hugs in public and more assurance in private. I maneuver carefully, knowing you are slowly letting go of my hand.

The dance is changing again. I miss the days when the scariest thing we did was climb the tall slide or go to the deep end of the swimming pool. It’s a big, confusing world out there. I want to look into your sweet faces of yesterday and say “I’m sorry for disappointing you.” Because I’m not nearly as perfect as you saw me at 4 and 6 years old when this picture was taken.

Can I tell you a secret that I tried to keep from you but is the truth? I am riddled with flaws. I stumbled into motherhood with lots of baggage. You have discovered some of this already. You now know that I bake (a lot) when I’m angry or sad. You scatter from the kitchen in self-defense, returning to help me consume the culinary manifestations of my mood. You’ve also surely noticed that I have ADD and at the same time I am a perfectionist. Which means I like things perfect. But not for very long. Ridiculous, I know.

So, from here on out, I’m coming clean. My mother’s prayer is to be able to point you to the ONE who will always have grace and forgiveness when mine has run dry. To show you how empty we need to be to allow the filling of the Holy Spirit, and to introduce you to the ONE who doesn’t get tired or bitter. To run to our God. Our God who never gets angry, even when you ask what’s for dinner or where you can you find your khaki pants. For the hundredth time. Because the reality of being a good Mom to you? It is a painful and beautiful dance. My job is to encourage you to cling to a loving God who can really CAN patch your scabbed knees and steady you when shaken. The Father who is an incredible dancer and the REAL finder of lost things. And the Book that has all the answers that I don’t.

These truths might be just word arrows now. But I pray they will point you in the right direction.

Anything good I have added to your journey has come from Him, Beloveds.
Thank you for painting my world with finger paints and firefly chases and ferris wheels. And for dancing with me in the kitchen.

I love you to the moon and back,

Mom

 

 

 

Linked up with Jennifer. Jennifer understands Iowa sunsets, sweet corn, and dirt roads. And she’s a fellow Blue Jean Girl. Follow her.  She’s a grace-dweller.
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So God Made a Teacher

by with One Comment BlogFaithFeaturedMost Popular Posts

Paul Harvey gave the world a great gift when he made his “So God Made a Farmer” speech at the Future Farmer’s of America Convention in 1978.

In 2013, his words became a Superbowl Commercial for Dodge.   It touched my Midwestern-raised heart.

My grandfather was a farmer, my uncle is a farmer, and surely my cousin will be: A Farmer.

Missed that commercial ? Watch it here.

Mr. Harvey’s words are true and rhythmic and were my inspiration for this piece. Whether you are a home school, public school, private school, college, or preschool teacher: This is for you.

Because in the same way that God knew his land needed to be tended, he knew the hearts of children would need  to be held and mended. So God made a teacher. Here’s my version.  I’m no Paul Harvey… but I did my best.

And on the 8th day, God looked down on His children, big and small, and said  “I need a caretaker.” So God made a teacher.

God said, ” I need somebody willing to plan and pray before dawn, love without limits over and over, to teach language arts in grade school and algebra to college students.

I need people to spend all day next to chalkboards and PowerPoints, to plan and grade for hours, eat dinner quickly, and then work past midnight.  I need folks at school productions and football games and to bump into students at the grocery store.”

[Tweet “So God made a teacher.”]

“I need somebody with arms strong enough to hold the egos of young men, yet gentle enough to wipe the tears of preschoolers.

I need protectors brave enough to be heroes when tragedy strikes.”

So God made a teacher.

It had to be somebody to encourage, advocate, and challenge.  Despite the backdrop.  Whether it be in the classroom, on the college campus, or in the preschool parking lot. Someone to stand in the common areas: in the hallways and at recess,  to notice all the things kids of all sizes try to hide.

God said “I need someone to be the only hug that child of mine receives when she finishes 2nd grade.”  And someone to high-five that freshman boy who thinks he doesn’t want a hug. Someone who tells each of them to “come back real soon to visit.” And means it.

So God made a teacher.

God said “I need somebody willing to sit in the bleachers and in the auditorium and watch that girl try to find herself on the stage and on the volleyball court. To watch her almost make the cut, over and over.  Then dry her eyes and say: “Maybe next year.”

I need somebody who can scoop goldfish into toddler’s hands and shape an insecure boy with no father figure into someone self-confident enough to tackle college.  Someone who can make a basketball team out of gangly self-centered boys, with nothing but an old gym, numbered shirts and no budget.

So God made a teacher.

Someone who, from July’s pre-planning to the last spring pep-rally will finish a full year’s worth of work by the first of June.  Then,  during what parents refer to as their “summer vacation,” put in another 200 hours planning, purchasing, and praying for their next students.

So God made a teacher.

God had to have somebody willing to ride the buses on field trips and to get pencils and scissors for those who couldn’t afford them or whose parents simply forgot.  Someone empathetic enough to stop and turn after seeing a hurt feeling form on a child’s face on field day.

So God made a teacher.

God said, ” I need somebody strong enough to teach young minds to subtract and divide with pencils while multiplying the love in their hearts. Someone who will stop all of her planning for a day to decorate desks and doors for Valentine’s Day.”

It had to be somebody who would read them “Goodnight Moon” and “The Great Gatsby” and make them fall in love with Shakespeare. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, and rake their self-esteem.  Someone to plant seeds in little styrofoam cups and replenish their snacks and lunch money and their souls and finish a hard week’s work with a twenty-mile drive to a graduation party.   Somebody who’d weave a class of misfits  together with the soft, strong bonds of sharing.

Someone who would laugh,  and then wink at parents, and reply, “I know” with understanding eyes, when their student says: “I’m leaving for college and won’t miss this place a bit.”

So God made a teacher.