Another Thing to Add to The I'm-Not-Ready-For-This Category

There are nine weeks remaining in this school year.  Nine.  Single digits.  It is almost over.  I say this with no excitement whatsoever.  I say this with the disbelief and reluctance of a mom who is experiencing her oldest son’s last nine weeks of elementary school.  Insert melodramatic “Why is this happening to me”?

Yep, this is all about me.  Because Alec is neither reluctant nor is he in disbelief.  He is excited about finishing the school year, looking forward to summer, and overall unfazed by the fact that he will soon be an intermediate school student.

When I say in all seriousness that I expect him to fail fourth grade so he will not have to go to another school next year, he just smiles at me, shakes his head, and goes on.  He thinks I am joking.  I am not joking.  

I know that I am not the first mother in the history of mothers that has had a child complete the fourth grade and move on to fifth.  I get that.  But Alec is my first-born.  He is the first amazing thing that ever happened to me.  He is special, he is unique, he is sweet and kind and funny, and he is growing up way too fast.  Whether it is cliché or not, the fact is that I blinked and he was starting kindergarten; I blinked again and now he is finishing elementary school.  And there is nothing I can do to stop it.  

Before too much more time passes I will no longer be publicly huggable, I will rate lower than girls and friends, and I will become the evil villain in the world of tween drama.  Before too much more time passes our challenges will be different and he will be different and I will be different. It will all be so very different. 

While I understand that this is a natural progression in this thing we call life, as a mom, and maybe especially as a single mom, I am having a difficult time accepting the inevitable.  I know it in my brain to be natural and normal, but in my heart I just want a few more moments to cherish the young years.  I want the busyness of everyday life to yield a little more to moments of cuddling, and talking, and playing.  I want to have more time in this stage of his life.  

Perhaps all the trepidation I feel about him growing up is nothing more than a wake-up call. Perhaps it is my heart trying to get my attention, reminding me that there is still time.  Rather than wish for time to slow, perhaps I should slow myself and savor the moments that remain. There are still moments to be had.  After all, he will always be special, he will always be unique, he will always be sweet and kind and funny; and he will most certainly always be growing up way too fast.  

My job here is not to wallow in self-pity because my baby is growing up (though I may still have a day or two when that happens).  My job is to celebrate his growth, to nurture his spirit and to continue to teach him all that I can to make his life abundant and beautiful.   My job is to be his mom, regardless of whether I have to wear the villain hat or the huggable in public hat.  My job is to put away selfish feelings and be all that I can be for Alec, even if he refuses to fail the fourth grade for me.  

I guess my job here is to let go a little, to let him breathe, and to let him become the incredible person he was born to be.  Having the honor and privilege of calling myself Alec’s mom is one of the greatest blessings of my life.  And I will always be his mom, no matter how many grades or schools he graduates from.  

Being A Single Mom and Finding a Silver Lining Where You May Least Expect It

I get asked a lot exactly how it is that I do it; how do I raise four boys, manage a home, and work outside of the home all while single.  The simple answer is that just like anyone else, I just do it. I just get out of bed every day, get dressed, and get going.  There are some things about single motherhood that some who have never done it may not realize.  Some of these things are good and some are bad.  But they are all a part of the journey.

First and foremost, this family is firmly planted in the love of God.  The five of us spend a lot of time talking about, thanking, and celebrating our Father.  We also pray together out loud every night.  It would be impossible for me to understate the importance of our choices to live and love together under the direct guidance of our Lord.  Without this relationship we would be a very different family.

With that being said, there are a few things that keep everything together on a daily basis. One of those things is consistency.  Another of those things is routine.  While some may prefer a more spontaneous fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants approach to raising a family, I simply cannot do that.  While it is partly due to my personality, it is also due to the fact that my children do better with consistency and routine.  When our routine is thrown off or when I am inconsistent in any of my parenting choices, the results are immediate and they are rarely pretty.

There is also the fact that in this house, I am Queen and there is no King to undermine my authority.  What I say goes.  There is no other adult here to whom they can make their case. There is no opportunity for playing one parent against another.  When I have made a decision, the discussion is over and we move on.  I like this….when I make the right choices for my family.  At the same time, though, when I mess up, there is no one to help shoulder the blame or to take corrective action.  The mistakes are all mine and I have to own them and learn from 
them.  

And this one I talk about frequently because I think it makes a big difference for me; it is my unexpected silver lining in solo parenting. At the start of every day I know without question that I alone will be responsible for all the adult things in this house.  If it doesn't get done or decided by me, it doesn't get done or decided.  And that is a powerful position to be in, mostly because it prevents the disappointment of knowing that there is someone in the house who could help you but chooses not to.  Or who is too oblivious to even realize that help is needed.

Think about it.  Has there even been a time when you felt overwhelmed; the baby is crying, older brother is late for baseball practice, you just realized you filled the crock pot that morning but failed to turn it on, no one has any clean socks, and you look up to see your husband…..sitting on the couch watching TV, oblivious to the chaos that surrounds him.  At that moment, it isn't about the details of life that send you over the edge.  It is seeing him doing nothing that does it.  And for hours after you will mentally berate him, wondering why he didn't just offer to help, or even better, just get up and do something.  That disappointment quickly turns to anger which quickly escalates to far more than it ever had to be.  

I don’t ever have to do that.  Granted, no one ever has to do that; choices can be made to not let it bother you or just pretend it is part of who your partner is and can’t be helped.  But let’s be honest about how it usually really goes down.

I begin every day with the knowledge that there is no adult other than me so I don’t feel disappointment or anger at another’s failure to step up or failure to read my mind and recognize that I need help.  I don’t waste time and emotion being mad at another person for not stepping in where I need them.  This is a solo act, so I just prioritize, get it all done, and if I don’t, there’s always tomorrow.  Over the years this lack of opportunity for disappointment has been one reminder I make to myself of why it can be great to be a single mom.  

How do I do it?  Hopefully the same way you do it: I take the bad with the great and I am thankful for my family and my life every moment of every day.  And when I falter, I regroup and try again. And again.  And again.  For as long as I remain a single mother, this family is my responsibility and that I own completely and cheerfully.   

Forget Spring Butterflies and Pretty Flowers. All I Want is Green Grass.

I was looking at my yard this afternoon and among the dreadfully yellow-brown landscape I saw little sprigs of new growth in shades of green that have not been seen in many months.  Ah, spring is on its way.  And with it will come a little bit of hope and relief for me.

Not because there are bright, sunny days with rising temperatures coming in the near future.  It is definitely not that because I am a self-proclaimed heat wimp.  The thought of warmer temperatures makes me feel a little bit cranky.  Actual warm temperatures turn me into a crotchety old lady with nothing to do but whine and complain about heat and sweating and ridiculously high utility bills.  And temperatures that are actually in the range of hot make me pissed off.  They make the words “bite me” fly much more frequently from my face because, when it is hot, I am not a very pleasant person. 

No, the thing about spring that I look forward to all winter has nothing to do with the weather or the beautiful days.  It is the return of green grass that I anxiously await through all the gloriously cool days of winter.  It is green, healthy, non-dormant grass that does not stick to every square inch of my boys’ clothes and shoes that I look forward to.  It is floors that are not littered with the evidence of every moment they spend rolling in the yard playing football or tag, or their favorite game – Let’s Get as Much Grass on Us as We Can and Track it in the House.  I have never learned the rules of this game, but I am pretty sure that points are awarded based on: square footage covered, number of deep sighs made by mom, and how close they can get me to using an actual swear word in their presence.   

Yeah, that particular game drives me insane.  But my boys are really, really good at it.  And who am I to squash their talents?  I do wonder why one of them can't discover a hidden talent for vacuuming, though. 

I do not suffer from the winter depression that some people claim is a thing.  I do not feel lethargic or act lazy during the winter months.  On the contrary, I actually accomplish much more when the weather is nasty or cold.  I do not desire afternoons lying cozily wrapped in many blankets with a lovely fire crackling in the fireplace.  Instead I accomplish all of the tasks that I was just too hot for during other times of year.  Spring cleaning is for other people; I am all about the winter cleaning.  And winter crafts.  And winter re-arrangement of every piece of furniture in my home. 

What I do suffer from, however, is the condition of being a mother of four young boys.  And because I am who I am I also suffer from the anxiety that happens when I live in a constant state of I-need-to-vacuum.  In this house reside one adult, four young boys, and three cats.  At any given moment there is a real need for vacuuming.  So, I vacuum all the time.   

I hate that stupid, ugly, yellow, sticky, and ever-present winter grass that can be found all over the place and does not blend in like regular dirt.  Plain dirt can be overlooked because it is brown.  My floors are mostly brown and I can get away with ignoring it for a spell.  Dead, yellow grass cannot be overlooked.  It mocks me from the floor, taunting me with cruel reminders of how quickly and prolifically it can re-spawn.  It makes me feel manic, and much like a dog pointlessly chasing its tail, the only difference is it is me chasing little shreds of ugly foliage with a vacuum wand. 

And I know what thoughts are probably going through your head right now.  It is just some stupid grass.  Sweep it up and move on.  It is just grass on the floor, just leave it there; it won’t kill you to not vacuum it up for a day or two.

And if these are the types of thoughts that you are thinking I have four boys who would love to come to your house and teach you a new game.  You guys play and have a good time for a few weeks while I sit here and look longingly at tiny sprigs of green grass through the window of my clean house.       

Only Through Application is The Pen Truly Mighty

Sometimes I start to think about words.  I think about the way we use them.  I think about how powerful or pointless or brutal or beautiful they can be.  I think about authors and the moments they spent pouring their hearts, souls, and imaginations into written pieces that will someday be read only by their mother, or by millions of people in many different languages.  I think about the joy and the pain that goes into the craft of writing.  I think about the way it is possible for the everyday use of words to inspire, to teach, to convey, to threaten, to frighten, to guide, to direct, to describe, and to trick. 

I think about all the wall prints and coffee mugs and embroidered quilts that are created using the words of others.  I wonder whether those authors knew as they were penning those sentences that they would be used for years to come to do any one of the things mentioned above.  I wonder if the great writers felt the power of their own words as they were flowing from brain to hand. 

And I invariably start to think about my own words.  What power am I wielding with the words I choose every single day?  Am I thinking it through before they come out of my mouth?  Am I taking the time to create sentences that will inspire or teach?  Or am I placing words together in order to trick or manipulate? 

The honest answers are: The possibility of an enormous power, not all the time, yes, and yes.

I have always believed in the power of words.  But my belief in that power has changed as I have grown older and experienced more.  I now know that while words do intrinsically hold a power, they can only wield that power when we allow them to.  Words can only be inspirational if they inspire us to do something.  They can only frighten if we feel fear upon hearing or reading them.  They can only direct us when we follow the directions. 

So, what are my words being used for?  I would like to think that I am using words in healthy ways; teaching children how to perform tasks, imparting the wisdoms of an older generation onto a younger one, creating a sense of inspiration in another human being so that they may take my words as an impetus to do something. 

While these uses are my goals, they are not always my outcomes.  I have used my words to say mean things, to undermine the accomplishments of another person, and to gossip.  I have used words to gloss over the beauty I could find all around me in order to complain about the one ugly thing I am focused on.  I have used words to say unkind things about another person when I have felt in some way wronged or ignored.  I have uttered the words “I can’t” even though that unique combination of words is not something I believe.

Fortunately there is always room for improvement.  There is room for me to take the words that I see and hear, turn them into action and do something; to do anything I want.  There is room for me to take a moment and consider if it will really make me permanently feel better to gossip about another person who has temporarily made me feel upset.  There is room for me to recognize that when one of my boys has made a poor choice, the best use of words is not to threaten or to express disappointment, it is to teach and to help them know how to make a better choice in the future. 

It is through my actions that words hold power for me.  And I hope that it will someday be because of my actions that my words are memorized or repeated.  I hope that my words hold the right kind of power; the kind that inspires action.  Even if that action is to cross-stitch my words onto a pillow or to screen-print them onto a mug.  I can live with that.  

Sadly, Tape is Not a Life Saver

The boys are outside playing when I hear very determined pleas for someone to let Chris into the house.  “Open the door.  OPEN the frickin’ door!  Now!”  Not knowing what is going on I have two choices.  One involves me ignoring the screams and waiting to see how this plays out and who ends up grounded.  The other, more responsible choice is to go investigate, perhaps even offer some assistance with the door.  

I chose the latter.  Don’t ask me why.  Because doling out a no-screens sentence would have been easier than stifling the laughter and incredulously posed “Are you serious right now” question that I really wanted to let fly.  What I found when I opened the door is Chris, both hands holding on to his inflatable bouncy ball for dear life.

“My ball is deflating.  I need tape.  Tape!  Tape!  Where is the tape in this house?”

The child was seriously panicking and he needed tape, Stat!  Before even asking what the big deal is about a ball deflating, I pulled the tape from its magical hiding place called Right Where It Always Is and performed a flawless exchange of tape for finger maneuver in the exact spot the air leak was coming from.  Instantly the hiss of bouncy ball life force loss ceased and Chris started to calm down.  As he applied no less than 72 more pieces of tape to the ball I tried to calmly explain to him that there is a chance he would lose the ball anyway.  I explained that transparent tape is great for wrapping presents, but not necessarily the right tool for the job when it comes to patching holes in plastic.

Yeah, all of those words were pointless.  Because not only was he not listening, he was off in another land, mentally crafting the next life-saving procedure for his bouncing ball.  In some moments his persistence is inspiring.  And sadly it is sometimes wasted.  We all know what fate lies ahead for the bouncy ball.  We all know that Chris will likely wake in the morning to find a deflated shell of plastic, wiggly and useless, lying in the space where an air-filled vessel of fun once resided.  

He will feel sadness over the loss of his trusty bouncy ball, telling tales of the times he shot baskets with it into the hamper and the one time he bounced it off Nick’s face.  He will do this while fighting back the tears of a nine year old who just lost his most favoritist toy in the world. It will be a sad, sad moment.  

And when the moment is over, I will do what I know I will be unable to prevent myself from doing. I will say something along the lines of “If you loved the ball so much, why on earth did you throw it into rose bushes?  With thorns?  Lots and lots of thorns?  They are bouncy ball kryptonite”.  I will allow words like this to come from my mouth because I am who I am and I am a certain type of mother.

I am a mother who will stop everything to rescue a quickly deflating ball that I know has just received a rose bush inflicted death blow.  I am a mother who will allow a certain number of moments of over-reacting to the inevitable death of a bouncy ball.  And I am a mother who sees a teachable moment in the ridiculousness of the whole situation.  And I am a mother who always seems to craft sentences laced with either brutal bluntness or piercing sarcasm. That’s all I've got.  

I expect my kids to overreact and to get attached to toys.  They are kids.  I get that.  It does not matter if I understand the attachment or the reactions.  They need to know that I will share in all of their difficult times, whether I see what the big deal is or not.  Their feelings are theirs and are therefore valid and are important to me.  

At the same time, I also expect that my kids will learn methods for dealing with their feelings. While it all seems like a bunch of needless drama, there is something important in the senseless loss of our most favoritist toys in the world and in the way that we deal with it.

In this house we deal with specific methods depending on the severity of the situation.  For bouncy ball death we will apply the following: recognition of the problem, moments of reflection, and getting over it.  No one has time to dwell on the little tragedies of this life; if we did we would be immobilized because there are infinite little tragedies in life.  Because I am a certain type of mother and no one in this house has time for that.    

My Boys: A Reminder That There are Infinite Possibilities in Imagination

Like I have mentioned in a previous post, I am struggling with writing at the moment.  Well, for a couple of weeks’ worth of moments.  With this struggle planted firmly in the forefront of my scattered mind I declared that my one and only goal for this evening was to write.  After postponement via dinnertime, a long, well-deserved bath, and other mundane household activities, I sat myself down at my desk and looked at a blank screen for a while.  And then I did the smart thing – I went downstairs to check on the boys.

What I saw was something that could have resulted in many different reactions.  There could have been anger, frustration, confusion, or any other negative or impatient reaction.  But what happened is laughter.  I simply laughed when I walked into an obstacle course made of furniture, shoes, boxes, and whatever else could be cobbled together to create an elaborate world; an imaginary world in which my children were playing.  Together.  Happily. 

I was not laughing at them.  Or even with them because they did not notice me walking into the room.  I was laughing from plain old happiness.  And the reminder of the fact that I really can find a tremendous amount of joy in the simplest of things.  

Simple things, like a destroyed living room, filled with ordinary objects transformed by imagination into lava pits and catapults.  As I stepped over a line of shoes that must have been a make-shift border between Alec Land and Nick Village, I chuckled quietly to myself.  Because it reminds me of the simple, cool things in life that I sometimes lose sight of because of the difficult and not-cool things that come along. 

I forget sometimes that children at play are a very cool thing.  That taking the time to construct elaborate fort blankets and impenetrable castles constructed of dining chairs is sometimes the best use of time possible.

I love the way my boys imagine the worlds in which they play.  I love the way their new worlds are made from pieces of everything they know, with their personal improvements added.  I love the way they switch from good guy to bad guy without missing a beat and the way a ninja game can morph into an army game and immediately into a pirate game in a matter of seconds and no one ever questions the validity of such changes.  I love the way they still possess the ability to be adaptable and cooperative and happy.  I love the way they just simply play. 

I am not saying that on a different day I would not have walked in and demonstrated one of those negative emotions that I mentioned previously or that my patience would not on another day have been pushed to the limit.  Because that can, and definitely does, happen.  But thankfully today is not one of those days.  Today I found joy in a living room that looks like a war zone.  Because at that moment, that is exactly what four wonderfully infinite imaginations had intended it to be.