Lessons in Losing ~ Jen

It was Gabe’s first championship game. And his team lost 2-1 in overtime.

I’m a mom so I’m only going to say we might have been robbed, and I’m only going to say it to you. The ref did a horrible job of keeping time, and a full minute past when our timers said the game should have ended, the other team scored to tie the game. Then we lost in OT on a direct kick after a dodgy handball call, and had a tying goal called back on a dodgy offsides call.

Instead of the Lessons In Winning post that I wanted to write, I get to write this.

So here goes. In my career as an athlete, I lost way more than I won. I lost a championship soccer game, just a few years after I played on a team that only won one game. I watched from the bench with a cast on my ankle while my team threw away a CIF championship game in high school. I’m the one who got roofed for the final point in a 5 game match against Notre Dame to lose a tournament in college.

Shea remembers losing. Dana remembers losing, usually loudly whenever someone says “Stanford”. My brothers can remember games they lost. I think the moments we failed are imprinted on our hearts even more than the moments we succeeded. Now at age 7, Gabe has one really big hurtful loss under his belt.

I can hear the helicopter moms wailing in the blogosphere: “RIGHT! WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO DO THAT TO THEIR BAAAAABYYYY???!!!”

This is why: failure keeps us humble and humility is the key to a successful life as an adult. Sometimes you do your best and it isn’t enough. That’s truth. The boys learned that lesson yesterday without anyone humiliating them, which is how it often happens to kids who have been protected from failure by their parents.

Gabe cried at the end of the game and I’m glad he did. He won’t forget what that felt like, and hopefully it will feed his intrinsic drive to improve. He’ll handle life better if he learns that sometimes you climb to the top of the mountain and find out someone got there first—it doesn’t change that you climbed the mountain. Before they went to shake hands, coach grabbed his shoulder and said “Hey, we don’t show them that”. I’m glad for this too. Gabe needs to know there’s pride in leaving it all out on the field, even if you lose.

As for the refs—the kids need to learn that refs are part of the game. I thank God for the assistant coach in college who told me that and I taught my teams the same thing. Refs don’t always get it right and sometimes that feels unfair. In adult life there are people like refs, who don’t always get it right either. I want Gabe to learn that we can either get stuck on the things we can’t control and be angry and bitter, or control the things we can with confidence and faith.

Yesterday was hard for all of us. Gabe shook it off faster than we did, with the happy go lucky resilience of a 7 year old wearing a shiny medal. Shea and I got a taste of what it’s like to hug the sweaty, sobbing, disappointed loser.

I didn’t like it.

But Shea and I weren’t going to take that hurt away with empty words like “It doesn’t matter who wins” or “It was the ref’s fault”. It was a big deal to him that they lost, so we stood in that space with him and felt it too.

We can’t save him from learning what it feels like to lose—we can only deflect it for another day. Which we aren’t going to do because the lessons are far too important for later in life.

So we lose. And we hurt. And we learn.

Not in My Village ~ Jen

I really, really believe in the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. Super believe, as Dana would say. I can’t do any of it without help–not raise my kids, tend my marriage or grow my faith. I need help! All the time!

It occurred to me this weekend, as I was reading the hopefully fake story of the Mean Lady in Fargo who was going to hand out shaming letters instead of candy to roly-poly princesses and Pokemons on Halloween, that maybe we need to be more specific in what we mean by village. After all, that lady said in her letter that she was just doing her job as a member of the village.

So here it is: it takes a village, yes. But not Salem village.

In Salem, people parading as good, decent folk used the accusation of witchcraft to punish their neighbors, and make themselves look better. Classic case of deflection: If everyone’s looking at the poor drunk woman in town, no one will notice that I am greedy and mean, even though I sit in the first pew every Sunday and paid for half the church to be built. Nineteen innocent men and women were hanged.

It’s true the devil was afoot in Salem; also that they hung the wrong folks. I wonder what the Mean Lady in Fargo is trying to deflect? Anyone in my village should make me feel better and supported as a mom, not worse and like a failure.

I want Walnut Grove, where Reverend Alden was gentle with his flock and the truth always won. They had their issues there in the Grove, but the issues were always settled with everyone’s dignity intact. Even Nellie’s.

Or how about Avonlea? Anne of Green Gables seemed happy there. Or Concord, MA, where Little Women learned their life lessons. Yes, these are fictional and idyllic. But admirably fictional and idyllic.

In my village, I need god-fearing folk who will live and speak what they believe so that my kids are steeped in the love of God. I need to know that on the day I can’t read that freakin’ Dora book one more time, someone else will do it for me. And if a friendly villager knocks on my door before the 4 pm clean-up, they will judge me by the smile on my face and not the toys on the floor. Or at least believe my story about the 4 pm clean-up.

The neighbors who brought our puppy back when we left her outside? The mom who gently let me know there was more to the story than ours sons were telling us? The friend who reads the Dora book one more time? The couple who offer to watch our kids so we can have a date? Those are my Village People. We have God and we have love and we have each other.

And Mean Lady in Fargo needs to remember that. I have a whole entire village. If my kids ever get a fat letter in their trick or treat bag, we’re going to come for you and love you right out of town.

We know the devil when we see him and we’re not having that Here.

Humble Pie ~ Jen

One of the great things about being anywhere Disney is this: ain’t no one judging anyone, since we are all one dropped ice cream cone away from the Mother of All Meltdowns.

There are still moments that test this collective patience.

It was my fault, since Anne had been in a swim diaper for five hours. First she was playing in the water at Typhoon Lagoon and then she was asleep for two hours and then it was time to go, so I threw her in the stroller and we headed towards the shuttle.

And of course, as we came around the corner, there was our bus, five stops down. I started running with Gabe and the stroller, waving my arms like a crazy mama who needs to get on the bus now and not 20 minutes from now. I put Gabe on the first step of the bus so the driver couldn’t leave without us, reached down to pick up Anne, turned to point to Shea running with Kate. Shea took one look at me and yelled “OH MY GOD! POOP!”

I looked down into the stroller—the rented stroller, BTW—and saw the biggest lump of poop I have ever seen.

The next five minutes are a blur in my memory, punctuated by Gabe needing to tell me right now about the flies swarming the poop in the stroller and also needing to know right now why flies in Florida are blue. Shea whisked the stroller away to the bathroom. I had to pre-clean Anne to get her suit off. And yes I did push lumps of poop through the slats of the bench onto the cement, where they were immediately covered with blue flies.

It was EPIC.

And then, when I had the baby cleaned up and diapered and the bench reasonably cleaned and Shea was back with the stroller and the bus was turning the corner into the parking lot, Kate says “Hey Mom. Did you know you have poop on your cover up?”

Sure enough, there was poop on my cover-up, so I took it off.

And that means that I—of the soap box modesty post the day before—rode the bus back to the hotel wearing my swimsuit and nothing else, holding my baby girl wearing her diaper and nothing else.

Standing. Room. Only.

I refrained from grabbing the shuttle mic and explaining to everyone why I was wearing my suit and my baby was only wearing a diaper and we all smelled like poop.

But only just barely.

Eve, Modesty and Baby Bikinis ~ Jen

I found a pair of shoes at Nordstrom’s Rack that struck me, so I took a picture of them and uploaded to Instagram:

My 20 year old niece responded that they were “SO CUTE!!!! Where are you? Do they have my size???”

She thought they were grown up shoes.

They aren’t. I found them in the toddler section. Size 12.

This Spring, as the catalogs arrived with new summer clothes and suits, I noticed that everything seems more and more like mini-versions of adult clothing. And not in a good way. Like this:

This one is available for three year olds

And this:

This was initially available starting at 6-12months

And maybe most disturbingly, this:

String bikini available in size 0-6 months

It’s probably not new. But this is the first year I am shopping for Kate in the Big Girl sizes, and the lack of material available is a problem.

The anxiety sister in me looks at those bathing suits and thinks immediately of the creepy guy on the beach with his phone, taking pictures of little girls dressed like mini Hawaiian Tropics models and posting them on some sick website.

But it’s not just that. Part of my job as a Christian mom is to teach my children to be modest in their dress and their behavior. The Bible tells us “Know you not, that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16,17). As a Christian Feminist, I am not getting on board with the folks who see women as the source of temptation and use Eve as proof. I have never understood the concept of modesty in only women and because men are some kind of animal who cannot be trusted to control their emotions or actions. Thankfully, my church teaches that the Adam and Eve story is allegorical, so for us, Eve is a cautionary tale of sinful disobedience, and not the founding example of the Whore archetype.

(Plus, think what we are saying if woman is the source of sinful lust and temptation AND a temple of God? Yikes)

More to my point is that if God is in there, we better be careful about the message that we send through our clothes, words and actions. My kids are little, so I am in charge of that message right now. What am I telling the world if I dress my little girl up in a swimsuit that makes her look like she has a waist and some boobs? Or let her teeter around on shoes with a two inch heel. To make her look…what? Taller? Older? Sexier?

Blech.

I can’t live vicariously through my daughter’s figure, or revisit glory days. I shouldn’t look at her five year old self and imagine the bombshell she might be at twenty. Just the thought gives me the heebie-jeebies.

If God is in there, then Self-respect equals God-respect. That is one of my major goals as a mom, to teach my kids that how they dress, act and speak is a reflection of who they are. Who they are is a temple of God, a sacred space, proof of love. I want them to understand that they are precious and deserving of respect and honor. I hope it will help them make good choices in action and people as they grow older.

Our secular society teaches that it is the light coming off a person that makes them valuable. The more we glitter, the “better” we are. But people of all faiths should know that is not true. It is the light coming out of a person that makes them Love in this world.

Because God is in there. So dress Him appropriately.

The F Word ~ Lesley

Lesley is my person. And my cousin. When her Canadian husband stole her to Toronto almost ten years ago, it was a thing. Luckily, Brian is a very good man. We have survived by never letting 365 days go by without seeing each other.

When she called and told me this story a few weeks ago, I knew she had to write a post. This is a SUPER parenting win, and a reminder for all of us that a little bit of prayer and thought goes a long way. I always listen carefully to her parenting stories, since she has been a mom longer than me–three whole weeks longer. She is wise.

Enjoy! ~ Jen

My seven year old is my sensitive child, deeply aware of everyone’s feelings, especially his own. He’s also a rule follower, like his dad. So, when he steps outside the rules, he is very affected. In this case he was curled into the fetal position on my lap, head buried in my neck, making a confession that was broken and choked with breathy sobs.

“Mom, I have to tell you something.”

“Ok, babe. What has you so upset?”

“I accidentally said the F word.”

“How do you accidentally say the F word?” I ask. “Saying a word like that is a choice. And where did you hear this word?” I cringe, waiting for him to say he heard it from me. “Are you trying to be cool? That word is not cool.”

“I know. I am so sorry.”

I think.

“Wait. When and where did you say this word?”

The whole truth comes out. He tried it at school with some friends that he refuses to identify. They are not encouraging him to say it but he has used this language on the playground. And he confesses that he just said it in our basement before he came up to talk to me. My first concern was that he said it to his younger brother or sister. But he was alone. He could not explain why he said it but he knew it was wrong and came to tell me.

It is one of those moments. I need my son to understand that he has made a bad choice and there are consequences. But the only reason I know he used the F word is because he told me.

I breathe. Acknowledge that his conscience works. Celebrate that he came to me to unload his conscience. Provide meaningful discipline.

Ugh.

There are several feelings in this for me. Pride that he came to tell me, and that he has chosen to keep his friends out of it and only stand on what he did—no deflection to anyone else. Shock that my angel faced boy is walking around using this kind of language. Longing for the days when Mickey Mouse Clubhouse was a part of his present, not his past.

What to do? I decide to pull a page from someone else’s Momma-wisdom and use it as my own. I believe that if a Momma shares a bit of wisdom with you, that is implied consent for you to use it as you own. I took this page from Glennon at Momastery. I’m sure she would approve.

I tell him “Babe, you know how your heart is hurting and you are so upset? That is God telling you that you made a bad choice and to come talk to me or Daddy. I’m really glad you listened to God. That is hard to do sometimes, but it is very important.

“You made a bad choice. That language is not allowed in this house. I understand there are lots of words you will hear from your friends and you will know some of them are not ok to use. You can always come talk to me. But the rules don’t change and so bad choices have consequences. What would be a consequence for this?”

He chooses, bravely, to lose his favorite possession—the DS. We spend a few minutes talking about if losing his DS would help him make a better choice the next time. There was not a good answer for that, from either of us. I used my favorite Momma card and deferred a decision until I could discuss with his dad.

I believe that bad choices are necessary for good choices to happen. But that can only be true if the consequence includes a mix of humility and a better understanding of the impact of the bad choice. It is not always easy to find a consequence that meets these criteria, but I do think the big lessons are worth a minute of reflection to find one.

My son and I had had a big important discussion. It was an opportunity to grow. I knew that losing his DS did not feel like the right consequence. So I percolated, which in our family means I let it bubble gently on the back burner while I went about my business. I have superhero guardian angels who help and guide me. I knew the right answer would arrive. I just needed to make some space for it to come in.

Sure enough I became aware of that voice in my head, chewing on the issue. Foul language. Ugh. Garbage. How do I keep my babies from that? And…there it was: If my son was going to dirty the world with garbage out of his mouth, he could pick garbage up to make it clean again.

Cue the hallelujah chorus.

My son spent the week picking up litter all around his school and taking out garbage for his class. It took me a few minutes to write the needed letters. My son provided the letters, with his own explanation for why he was asking to do these tasks. His principal, teacher and after-school care providers were all onboard.

Humility, check.

Then we talked again about how using curse words makes the world an uglier place. We talked about how some words hurt and why it is important to know what the words you use actually mean.

Which, thank God, did not lead me into the definition and explanation of his chosen curse.

The F word. Ugh.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: