Celebrate the Wins ~ Jen

There’s a trend on the mommy blogs right now—full of mea culpas, some of them tongue in cheek, and some not so much. People are holding up examples of their own poor parenting and laughing about it.

Being a mom is hard, and every mom makes tons of mistakes, but starting a blog by saying “I’m pretty open about the fact that I’m not a good parent”? Sad. Maybe the bar was too high before, when every mom was held to some insane June Cleaver standard. But I’m not sure that wearing our bad mommy moments like badges of honor is the way to go either.

Dana said “But look at those blogs. They have thousands of followers. And there are hundreds of comments after the self-deprecating posts. It must resonate with women on some level.”

It’s true. It must resonate.

Here’s my question: What part of them is it resonating with and are we sure we want to cultivate that part?

Glennon, at Momastery wrote this type of post recently. Hers was tongue in cheek. But the comment section was disturbing and telling. From the woman who mopped her floor for the first time in a year—and only because she spilled coffee on it—to the woman who dressed up like she was going to work, dropped her kids off at school, went home, changed, slept for two more hours, went to the movies, put her work clothes back on and picked her kids up five minutes before daycare closed. The comments were full of story after story—not tongue in cheek—that made me cringe. Not necessarily what the women were saying, but how they were saying it: proudly, and cyber high fiving each other.

Then this comment: “I think mommy guilt should be a thing of the past”.

Ahhh. So that’s what’s going on here.

I agree with this statement. Not the way she meant it, that we should not ever feel guilty for the things we do. Guilt is a useful emotion. It reminds us when we have let ourselves and our own values down. If we feel guilt over something that we did, it’s probably for good reason.

But we need a way to reconcile that guilt. In my Catholic faith, we have Reconciliation—we confess our short comings and ask God for forgiveness. I don’t have a ton of mommy guilt in my life. Not because I don’t make mistakes. Of course I make mistakes. And not because I don’t feel guilt—I do. But I reconcile that guilt and then ask God and myself for forgiveness.

The thing that helps the most is this: since I was very young, I have heard my parents describe life like a baseball game. A long game, with extra innings. Lots of at bats. Sometimes we bunt, sometimes we hit a grand slam. And sometimes we drop the ball or strike out. It’s all part of the game.

Parenting is just like that.

The voice inside my head tells me this: “I get it right and sometimes make mistakes”. I had a friend with tremendous mommy guilt who told me that she just couldn’t think like this. She believed that she made mistakes and sometimes got it right. She needed to give herself permission to make mistakes, to not be perfect.

I don’t get it.

First, who’s asking for perfect? No one. But of all the jobs we do, isn’t parenting the one that deserves our very best effort?

And why, why, why would you ever tell yourself you are a screw-up most of the time? Doesn’t that self script just devolve from “I am not capable today” to “I am not capable this week” to “I am not capable”?

We aren’t playing that game here. Our whole lives, Dana and I have reached for excellence—in school, in sports, in marriage, at work and as moms. We take pride in the fact that we mostly got it going on. We will always assume that you mostly got it going on, too. We’re not saying that we’re perfect moms, or that we don’t feel guilt. We’re not and we do.

We’re just saying this: Let’s stop holding up examples of bad motherhood for entertainment. This job we do is important and we need to treat it that way.

Let’s focus on the mostly. Let’s talk about what’s right and good and loving and strong. Let’s celebrate the wins.

As for the rest, reconcile and forgive, baby.

Because it’s almost time for the next inning.

A Quiet Whisper ~ Dana

Me, Dad and Derek at Hotel Del Coronado in the 80s.

The days following the loss of a loved one are some of the hardest days that we live in our lifetimes. In the past few days, following the death of my sweet daddy on Saturday, mornings have been the hardest. I wake up and for the briefest of moments, I’ve forgotten. Then I remember.

Monday morning, Jen published a post about her Mother’s Day. I knew she had included something about my weekend, but didn’t know what. Turns out, Jen and her family headed to Hotel Del Coronado for the day. It also turns out that for years when I was a child, my family and I headed to Hotel Del Coronado for our vacations. My dad loved it there. It reminded him of a European hotel, and in those days, was an intimate place with impeccable service, and bellhops and waiters who met you upon check-in and greeted you by name during your stay. Right up dad’s alley.

My dad didn’t really like to sit on the beach for very long, his fair skin burning too easily, but he passed his days there playing tennis, strolling the grounds, and reading on our balcony overlooking the sand and sea.

And last summer, when dad was too weak to take our planned trip to New Orleans, we retreated to the shores of The Del once again. Instead of the Mississippi River, we walked along the Pacific Ocean, hand in hand, talking of everything and nothing all at once.

Whether it was God, fate, Universe, Spirit, or just coincidence that led Jen and her family to Coronado, I don’t know. Maybe it was a quiet whisper from my dad that things will be ok, even though right now it doesn’t feel like things will ever be ok.

But for the rest of my life, I will listen for his whispers, see his hand watching over us, and always remember my sweet dad with a tearful smile.

A Good Mammoth ~ Jen

The other night Gabriel was reading to me. It was a “free read” night and he had picked a Step up to Reading version of Ice Age 3.

We’re on the bed, and I’m trying to nurse Annie, who is treating me like a free refill bar at a fast food restaurant. I’m listening-ish. He reads that Manny, the Mammoth dad, and his teenage daughter Peaches, don’t really get along. Peaches yells at her dad “You can’t control my life!” Manny yells back “I’m your dad! It’s my job to control your life!”

Yikes. This needs a clarification, I think as I wrestle Annie to the floor and send her off to Dada.

But before I can say a word, Gabriel says “I think they are both wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Peaches is wrong” he tells me. “If she’s going to live with her dad, she has to follow his rules.”

“Yes.”

“And Manny is wrong. It’s not his job to control her life.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s his job to raise her to be a good mammoth.”

Oh man.

We don’t have teenagers yet. The closest thing we have is my friend’s nine year old. But they are coming, a giant clump of kids who will go through puberty within five years of each other, God help us.

I was not an easy teenager. I was smart and mouthy. Some would call me deceptive, but I would say that I ran excellent public relations campaigns. My parents were on a need to know basis. They needed to know about my excellent grades, outstanding athletic accomplishments, stellar babysitting reviews. What I did on Saturday night was my affair.

My father says if there is any justice in the world (when he says it you can hear the italics, I promise), I will get what I gave times three.

I survived with a clean record and all my limbs intact for one good reason: my parents did a good job. They laid a solid foundation of values and fear—you need both to parent effectively, in my opinion. When good sense didn’t stop me from being a dumbass, fear of the consequences usually did. Or at least prompted me to have a back up plan.

Because my parents were not playing around. I once got put on restriction an entire semester for being the designated driver. I argued this was unfair based on the fact that I was being the responsible one. They argued that we were all 16 and if they had their way we’d be locked up in a convent, so I should shut my mouth while I was ahead.

I understand a bit now how hard it is to raise good kids. Sometimes, every fiber of my being wants to raise safe kids in pretty cages. I’ve seen parents try to control their children into safe adulthood by anticipating every pitfall and negotiating every hardship.

But I know what that looks like at age 16—kids who are champion whiners, have no initiative and no ability to solve their own problems. If I had a dime for every time my dad told one of us to “use your head”, I’d be a rich woman, but that was much better than “I’ll do it for you”.

One of the most famous stories in our family goes like this: when my brother was in high school, he got a flat tire on the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic. He managed to get the truck off the freeway, but it was so old the spare tire was long gone. He called my dad to get some help. My dad listened to him and said “Call AAA and have it towed. I’m busy.” Click.

How many parents would have the guts to do this today? Strand your 17 year old? Not really stranded, because he had a AAA card in his wallet. But he had to handle the whole thing himself, which he did. To this day, when one of us hits a place where we don’t know what to do next, someone will yell “Call AAA and have it towed!”

As much as we give my dad a hard time, he was right about making us figure it out. And now, here we all are, successful adults.

So I’m going to try to remember: At some point it won’t be my job to control, negotiate and anticipate anymore. As they get older, it’s my job to teach them to do these things for themselves. I want them to go out in the world and be happy, contributing, moral adults.

I want them to be good mammoths.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: