All the books say the three-month mark is especially hard after a death. We're rapidly approaching that date, and I can see how this may be one of the uglier parts of loss: AKA REALITY.


The reality is that Ethan—son, brother, friend, more—is gone. We'll not see him again in this life.


Pictures bring reality to the forefront and are hard to see now. Watching videos is still out of the question, but I'm thankful they exist and are there for me when I'm ready to watch them.

Spiritually, supernaturally, I believe with all my heart that he is OK.

Friends and loved ones have reminded me that "our days are numbered" on God's calendar. When the Grim Reaper pops out of your particular advent calendar window, that's that, the jig is up. According to my calculations, Ethan had 9,478 days on this earth, almost 26 years.

It's the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things, but there it is.

I do believe in an afterlife. I believe God has a plan that is full of overwhelming mercy and grace we tend to be too small-minded, critical and judgmental to comprehend. (Let everyone in??? No way!!! Where's our wall???) I also believe—and science agrees with me—that energy cannot be lost, only changed. What that energy changes into is subject to interpretation (and all our interpretations are probably inaccurate on one level or another.)

What's hard now is the realization I'm not going to see Ethan's sparkling blue-gray eyes twinkling over a joke again, or his bright smile telling me everything would be OK, except in pictures. I'm not going to get to pester him about his dreadlocks, his braided beard, his weird tattoos, or his strange attire (he never failed to shock me with a new, strange accessory or outfit in 25 years). I won't get to argue with him about philosophy or religion or whether humanity is worth trying to save. I'll never cuddle his children (he had an appointment for a vasectomy scheduled, I found out after his death), and I'll never be the mother of the groom at his wedding. That said, I know his spirit/soul visited me in a dream after his death. We argued vehemently about how long toenails should be. Believe me, if the subject had come up in the flesh, the conversation would have been the same.

I keep running across random FB posts and think, "I should share that with E!" And then I remember he won't see it unless he's surveilling social media from the ether. Somehow I think (hope) he's beyond that inanity.

When will we ever be closer to grasping the weight of the afterlife, the eternal, the love of the Creator and the time to come after death? When is the veil between eternity and reality ever thinner than now, in the midst of grief?

That doesn't make talking to God or resuming a prayer life any easier. When your prayer journals are clogged with promises and pleas for the safety and protection of your children, and one of them dies anyway, it's a little challenging to return to your doctrinal theories. I'm trusting God understands my hesitation and will lead me in the way I should go, whatever that looks like.

Ethan was a torch. Not just a bright light, not just a flame. He was a TORCH. To ignore his absence is impossible. At the same time, I have four grandchildren and one on the way in February. I have much reason to rejoice and to celebrate. My three living children deserve all the love and care and comfort they can get this year. I want to do more for them than ever before, yet I know there's nothing I can do to ease their pain. As an only child myself, I don't even fully understand their loss, and I'm aware of that.

I miss my Ethan, in all his crazy personas, many of which caused me untold stress, embarrassment and fear. I'll miss my firstborn son for the rest of my earthly life. That said—and this may sound awful—I don't miss WORRYING about him every single day. I don't miss fretting over his future or wondering if his next sword-swallowing gig would be his last. But I do miss HIM: his presence, his calm spirit, his ability to argue for hours without losing his temper. I hate that he's gone and that his "numbered days" ended before he'd accomplished all I believed he was capable of, but I know that's no excuse for the rest of us ceasing to live life to the fullest. He wouldn't want that, not for any of us.

I was going to skip making penuche this year because it was his favorite Christmas treat, but now I can't skip it. If I don't make the penuche, I'm letting death win. So I'll make the penuche, for him and for Vanoy, who gave me her recipe before she passed from this realm, and we'll call it good.

Ethan was the last baby delivered by Dr. Burke at Aspen Valley Hospital in 1992.

I said the words aloud three times this weekend: "since Ethan died."

Those words are like lead shot falling from my lips. They drop into my heart, cold and hard. I know he's gone, but saying "he died" adds a strange permanence and flatness to the situation, a way of dragging me into reality.

Parenting is a sticky wicket.

You do the absolute best you can with the tools you have from your own experience, and the results are still a bit of a crapshoot. Children, unfortunately, don't come with guarantees. They don't turn out like you imagine, they turn out like they turn out, like they're divinely intended to come out.

Hopefully, you've installed enough programming in them that they will be decent, caring, thoughtful creatures and not selfish, ignorant, nasty ones. Hopefully.

I parented in the "I'm proud of my honor student" bumper sticker generation. (I never had one, because we homeschooled, but they were EVERYWHERE.) We wore our pride in our children's ability to read before their peers, their report cards, their sports achievements, their scholarships, etc., on our bumpers for all the world to see. And judge.

I homeschooled mine... so, yeah... that's how that works.

My children are all ADULTS now.

That's a tough pill to swallow sometimes, but they are, even when they try to play the guilt card (I know where they picked that up!) and tell me they need me to feed them. Sometimes I wish I could still stuff them into their footie pjs and put them to bed, knowing they are too short to turn the doorknob and escape, but those days are over.

For my own mental health, I've had to start referring to them as "my adults" instead of "my kids" because they're all grown up. It's a transition.

Do they always make choices I approve of? No.
Do they do dumbass stuff sometimes? Yes.
Do I always agree with them? No.
Do I always love them. YES.
Will I help them if I can? Absolutely.

It's NOT unhealthy or abnormal or unusual to have kiddos that turn into adults who don't resemble anything we thought we raised.

What IS unhealthy is to continually strain and strive and struggle to change them, to turn them into something we think they should be, instead of letting them become who they are destined to be.

Parents, let your fledglings fly. Don't hold them back. Don't tether them with guilt and fear and all YOUR unresolved baggage. LET THEM FLY.

Emotional tears ruin disposable contacts. Just FYI.
What is prompting this contact lens melting tearfest? Children.


My oldest is expecting her fourth child sometime in the next six weeks. You'd think I'd be accustomed to welcoming a new grandbaby and watching my only daughter go through the process, but there's still a lot of fear and worry and anxiety involved.

My oldest son left today on "an adventure." That means he's hitchhiking his way through the southwestern states. This, he says, is a "short trip." It's something he's always wanted to do, which none of us understand, but my ancestry research indicates it may be a genealogical aberration he inherited. While I blubbered last night over his impending departure, he came in and explained all the research he's done, all the thought he's put into this journey, and today he posted a Mark Twain quote to mark the start of his walkabout. How can I argue with that?

My middle son got married last weekend. It was a beautiful wedding, I love his new bride, and I'm so proud of the man he has become. I very nearly didn't make it through our mother-son dance at the wedding without a complete come-apart. They flew to Jamaica today for their honeymoon. (Yes, I live-tracked their flight on the Internet from take-off to landing... I have a problem.)

My youngest is a senior in high school and is playing football for the first time. He's first string on defense, offense, and special teams. I'm ridiculously proud, and afraid I won't be able to watch him play the same way I wasn't able to watch him wrestle last year because it triggers horrible anxiety attacks. They should sell booze at those events for the paranoid parents.  

To sum it up, I'm a stressed-out mommy, despite lots of prayer.

Maybe it's because I had them so close together, or because I homeschooled them, or because we lived in a rural area and they were home, with me, ALL THE TIME, but this transition to adulthood is hitting me hard. About as hard as weaning them was the first time around, only this time it's harder on ME. I don't remember it being hard to wean my babies... they basically weaned themselves, or they got teeth, and that was the end of it. Bite me more than once, I cut off your food supply, pretty simple. They were all late teethers, so they all nursed for at least six months. Kiddo #2 for almost a year.

We once had cattle-ranching neighbors. Every year we would hear horrible, heart-wrenching sounds of distress from across the road. When I asked what was going on, I was told the mother cows were bawling for their calves, who had been separated from them for the first time. (The calves, I suppose, were just fine.) This wailing continued for several nights and was loud and distressing enough to make me close our windows despite our lack of AC.

Today, I'm that momma cow... wailing for her young'uns. Wishing they were all back home, wearing their footie jammies and small enough to pick up and cart off to their beds for the night.

The second weaning is for the mother, and it's much more difficult than the first weaning.

It may come with a kid going to college, getting married, heading to the mission field, moving out to his/her own apartment, or going on a "walkabout." But it will come. It's normal, and natural, and healthy. So is childbirth. Unfortunately, no one is hanging around offering me an epidural.

I know I'm not alone in this season. I also know there aren't any instructions, manual, or game plans for this stage. There are no Dr. Spock or "What to Expect" guides for us. It makes it extra difficult.

So, for all you mommies and daddies who dropped off a baby at college with fear and trembling, put one on a plane for a missionary journey or an educational course, kissed one and passed them into marriage, watched one head off for basic training in the military, helped one cart furniture into a third floor walk-up, or hugged one good-bye before he tromped off with his backpack and longboard, all alone, into the wide, wide world... I'm with ya. I'm praying for yours, and I hope you'll pray for mine. May they find their way, may God lead them into His best and highest for their lives, may they find favor and grace and mercy wherever they go.

And may we, their parents, not get stuck in this limbo-land between the season of parenting and the season of LIVING. May we find our way into OUR next seasons as easily as our children find their way. Don't cling to what was (or worse, what you wish had been). Look forward... what's next for YOU??? What do YOU want to do???

I clearly remember that first stretch mark...

I was about halfway through my first pregnancy when the dreaded stretch mark appeared on my belly. I smothered it in lanolin, cocoa butter, and whatever other topical treatments were available... to no avail. And it didn't want to be an only child... that stretch mark was a partier. Within a few weeks it was joined by its brothers, sisters, cousins, in-laws, exes, friends, and acquaintances.

With each pregnancy I added a few new marks to my collection. By the time I had my youngest, my "album" stretched all the way to my ribcage on one side. Let's put it this way: you know your stretch marks are bad when your midwife gasps and says, "Wow!" when you expose your belly.

Somehow I thought that would be the worst of the parenting scars. I was wrong.

Every time a child has an accident, suffers an injury, gets arrested, or makes a lifestyle choice contrary to the way you, the parent, tried to raise him/her, you wake up to a new wound and a new scar. A new stretch mark, at the very least. Sometimes the scars look more like those left behind by open heart surgery.

Ouch. By the time I die, I figure I will just be one ginormous stretch mark...

Are you the cook at your house? Is it by choice or by default?

Cooking was a hobby for me as a child. I enjoyed the praise my parents offered when I successfully made biscuits from scratch a la Little House on the Prairie, and the sense of accomplishment that came from creating a multi-course sit-down dinner complete with Veal Cordon Bleu (which I wanted my parents to "dress for," but they refused... these are the woes of an only child.)

Don't you love the imaginary 1950s?

Enter marriage and children. For those first few years, cooking was not a pleasure. It was the culinary equivalent of climbing a fourteener while dragging hubby and small children along behind. Hubby, though wise enough not to say "this isn't how my mother made it," didn't rave over the meals I prepared for him the way my insecure wifely self needed him to. (And he has this strange habit of sniffing everything before he eats it, which puts me on edge, waiting for him to scrunch up his nose and reject the plate.) To his credit, he always ate, even if  it was only a tiny portion, of whatever I'd created.

The kiddos were worse, especially when they were small. Cooking with toddlers and babies hanging off your tired body like giant tumors is more like forced hard labor than a simple daily task. Worse, they had no qualms about protecting my feelings when presented with a dish (usually something with vegetables) they found suspect.

More than once during those early years of marriage and parenthood, I escaped to my room during dinner to cry, deeply wounded by the response to my heartfelt creation. Sometimes I withdrew quietly, in a fit of pity, and sometimes my departure from the dining room table was accompanied by screeching and door slamming.

My husband was always perplexed by my reaction.
"I didn't say I don't like YOU... I just don't like it when you put vegetables in the casserole. It's nothing personal."

Oh, but it WAS personal. Because I wasn't spending an hour or two slaving in the kitchen for MY enjoyment, I was doing it for my family. My heart had gone into the preparation of that meal. It was "soul food" and when it was rejected, so was I. At least, that's how I perceived it.

I've discovered I'm not the only one. While on medical leave from dinner duty, my grown daughter took over for six weeks. One night she began to cry over her plate, then pushed her chair back and retreated to her room. She'd made something her husband and children, and father and brothers, didn't appreciate (I liked it... it was girl food). The general lack of appreciation... er, refusal to taste it on the part of some foolish young men... hurt her feelings.
I'm older and wiser (I hope) nowadays, and slightly less sensitive. I haven't run sobbing from the dinner table in at least a few years. Not that I remember, at least.

Today I spent two-thirds of my day preparing an orange cake from scratch for my hubby's birthday. For 23 years he has talked about the orange cake his mom used to make for his birthday. (She told me it was from a boxed mix.) That mix, however, is no longer available in our area, and I've probably made a dozen orange cakes over the years in an attempt to recreate the one he remembers from childhood. So far, although they're good, they've never been quite right. I'm not expecting this one to hit the mark, either, but that's OK, because I think I've figured out why that orange cake he remembers was so marvelous: It was soul food, made for him, with love, by his mother.

The best I can do? Continue to create meals for the sake of my family, out of love and concern for their well-being. Hopefully, whatever I make will be at least reasonably healthy and they'll still be willing to eat it. And I can trust that someday they'll get that wistful look in their eyes and talk about my homemade macaroni and cheese, or enchiladas, or chicken packets, and remember that their food was made for them with love, even when they forgot to mention that they liked it, or turned up their noses at the Russian beet stew, the stuffed zucchini, or the mackerel loaf.

Kind of like this...

I know it seems weird to be proud of my kid for graduating from "sideshow school" on Coney Island, but I AM proud of him. Not because I'm happy that he now knows how to "safely" stick a coat hanger down his throat (prep for sword swallowing), or because he can eat and breathe fire, or walk on broken glass. I'm proud of him because he set his mind on a goal and accomplished it. It's not a goal I would have chosen for him, but that doesn't make it less of an accomplishment.

Letting my children choose their own path has been, for me, the most difficult aspect of parenting. Surely breastfeeding, potty training, and teaching them to tie their own shoes qualifies me to direct their every choice for the rest of their lives, right? Um. Only if I'm raising clones, robots, or droids.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) God hasn't gifted us with the nurture of a set of clones or droids... He blesses us with children, and children are unique.

Walking through the park that surrounds the St. Louis Arch I was struck by the startling differences in humans. For the most part, a deer is a deer. An elk is an elk. A mountain lion is a mountain lion. But humans come in every shape and size, every single one completely and entirely unique and individual. No other species can boast of that kind of individuality.

As parents of human children, that means we have a unique responsibility: to unearth the uniqueness and individuality of each of our progeny. Sometimes that discovery is compatible with our vision, and sometimes they (because they are individuals) go an entirely different direction.

The question for us, as parents, is this: Do you love them anyway?

I once worked for a woman (a pastor's wife) whose son died from HIV-related complications. How did she deal with it, I asked her.
"You love your children, that's what you do."

It puts the whole "love the sinner, not the sin" thing into stark perspective. Do I love my children's choices? No. Do I love my children? Absolutely. And don't try to get between me and my cubs and threaten them... I'll eat you.

I think God feels much the same way.
Be careful who you attack, who you condemn, who you reject... that's God's kid.

On Thursday, following an appointment with my OB/GYN to determine a course of treatment for an unresponsive, treatment-resistant, symptom-causing complex ovarian cyst, I will pick up a rental car and head out for a 10-day trip to New York City with my oldest son.

Sounds charming, right?

Yeah. Until you realize I'm transporting OS (oldest son) to four days of sideshow school at Coney Island, America's oldest amusement park.

What kind of mother takes her child to a school where he will learn how to swallow swords, escape from a straitjacket (info I may need in the near future), breathe fire, and walk on broken glass? This is the question I find myself asking...

This child used to join me in the wee hours of the morning during my prayer time on the couch, curling up in the space behind my bent knees, insisting, "I need my "tensy" (toddler-speak for "attention"). Today, he can't pass through a metal detector or security checkpoint without being interrogated and harassed. And yet, when he asks me to accompany him on a 3,500 mile road trip (round trip) to New York City, how can I possibly say no? I can't.

So, I, who am terrified of travel and currently battling all sorts of physical symptoms that make leaving my house uncomfortable at best, will load up my luggage in the rental car on Thursday and set off across the country on an adventure with my son.

And I'll make the most of it. I'll enjoy it. And I'll do that weird thing I'm not very good at...

I. Will. Have. Fun.

Stay tuned...

I received a text message from son #2/child #3 Wednesday night informing me that my presence was expected at his college orientation meeting today.

Oh, foolish me. I assumed that meant I'd spend a few hours at the college this morning and then head out, giving me time to visit Lowe's and the thrift store and the local Habitat for Humanity Re-Store before I dropped said kid/college frosh off at work at 5 p.m.

Alas. It was not to be.

Had I been paying more attention, I'd have realized the orientation involved STAYING at the dorms (something I didn't do when I attended college) and TWO full days of busywork and information sessions. Grr.

So between all the happy, chipper, bouncy college people and the 3-hour session this afternoon about campus life and student housing and yada-yada-yada, the one randomly tossed-out factoid I latched on to was this one...

60 to 70 percent of incoming college freshman require remedial help in basic skills... readin', writin', and/or 'rithmatic.

SERIOUSLY?

We pour billions of dollars into this nation's public education system every year. Maybe trillions. And still we aren't getting the desired results: kids who can "read and write good" and maybe even balance a checkbook.

Do I think it's the fault of the teachers? No. Anyone who would take on a roomful of children for five days a week, 9 months of the year, at the pittance our teachers are paid has a heart for what they do. In my experience, the majority of them excel in their field, and they love their students.

Wherever the disconnect lies in the system, we need to find a solution...

I have a terrible feeling the reason "college orientation" requires two days of parental attendance has to do with the fact the parents AND their children won't bother to read, or won't understand, all the information doled out by way of student handbook, etc. I can't blame the admins... based on the inane questions asked by several parents in the afternoon session, I'd want to  be able to answer the phone and say, "that was covered at orientation," too.

Today's experience was just one of the many reasons I chose to homeschool my children... and now , they still won't let me unhook... Even though I know kid #3 will DO BETTER when I'm not involved, when I'm not there to issue reminders and offer suggestions... after all, isn't that what college is supposed to be about? The next step out of the nest? Since when do the parent birds have to follow the baby birds to the next stop?

Family. Where our hearts and souls are tethered to earth.

When your children hurt, you hurt. When your family hurts, you hurt, too.

Years ago in college psychology, I read about a horrific experiment performed on rabbits. A mother rabbit was monitored for physical reactions when her offspring, which were nowhere near her at the time, were killed. She responded as though the pain and suffering were hers.


Does this sound familiar? Whether the pain is physical or emotional, social or academic, mothers experience their children's suffering and pain personally. Whether it's a physical ailment, a fight with their spouse, a break-up with a girlfriend or boyfriend, or the loss of a pet, we feel their pain right along with them. Intensely.

Which leads me to wonder... since we are called "the family of God," that would imply that the strife, trauma, pain and sorrow we feel are experienced by God with at least as much intensity (because He is perfectly pure and holy in all his motives and reactions) as what we feel when our natural children are in pain.

Does that make it easier? No. Does it make it bearable? Yes.
When I am in the throes of "mommy pain," knowing that my Abba Father knows and feels the same is somehow helpful.

I'd like to wave a magic wand over my children and make their lives easy and comfortable. Yet at the same time I know that if they never experience any struggles, pain, or resistance, they will be weak spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and socially. Strength is developed in resistance, not in relaxation. But letting them go through the pain of growth into genuine maturity is a pain as acute as any contraction in childbirth.

Again, at least we know that our Abba Father knows what we're going through and pours out fresh grace, mercy, and compassion every day. Even when I look and feel like this little bunny...

Found at www.disapprovingrabbits.com

For happier posts (I'm sure) check out the other F posts Patty Wysong's a2z4u & me take 2 by clicking the link below. Don't try to click the bunny. He's not in a good mood.

I live in sheep world. Real sheep, the actual fuzzy critters from which come wool socks and mutton, are raised (or farmed, or shepherded, or whatever it is one does with sheep) in this part of the world.

Raising children is a lot like shepherding sheep. I've seen shepherds roaming the hills, searching for the one that went astray between Point A and Point B. We once had a sheepdog hanging around our house for two or three days, trying to get the attention of the "stupid humans" (us). One of the sheep in the flock had fallen into the ditch, upside down. That dog wasn't willing to leave even one of her charges behind.

At this point in the parenting journey, I am one tired sheepdog. My little flock feels scattered. I empathize with that sheepdog ... desperately wanting to move along with the rest of the flock, but the one or two stragglers hold you back because they keep making stupid choices, and their bad decisions have repercussions you can't avoid or ignore, repercussions that affect you emotionally, relationally, financially ...
*sigh*

Parenting = Licking a frozen flagpole and spending 20+ years separating your tongue from the metal, piece by piece, taste bud by taste bud. Can anybody relate, or is it just me?

Last month I planted my vegetable garden. The first month or two of a garden project is excruciating for me. Will it fail? Will all the work I've put in to this patch of dirt be completely fruitless? What if the seeds are duds? Why are the weeds growing faster than the seeds? (Perhaps we should be eating the weeds.)

My "fairy" garden.

Most everything has sprouted now, and I've filled in some of the blank spaces where seeds simply disappeared ... eaten or washed away, who knows? The urge over the last month to dig in the dirt to check on the seeds that hadn't sprouted yet was strong. I resisted.
Mostly. It seems that "helping" things grow is not helpful at all.

Knee-high on the 4th of July. If you're a Barbie doll.

Move a little dirt to let that bean sprout come up and it gets too much sunlight and dies. Pick that dry seed shell off the squash sprout and the leaves never quite finish maturing, leaving the plant weak and pale.


I should know better. Somewhere I read a story about someone who tried to help a butterfly that was struggling to come out of its chrysalis. The butterfly died. The same is true for baby chicks coming out of their shells. The process—exhausting, painful, and difficult as it appears—is critical for healthy growth and maturity ... and not just for butterflies and bean sprouts.

Lettuce on June 12

How often do I jump into situations to rescue my children when they really need to work it through on their own? (For the record, I have done all of these things at least once.)

• Not letting an infant fuss and cry while he or she learns how to roll over, or pull up (or sit back down), or crawl or walk, or tie her shoes, or put on his own clothes.
• Serving as a live wake-up call for children who are old enough to set their own alarm clocks so they won't suffer the consequences of being late to school, work, or church.
• Finishing a science project, 4-H craft, or other assignment for him or her because they are "too tired" or it's "too hard."
• Selling the Girl Scout cookies, chocolate bars, or whatever, yourself, so your child won't "feel like a failure."
• Intervening in minor disagreements with your kids and their friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc. because you "just don't want them to get hurt."

Lettuce on July 4

Even worse, how often do I run around looking for someone to bail me out of uncomfortable, difficult, or downright unpleasant situations? Instead of asking for grace to grow, I start looking for the quick fix and the easy way out.

• The winning lottery ticket instead of trimming the budget.
• The magic fat-burning elixir instead of the boring diet and exercise plan.
• The one, particular miracle church service instead of the read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year, Scripture-memorization, time-on-your-knees-in-prayer program.

(Please don't misunderstand me... there are situations in which "assisted growth" can be necessary, appropriate, or an answer to prayer. It is not, however, conducive for long-term growth and healthy development.)


We have become a culture that despises the process. We want prepackaged, prearranged, prefabricated, pre-appointed everything.We don't want steps, stages, or "some assembly required." We want results. Immediately. Now. Yesterday. That mindset has made us much, much weaker physically, mentally, and emotionally than our pioneering forefathers.


New seasons of life always require growth and change—internal, external, or both. Let's determine to accept the processes that new growth requires, not with a hangdog face and sour attitude, but with joy and anticipation. We're going to have to "go through" sooner or later, if we want to have enough strength to stand and fly when we get to the other side!




A quick shout-out to Patty Wysong for coming up with this terrific meme! For more "From a2z4u & Me" posts, click the picture below.

My grandson, Talen Liam Walker, was born Friday, April 29 at 6:10 p.m. Mother, baby, and daddy are all home and doing well. I spent some time with them this evening, holding the little one while he slept on my shoulder, and became aware of one of the differences between being a parent and being a grandparent: Being aware of potential, without demanding perfection.


Holding any newborn is a potent reminder of the potential God has invested in humanity. As the Genie in Disney's Aladdin said of his life in the lamp, "All that cosmic power ... in an itty-bitty living space."

We sense that "cosmic power" whenever we hold a baby, knowing that child could grow up to become anything, could affect thousands or millions for good or evil with his or her decisions. You could be holding in your arms the researcher who will discover the cure for cancer, or solve an economic crisis, or prevent a war through diplomacy.

When God looks at us - no matter our age or situation - through His eyes of faith He sees the incredible potential we have to love, to create, to destroy, to choose (perhaps the most powerful potential of all). And yet, though He is aware of our potential, and believes the best of us and for us, He loves us in spite of ourselves, all throughout our lives.

As a new grandma, I had a new understanding today of what it means to love unconditionally like that. We love our children, but their failures and faults sometimes feel more like a reflection on our own failings than the result of their own choices and decisions.

But my grandbaby? Well, he can do no wrong. (Yes, I'm already that far gone...)
It's not that I'm not invested in his life, because I am, but the investment is different. It's softer, more accepting, less fearful somehow. It's less analysis and more synthesis.  

I'd like to think that's how God feels toward us: seeing our potential, without demanding perfection in every endeavor, every action. If He demanded perfection, He wouldn't have made room for repentance and forgiveness, now would He? That we would learn to be as generous with ourselves as God is generous with us. That we would learn to focus on our potential, not our imperfections.

Do you think you "see" yourself the way God sees you?

At the hospital since Thursday evening, awaiting delivery of first grandchild.
It would be easier to have it myself than it is to endure having my daughter go through the process, with all its unanticipated ups and downs, fears and concerns.

Signed,
Trying-not-to-fret

In the parenting journey, nothing has been quite so difficult for me as loosing the proverbial apron strings.

As I write this, my youngest is off to spend the rest of the week with relatives for an impromptu spring break  visit. I envy (yes, I'll go so far as to use that word) those parents who are not attached to their teen and adult children by this psychosomatic umbilicus.

How do parents make the transition, especially with their sons? My daughter, who is married and expecting her first baby next month, has been an entirely different process. Perhaps because she's female, and easier for me to relate to, the transition from child to woman has seemed more natural. Not easier, per say, but different.

The boys, however...
I hadn't realized how neurotic I was about them until last weekend. We attended a gallery opening two hours away with my husband, two of our sons, and a multitude of their wee friends (who drove themselves). 

Besides asking for a text update every 20 minutes as to their location, upon arrival at the gallery I entered into "herding" mode. Instead of letting them wander among the antique cars, view the art, and enjoy the band playing outside, I was compelled to keep them all within constant view.  Remember, these "children" are all between the ages of 13 and 18. Most, if not all of them, can pick me up bodily and transport me from place to place.

My harping eventually aggravated even my preternaturally easygoing husband. "Could you stop obsessing about them and relax, please?"

photo by launceston_lad	via PhotoRee

Obsessing? MOI??? I was obsessing? 
Well, yes. I was obsessing, I had to admit. And no, I couldn't stop, even though I wanted to. I'm well-versed enough in psychology to know that when you WANT to stop doing something and can't, you have a problem. I don't know how to let them grow into the freedom of adulthood.

Mothers of grown children, how do you cope? 

How do you let them loose?

I should have anticipated this.


Since my kids were old enough to voice their own opinions I've endeavored to allow them freedom of self-expression. In fact, I've encouraged them to discover their own likes and dislikes, their own thoughts and opinions. I've done my best to provide Biblical guidelines for them to follow... a frame for their choices and actions, while choosing to overlook the externals.

Unfortunately, other people frequently lack the capacity for overlooking the externals, and I keep finding myself running defense for my children. Not that they're perfect, mind you, because they aren't. But I resent the persecution and harassment that comes their way because of how they look and with whom they associate.

Last night I voiced a most awful thought to my husband (the most non-conforming non-conformist of the bunch). Through tired tears I murmured, "I just wish they would play the game and toe the line and quit fighting a system that can't be beaten."


Uh-oh. 
That's the thought of an old and weary person. (And a selfish one, but that's another post.) Have I given up? Have I, the girl who was called in to the superintendent's office and told to stop writing those "inflammatory articles" in the school paper or risk expulsion, lost the will to resist pressure from the establishment?


So I'm ordering these. Purely as a preventative measure.

Vera Wang boots @ www.kohls.com

"Go talk to YOUR child!"
"Here, take YOUR son."
"YOUR daughter is being emotional again."

The moment we add "parent" to our resumes, our performance evaluations no longer take place in the privacy of our employer's office ... Now they occur in the aisles at Walmart, the checkout line at the grocery store, parent-teacher conferences, the soccer field, family gatherings, and anywhere our children are seen and/or heard.

When our kids bring home straight "A's" or earn an award or win a ribbon, our parental egos are puffed up with pride. "Surely," we think to ourselves, "We have contributed to this success through our superior genetics and extraordinary parenting skills."

Conversely, when they come home sporting a pierced tongue, get in trouble with the law, cheat on a test, get fired or divorced or end up in rehab, we are shamed, wounded, and humiliated. I remember when my oldest, not yet 3 years old at the time, snitched a handful of rubber O-rings from a floor level bin at the hardware store. I was devastated. Was I raising a future cat burglar? A budding kleptomaniac? I marched her back into the store, found the clerk who had helped us, and made her confess and apologize. The clerk was very stern with her, and then patted me on the shoulder and smiled gently. I think he understood what I was going through.

photo by BlogDeManu via PhotoRee

Our natural tendency is to look for someone to blame. We point accusatory fingers at the neighborhood, the school district, the friends, at great-uncle Joe who had the drinking problem, a lousy kindergarten teacher, etc. The current trend in child-rearing has us refusing to put any of the blame on the children (regardless of their ages) and then scrambling to find a way out from under the pressure of parental accountability.

Take, for example, the mother who is suing McDonald's for putting those tempting toys in Happy Meals and advertising those toys during Saturday morning cartoons. Um. Hello? If you don't like it, don't get a Happy Meal. And if your kids turn into little gremlins after watching TV, turn off the television. Duh. Has this woman talked to her children about their Happy Meal problem?

But, in reality, if we're going to blame someone, we need to recognize the REAL source of the problem. It's not the government, the nanny-state, pervasive humanism in our schools, or Happy Meals. It's not violent video games or Saturday morning commercials. It's not because we skipped church a couple of Sundays, let them read Harry Potter, or played secular music in the car. 

The ONLY perfect parent, God, had significant trouble with His own kids in the garden of Eden. That's where the blame game started, too. Eve blamed the serpent, Adam blamed God in a roundabout sort of way ("that woman YOU gave me.") How's that for some irrational kid logic?

The problem God had with His kids is the same problem we have with our kids: The darn things come out of the womb with a free will. Besides exerting absurd levels of control - whether physical or emotional, which eventually lead to manipulation through guilt and fear - and making them less than what He designed them to be, what could Daddy God have done?

He could have tested them on his instructions to make sure they understood. He could have never, ever, left them alone for any reason. He could have removed that dratted serpent from the scene, keeping them securely insulated from temptation. He could have baby-proofed the tree of the knowledge of good and evil to keep His kids away from the thing. You know, all those things we do to try and keep our kids' free will from getting them into trouble. Think it would have worked? Nope.

So how do you deal with that painful bruised ego when your children falter or fail?

How do you reconcile your love for them with their free will?
Perhaps poet Khalil Gibran expressed it best:

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children." 
And he said: Your children are not your children. 
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. 
They come through you but not from you, 
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. 
You may give them your love but not your thoughts. 
For they have their own thoughts. 
You may house their bodies but not their souls, 
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. 
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. 
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. 
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. 
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. 
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; 
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

I hate parenting books. No matter how good the information is, no matter how equipped the person is to present it, what's in those books never quite fits my own peculiar family situations.

We're not building robots, or programming computers. Our children aren't tiny soldiers, and our homes aren't military encampments. Every child is an individual, formed and created by God's loving hands, with a plan for his or her life already outlined in heaven. As parents, we're raising individuals—creative, organic, unusual, intrinsically unique from every other human being.

Unfortunately for us as parents, that means we're going to have to be able to flex. Children don't come with a one-fits-all manual. We have to be open to change and adjust, willing to do things differently than our parents did (usually not an issue) and willing to do things differently than our friends, our church family, our community. That takes strength of mind and strength of will.

It comes down to it being YOUR responsibility to follow the instructions in Proverbs 22:6: "Train up a child in the way he should go [and in keeping with his individual gift or bent], and when he is old he will not depart from it."
 

No matter the age of your kids, you know when they shift gears. It's the day you find them standing in their crib under their own power, the day they call you "Mom" instead of "Mommy," or the day they get behind the steering wheel and drive away by themselves. It's the moment they fall in love for the first time, watching them run through a shower of rice into their new life as a couple, or watching your son-in-law feel the baby move in your daughter's belly.
I learned to drive in a car with a standard transmission. Figuring out the delicate timing of clutch and gas and shifter involved multiple engine stalls, plenty of embarrassment, and hoots of "find 'em, don't grind 'em, baby," from nearby drivers.

Somewhere along the way in our family's journey we bought an automatic. A minivan, of course. Oh, the ease. It was like driving without thinking—lazy, casual driving. Driving that didn't make my left quad quiver in traffic. Driving that was painfully similar to riding a kiddie ride at the carnival, complete with the screaming kiddies.

And then, after years of casual driving, I got back into a stick shift this summer. Suddenly, I had to concentrate on driving again. Failure to shift into the right gear at the appropriate time resulted in one of two outcomes: A wailing, whining engine with RPMs aiming for the red zone, or a gasping, sluggish attempt to move forward ... occasionally in front of oncoming traffic. (Lurching across the highway with a semi headed your way will wake you up faster than any form of espresso.)

It's the same with kids. Parenting each child is like driving a standard transmission in a different vehicle. The clutch is a little bit different, the brakes have their own unique response, the amount of pressure applied to the gas pedal to achieve the desired response is unique. What works in the sturdy farm truck does not work in the sensitive sports car.

Each shift—up or down—results in a change of velocity and a change in the way the vehicle handles. You simply don't drive the same way in first gear as you do in fifth gear. Nor should you attempt to parent your fifth-grader or your fifteen-year-old the same way you parented that child at five. One of you will fry a few parts if you do.


In almost 20 years of parenting (times four, for the number of children) these developmental shifts have never been convenient, expected, or comfortable. Sometimes I shifted too soon (potty training, giving up the pacifier, and learning to read come to mind) and we ended up chugging along in slow motion for what seemed like an eternity. At other times, I've been oblivious to the need to shift gears until I (or my kids) are so tightly wound we risk blowing a gasket.

Those moments require adjustments. On my part. As the parent, it's my responsibility to adapt, to change, to shift as my children grow and change and develop into responsible, mature adults.

It seems like it would be so easy just to downshift to a lower gear, to slow everything down to a more comfortable speed. (If you haven't experienced driver's training with your kiddos yet, believe me when I say there is a terrifying and dramatic difference between 35 mph and 50 mph when you're sitting in the passenger seat.)

It might seem easy to slow things down, but we, as parents, have to remember: Sooner or later, that kid is going to end up on a highway somewhere, and they better know how to drive in fifth gear! Better to make the shifts with them, and teach them how to handle the new speed, than restrict them to "farm roads" until they're out of your sight.

In the midst of a snarl of shopping carts, unwashed tweens, and harried mothers in Walmart's back-to-school aisle, I felt like I'd just tossed myself into shark-infested waters holding a bucket of chum. Seriously, I wondered if I would escape unscathed. Women can be downright mean when it comes to the welfare and success of their young.

by laffy4k via Flicker

I think I located the underlying source of the school supply meanness, at least. I overheard a mother griping to her teenaged daughter about the school supply list. The girl needed a folder. Said folder had to be a solid color, not a pattern nor a graphic design; it needed not one, but two pockets; and brads, prongs or other metal hardware were strictly VERBOTEN. The mother was frustrated. The daughter could have cared less.

Why was that momma so adamant about getting the "right" folder for her daughter? A folder which will probably end up stuffed in the bottom of a locker, or lost under the bed at home?

Because we all have horror stories about showing up at school with the wrong kind of lunch box (mine was vinyl in an era of metal - it met its death under the bed one summer, still full of the last lunch I hauled to school and didn't eat). We remember the pain of wearing knock-off sneakers instead of the brand-of-the-week. We know what it is to arrive at school with the 8-pack of chubby crayons instead of the 64-pack with the built-in pencil sharpener. (That was my first real experience with envy.)

by orchid8 via Flickr

And so, every fall, in a valiant attempt to shield our offspring from the dangers that await them at school, we shove carts out of the way, physically block access to the dwindling pencil section, and snarl at anyone who glances at the neon-pink calculator dear daughter MUST have lest she become an inadvertent victim of social suicide.

I think the teachers are in on it. School supply lists have become so specific, you almost have to call for further instructions. But we don't. Because to do so would mark our little one as having "those" kind of parents. So we grit our teeth, take out our frustrations on the other hapless parents in the school supply section, and hope we don't make some fatal error in the purchase of this year's paper, pencils, and notebooks that will land our kiddos in therapy years down the road.