My daughter cried for three days when she heard about the Trayvon incident. She called her brother and told him to be careful. She called me and asked why scary things happen. She curled up on her bed. Then she decided that sad was not enough. So she planned a rally at her college and talked about the importance of focus and balance. And she talked about all the young boys who die too young and encouraged her classmates and community members to be a positive force in the world. Anger doesn’t heal. Focus, compassion, education and passion will. I am so proud of her.

I fell in love with her at birth and, other than a few tricky years in High School when I considered trading her for a standard poodle, she has been a joy ever since.  Today I start making the dress she will wear for her graduation from college in 4 weeks.  When Ron and I were young parents lugging diaper bags and strollers and fighting just to think clearly after months and months of sleep deprivation, older parents would tell us how quickly it would all pass. We nodded and made respectful sounds, but we didn’t believe them.  There were nights that seemed to last forever. Potty training was a universe of its own. And middle school…there seemed to be no end in sight. But here I am, sitting next to a pile of white fabric and it is as though it all blew by in a wind.

Those older parents were right. And now I’m one of them, waving at other people’s babies and comforting tired looking parents with the words, “It will pass so quickly.” They nod and smile. They don’t believe me. Yet.

Tina Fey’s prayer for her daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Source: Bossypants

Well, yes, he did wake me up. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I responded, “was he too loud? Did it wake you, too?”

“Oh, no, it didn’t bother me,” she replied. “I’m just concerned about you and your lack of boundaries.”

I didn’t know what to say. But I know what I felt. Shame. Oh no. I was an awful mother. If I’d been a good mother my son wouldn’t have knocked on my door so late at night. If I’d been a good mother, his waking me wouldn’t have disturbed any one else.  If I’d been a good mother my strong boundaries would have been evident. If I was a good mother I wouldn’t have had to be called on my failure. I mumbled something about his sleep habits and how I went right back to sleep, and further apologies for his disturbance. Then I went upstairs. My son was still sleeping and I had to quell the urge to go in, shake him awake, and take him to task for embarrasing me. How dare he make me look bad!  And that’s when I realized I’d been mugged.

It’s happened before, particularly when the children were little. Someone who considers themselves an authority, or a judge or jury, offers seemingly well-intended advice or observations. You know the kind: “If you don’t make her eat all the food on her plate she’ll grow up to be wasteful.” Or, “I would NEVER let MY child (fill in the blank)… Or, “It’s a shame you haven’t managed to potty-train him by now. MY son was out of diapers by two.”  Or how about this one, “You better spank that child right now or you’ll regret it later…”  At one time or another I’ve succumbed to all of the above muggings. It led me to worry about how my children’s potty training reflected on my failure as a parent. It caused me to doubt myself. And occasionally it resulted in my spanking a child I had no inclination to spank for an action I didn’t believe merited punishment. In effect, I passed the mugging on. I’m grateful that both my husband and I began to recognize these attempted muggings pretty early on. We learned to trust our own instincts with our children and to avoid muggers whenever possible.

I figured that I was Mugging safe at this point in my life. What a surprise to find that all these years later, with my children now aged 18 and 22, I still didn’t see it coming and let a Mugger slip up behind me and whack me in the head. I’m just glad I realized what had happened before I mugged my son in response.

I know from first hand experience that children can be overwhelming. There has been more than one occasion in my life as a parent, where I was overwhelmed and lost control. Luckily for me, I had a great support system: a husband/partner, friends and relatives I could call. My stepmother laughs over the many times she helped me hold it together long distance. And my own daughter tells me I frequently threatened to flush one or both of my children down the toilet or ship them in a box to their grandparents.  Then I’d call my dad or stepmother and tell them to be on the lookout for a big box with air holes! But I didn’t do any of those things. Not because I’m such a wonderful person all by myself, but because there was a system to support me.

There needs to be a system. A few years ago another young mother in my community was giving her 1 and 3 year old a bath when the bus arrived depositing her 4 year old from preschool. She left the little ones in the tub to go out front and meet the daughter, but when she returned the 1-year-old had drowned. She was arrested. The community lambasted her. The police reported that her house was dirty, other folk said she didn’t deserve to be a parent. I don’t know this woman personally. But I can only imagine how challenging it was to have 3 children under 5. There were times my own house might have been shut down by DHEC for the piles of laundry and the other things I didn’t get to while just keeping up with two children. And I had help. I thought, “If only there had been someone she could have called to meet the baby at the bus stop.”

So this is the challenge: How can we support each other? How can we be there when a parent needs a minute to breathe, regroup, or meet the bus? There must be a way. I am committed to finding a way to help in my own community. There are so many people who retire to this community for the climate and the beauty. There must be a way that those of us who care can be available for those of us who need it. Not just at Christmas but all year long.

Sara and Sim

So, here’s one of my new life lessons: Our children are not us. Despite the fact that we walked the floor when they had colic, woke up at 3 am to feed them, potty trained them, held their little hands as they learned to walk, kissed their boo-boos and put Disney band-aids on them, dressed them in clean little outfits,  helped with homework, car pooled them from one place to another, disciplined and comforted, paid for medical bills, cleaned up vomit, stayed up all night with fevers and science projects, grew calluses on our rears from years watching soccer/basketball/softball games/parade presentations/dance recitals/school plays, slogged through puberty and tantrums… Not to mention worrying when they went out at night and not being able to sleep until they came in. Or spending so much time at the school volunteering or advocating or apologizing or just plain pushing that some folk thought we were employees and we should have been receiving a paycheck from the school district — ultimately our children are their own beings who will make their own choices and live their own lives.

Considering the investment, that kind of sucks.

But it’s kind of good too. When a grandparent asks me with an appalled look on her face, “How could (fill in the blank) do (fill in the blank)?” I can say, “I don’t know. Their choice.” And on the other hand, when one of my children does something really responsible I can say, “Wow! I’m so proud of how you handled that!” Okay — and occasionally I’ll take credit for having raised them well. I think I deserve that.

My son is home for the holidays and his sister will be here soon. Neither of them are fully financially independent. So despite their protestations of being “grown” there is the tendency for their father and me to believe that we still call the shots. That’s just an illusion, though. We are really on the sidelines of their lives at this point. We can help financially, and we are willing to do so, to help them achieve their goals.   We can offer advice. We can make suggestions. We can draw boundaries. It’s smart to do so. But they will become who they will become. And even though that’s a little hard for me to get my head around, that was the point of raising them, after all.

I wonder if I’ve taught my children everything I should have. What’s the best way to parent them now? I hope they’ve got what it takes to navigate this constantly changing world. I hope I didn’t leave them unprepared.

Many years ago I started to write a book about parenting, but I felt I hadn’t been doing it well enough or long enough to really know what I was talking about, despite how it looked on TV! I think it’s time to write it now. Because maybe there are still some things I can share with my children that they need to know. And maybe it will give me some perspective as well.  So here we go! I’ll include excerpts in this blog as I go along.

I have been looking forward to this moment for several months. I’ve pushed and cajoled my son into doing what must be done to graduate. I’ve used every moment as a teaching (he would say “nagging”) moment. I’ve talked to him about what adult responsibility looks like. I hope I’ve modeled it to some degree. I was ready!
Yeah! Freedom!

But the place feels different without him. I still automatically check his room when I wake in the morning. And. It. Is. Very. Quiet. But… I did a little furniture rearranging. The desk where I write this is now in the room across the hall and a soft lamp burns behind me. I’ve relocated my sewing table and I can feel some creative juices starting to bubble up. The gas gauge on my car is exactly where it was when I last drove it. We’re both starting the next part of our lives. And we’ll both be okay.

My daughter called me this morning to take me to task. “What’s all this about an empty nest?” she asked. “You sound way too happy about it.” She was referring to a recent Facebook post in which I celebrated my son’s graduation and also commented that he was away this week visiting friends, which allowed me and my husband to get a little taste of what an empty nest feels like. “We like it,” I had written.

“I don’t know why this bothers you so much,” I replied. “You’ve been gone for years.” “That’s not the point,” she said. “You’re still our parents. You’ll always be our parents. Stop acting like you’re trying to get rid of us.”

The fact is, I am not trying to get rid of them.  But good parenting, by definition (at least mine) means that we have equipped them to become independent, eventually self-motivating and self-supporting, and that eventually they WILL go away. And Ron and I will need to look at our own lives differently. Who will we be when our every waking moment isn’t about managing our children’s day to day activities? Now that I’m not fussing about homework and getting up in time for school, what will be the role I hold in my children’s lives? Sure — there’s still a lot ahead. (I foresee fussing about getting a summer job and getting up in time for work….) No body is completely self-sufficient yet and I don’t think a day will go by where I don’t think of, talk to, pray for or care about my children. But my role is changing. And as happy as I am that my youngest has reached and passed this milestone, I don’t know exactly how I feel about it. There’s a sense of freedom and opportunity. But also, a sense of loss. It’s complicated.

My new midwife, Siti, was not a fan of western medicine. She was a tiny, cheerful woman with long dreadlocks which reached her hips, and small, strong hands.  She had given birth to 9 children, all naturally and at home, and she assured me that a healthy diet, lots of walking and positive imagery were all I really needed. Siti showed up for home visits armed with jars of kale juice, plates of millet with kelp and an old stethoscope. I’d thank her for the meals, stick them in the refrigerator, and eat ribs instead.  That could have been the problem….

During the early hours of labor I was a model hostess — offering my aunt and midwife cool drinks and being very kind to my husband — but when a whole day had passed with little progress, all my southern training slipped away. By hour 24 I was no longer polite. They could get their own drinks.  I was not in control.  My body was in control and I was just along for the ride. I would doze off  between contractions and dream of drugs only to awaken to find that the nice lady in the white  dress with the needle full of sedatives was only an hallucination. I forgot I was even having a baby.  I began to believe in purgatory. I was sure I was somewhere on the 7th level. And moving down.

Twelve more hours. And then, suddenly, there was the most intense feeling I have every had. It was such a powerful force that it seemed to propel every breath every sound and the very essence of my existence from the center of my being outward. I don’t know why it didn’t shatter windows and break sound barriers and thrust everything around us forward on its wave, shaking the world of its axis. And then it passed. Utter calm followed it. Siti handed me a squirmy messy body with a steeply sloping forehead.  “You have a son,” she said. I held on to him, floating in that welcome peace. I didn’t know his name, his father would give it to him later. I just knew that there had been a reason for all that had come before and I was holding it in my arms.

Later, as Siti was helping me with the aftermath, I could hear Ron talking to his son in the next room as he gave him his first bath. Ron’s warm musical voice welcomed Simeon Othello into the world, thanking God for him and promising to do his best.

Eighteen years later the lesson is still being learned. I am not in control. But I continue to thank God for him and I promise to do my best.  And I still know there is a reason for all that has come before. When I can, I hold him in my arms. Happy birthday son.

Okay, I’m not proud of this admission. I want to be all altruistic and focused only on them, but let’s admit it.  We mothers have this conceit that if we just do the RIGHT things (and the right things may vary based on our personal values) our kids will be bright and shiny perfect monuments to US.  If we’re just Tiger Mom enough they’ll be valedictorians and concert musicians with doctorates.  Or if we offer them enough creative experiences and positive reinforcement they’ll be creative geniuses, entrepreneurs and trail blazers.  We’re convinced that if we expose them to our religious belief systems they’ll be pious and righteous and embrace our principals.  And of course, tofu snacks and organic whole foods will produce healthy, vibrant vegans who would never put a toxin into their precious pure bodies.  And we’ll look pretty darned good.

Except sometimes the offspring don’t get the memo. Tofu squares and daily prayer not withstanding, they follow drummers we don’t hear or at least drummers we’ve heard and want them to ignore. Sometimes they hurt themselves. Sometimes they hurt us.  We want what’s best for them and we’re pretty sure we know what that is, but they don’t always agree.

The other night my son came home so late after curfew that it was in another time zone.  I was really angry. I wasn’t just angry at him, I was mad at how his behavior would make me look to others. So I gave him an ultimatum: If you can’t come home when you’re supposed to, don’t come home at all.  There are rules to follow! If you’re going to live a good life you’ve got to follow the rules!  It seems like the right thing to do.

But, this morning, when I look in the mirror, what I see is a woman who doesn’t follow her own rules. I tell my children to do what’s right while I, more often than I want to acknowledge, don’t do it myself.  I tell them to avoid addictive behavior and substances, while they’ve watched me lose and gain the same 20 to 30 pounds over and over. I tell them to dream big and work daily to achieve their dreams and yet time and time again they’ve come home to find me sitting in the same place on the couch, glazed eyes moving between the TV screen and computer solitaire, my list of goals having become nothing but notes scribbled on a white board and ignored.  This morning I looked into the eyes of the woman in the mirror and I was ashamed. Then Michael Jackson spoke to me.  Sort of.  The lyrics of his song popped into my head,  “If you wanna’ make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.”

Because the reality is this: no matter how much I want to, I can’t wrap my daughter in my arms as I could when she was little and make everything better.  I can’t put my son in time out until he behaves the way I want him to behave. I can’t MAKE any body do anything.  The illusion is gone. But I can look myself in the face and ask the question, “Am I living the life I want my children to live?” and then I can effect change in the only place I can — in me.

So this is the beginning of a 40-day experiment. What if, for the next 40 days I lived the way I dreamed for my children? What if I treated my body with the respect and love I want for them? What if I followed my dreams and aspirations with the passion I wish for them? What if I nurtured my spiritual life with the dedication I want for their lives? What if I were actually to follow my own advice? Will it make a difference in my family? Or just make a difference in me.  Either way I have nothing to lose.