When I was a little girl, I was passionate about singing. It was something that I loved to do. And I was good at it.
My parents supported my love of music in the only way they knew how– by encouraging me to sing at church. But that was the only capacity in which I was allowed to explore my love of singing. I was only allowed to sing To and For The Lord. Any other type of musical expression was STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. I quit music after my freshman year– it wasn’t any fun because of the restrictions my parents placed on me. I wasn’t allowed to participate in field trips in which we would sing at other schools. (they didn’t want me to end up alone, with boys, doing The Jesus-Illegal Sex.) I wasn’t allowed to audition for musicals (“they’re not glorifying to The Lord!”) What the hell was the use?
(I also quit guitar lessons at an early age, but that had nothing to do with my parents and everything to do with the disgusting pig of a man who I refer to as “Hairy Larry”)
I see that same passion for singing in my daughter. She is always twirling around the house in dramatic fashion, while singing a song. She reminds me so much of my Young Self.
I never want my children to say “I could have been *insert childhood dream here* if only my parents had allowed me to and supported my dream.” This is why I drive my boys to guitar/drum lessons every week. This is why I go to all of their band performances, their talent shows.
And this is why I drop whatever I’m doing to sit on the floor and watch my daughter’s Never Ending “Singing Shows.”
Category Archives: Parenthood
“Just a Mom.”
(I have tried to write this post many times. I write. I delete. I write. I save as draft. I delete. I write again. Delete. I don’t know why this is so hard for me, but it is and it’s time I write it write it write it and then hit publish. For reasons I do not understand, I cried about this all day. I knew it was time to write it, publish and never look back. I will not edit. I will post it exactly as it type it the first time.)
“What do you want to do after you graduate?” He asked me, during one of our late night phone calls.
“I don’t know.” I replied, as I giggled.
But I knew.
I wanted to get married.
I didn’t need college. In fact, it wasn’t even an option. My parents never told me the important of an education. You don’t need an education when you have Jesus! You just need to love God, find a Godly man. Marry him. Have his babies.
One year and 5 months after I graduated high school, I married the man that asked me that question.
It’s what I wanted to do. It’s what God wanted for me to do.
The full time job I had at a Christian School ended just after graduation. But I quickly found a part time one, working in a public school– after school program. It was perfect. Only 4.5 hours a day, but I’d get insurance, which my husband’s job didn’t offer.
Three years later, we had our first baby.
The baby I always wanted to have. The baby I wanted to take care of and love and nurture. I could take care of my baby all morning long, go to work in the afternoons, come back home and take care of my baby again.
I was a Mom. Such a good Mom. Because I loved being a Mom. I loved it with every fiber of my being.
My life was beautiful and felt perfect for us. We didn’t have extra money, we didn’t have fancy furniture. We couldn’t afford to take vacations. But I had my husband. I had my son. That was all I needed.
4 years later, I was a Mom again.
I couldn’t have been happier.
In 2002, I started a blog. Through that blog, I started to meet new women. Oh, how I loved these women I was meeting in the virtual world.
They were doctors, lawyers, writers. They were comedians, reporters, psychotherapists. They were lesbian, bisexual. They were single moms.
They were kick ass women.
I had lived a sheltered life. One in which I spent almost every waking hour in the House of God. And not your typical House of God. This was a House of God that preached “a woman’s place is in the home!” One that forced women to wear headcoverings when they entered the church to show their submission to God and to their husbands. One that said women can’t wear pants- pants are for MEN! And no make up, wimmins! Make up is for whores! “MONKEY LIPS!” one preacher once shouted at a woman who had come to church with lipstick on.
Swear to God.
So, to meet all of these incredibly diverse, successful women online opened up an entire new world to me.
I no longer could believe for one minute that a woman who had made a career for herself didn’t love her children with the same passion that I, a stay at home mom, did.
I grew to love these women, admire them. Their words inspired me. They taught me. They made me cry. They made me laugh.
They changed me. For the better.
But then, something happened.
I started to feel shame.
Deep, horrific shame.
I didn’t measure up to these women who were now my friends.
I didn’t go to college.
I didn’t have a career.
“Just a mom.” I was just a mom.*
That had always been enough for me and then suddenly, it wasn’t.
But it was.
But, it wasn’t.
The thing that I loved about blogging when I first started was that I could write these stories of my life and people responded. I was embraced by these woman I was in awe of.
But, the shame.
The shame that I could never measure up. The shame that while they were writing “pieces” on feminism, I was writing about my ass eating my thong in aerobic dance class.
That’s all I had to offer.
I started to feel like I need to keep my mouth shut, because, what do I know? I’m just a mom.
The question I fear the most when meeting new people is “where did you go to college?”
I feel so small. I feel so stupid.
I could have went to college after I had the kids, after I realized the errors of my way. But there was always a reason not to. How could I spend money on an education when there was barely enough to pay the bills? But let me be really honest here: It was fear that stopped me. It was shame that stopped me. That fear that I feel in the pit of my stomach as I type this. Fear that I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t smart enough, that it was too late for me.
Recently, I received an email that said I had been chosen to be a speaker for Mom 2.0. I was thrilled, but I also thought it was a mistake. What did I have to offer? Have you seen the speakers list? Accomplished, intelligent, professional women. It HAD to be a mistake.
It wasn’t a mistake. But I ask myself every day. “How can you sit up there with those incredible women? You don’t belong there.”
Last year I was lucky enough to have been hired for a full time/work from home job with BlogHer. I am surrounded by influential, powerful, intelligent, professional women. I feel so unworthy– like, how did I end up here with this fantastic job and these incredible women? I don’t belong here.
I am proud of the mother I’ve been and continue to be to my children. I never regret being their mother. How blessed I am to have them. So very blessed.
I just wish I could say I was proud of the person, the woman, that I am as a whole.
(Now that I wrote this for all to see, I shall never speak of it again.)
*this isn’t how I feel, this is something I heard another woman say. “we’re not JUST moms. We have careers.” she said. “But… I am.” I thought. “Oh, but *I* am.”
He Must Have Done The Math
This afternoon my son competed in his first ever drum competition finals.
There were 12 people in his division.
He beat them.
That’s right. My son was the winner!
Even though I thought he was the best, I had no idea what the judges would think. So, when they called his name, I screamed so loud. Then I apologized to the man sitting next to me for busting out his ear drums. And then I cried because MY SON WON.
I know how much this competition meant to him. I also know how he struggles with his confidence at times. So this win was huge on both fronts.
I’m happy to share his winning performance with you. Thanks to all of you who showed your support to him on this blog and on twitter. You’re the best.
But Ethan’s the best at drumming. Har.
( I apologize for the awful videography. I had The Nervous Shakes.)
Bokeh Wednesday- Love edition
“I love you, mama.” she said as we walked hand in hand.
“I love you too, baby girl.”
“And I love daddy. And my brothers. And I love myself.”
I love myself, she said.
There was no conceit behind that statement. No ego involved.
Simply her truth.
She loves others as she loves her self.
As a woman who grew up feeling shame about most every part of who I am, it was comforting to hear my daughter say those words. Those words were music to my ears, my heart, my soul.
Because it is my hope that by loving who she is, caring for herself and living to her full potential, she will always be able to fully love others in that same wonderful way.
What “Feeling Better” Looks Like.
It’s been a rough few days. The coughing. The crying. The sleepless nights.
I’m tired.
She’s tired.
But it seems as though she’s finally on the mend.
Oh, that precious smile. How I’ve missed it.
It’s good to see it again.
Get Well Soon, Sweet Girl
“I’m sorry you’re so sick.” I say, as I hold her close to my chest.
“I’m sorry I’m sick too.” She says, as she runs her little finger up and down my arm.
“I just want you to get better so I can kiss you and tickle you and play hide and seek with you again.”
“You can kiss me on my head. Just not on my mouth. Because you’ll get sick like me.”
So, I place my lips on her head and kiss her over and over again. Her hair smells like strawberries.
She begins to cough and is unable to stop. She buries her face into my chest and she starts to cry.
“It hurts right here when I cough, Mommy.” She says through the tears.
I can feel the lump forming in my throat, the tears welling in my eyes. I begin to cry with her. “I know and I wish I could make it stop hurting. I’m sorry, Chunky Head. I’m so sorry.”
Last night things took a turn for the worse. A fever of 104.7, pain in her chest, her tummy, her head. It was awful to watch, knowing there was very little I could do to make it better. A trip to urgent care was made. “It’s a cold.” the doctor said. “Give her these medications and bring her back if she gets worse.”
Out the door we went.
I did my best to help her.
Tylenol. Water. Baths. Chicken noodle soup. Foot rubs.
And while those things helped ease the pain temporarily, they couldn’t relieve her entirely from her suffering.
I don’t want to see her suffering anymore. I don’t want to hear her weep because the coughing hurts. I don’t want her to wake up in the middle of the night sobbing because “she’s burning hot.”
I just want to hear her laugh and sing and be bossy with her brothers again.
I just want her to be healthy and whole again.
Hopefully, she will be. And hopefully it will be very soon.
Hopefully this is as bad as it gets.
When you have a child entering The Teenager Years, people like to tell you about how awful it is. How much hair you’re going to lose from the stress. How much you’ll want to slap the shit out of your once adorable little child because they will talk back! How scared you’ll be when you’re not home because they could be doing drugs! Or impregnating girls! Doing Graffiti on abandoned buildings! I understand those are all very real possibilities. I watched my own parents struggle with a son addicted to drugs. (He’s clean AND a minister now, so it all worked out.) To say I was dreading these years is an understatement. I was TERRIFIED.
My oldest is now 16 and guess what? It’s been easier than I ever imagined.
Until he went and got a girlfriend.
It’s not that he’s doing anything awful. He’s not. If he’s not home on the weekends, he’s at church, practicing with his band from youth group. Or at the movies with friends from church. He doesn’t talk back much more than any kid his age would. He’s never raised his voice to me. He’s never lied about where he’s at.
But the phone. Oh my God. THE PHONE.
He’s on the phone from the minute he gets home from school until the time he goes to bed. I have to fight with him to do homework because he’s too busy laying on his bed with the phone attached to his head. And if he’s not on the phone with her, he’s chatting with her online.
Monday night I had HAD ENOUGH. His father had told him to get off the phone at 8pm. At 9:45, The Middle Child came out of the room, annoyed that he couldn’t sleep because The Teenager was still on the phone. “Mom, can you PLEASE tell him to get off the phone?”
I was PISSED.
I walked down the hall, slammed his bedroom door open and told him to hand over the phone.
“When will I get it back?” He asked.
“Not tomorrow, that’s for sure.” I said.
He didn’t say anything back, but he did let out a Very Loud Sigh.
“That’s what you get for not obeying your parents.” I said, while looking up at him. Damn Teenagers, growing taller than their parents.
I fully expected him to start begging for his phone that morning. His argument would be something like “but Mooomm, what if I need to call you for something after school?” And my argument would be “not my problem. You should have thought about that before you disobeyed me!”
I was pleasantly surprised when the morning passed without a single mention of his phone. “He’s a good kid.” I thought to myself. “I’ll give him his phone back when he gets home from school.”
Just after school got out, I got a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize. It was The Teenager. “Mom” he said. “You’re going to be so mad at me.”
My heart dropped.
He continued.
“I took my phone this morning.”
!!!!
“What? Why would you do…”
“BUT MOM! Let me finish! I got it taken away. My teacher took it away. You’ll have to come to the office to get it.”
He’s had his phone since the beginning of his Freshman year (he’s a junior.) That has never happened. It was as if Jesus said “I’ve got this one, Mom.”
Thank you, Jesus.
Tony thinks we should pick it up without telling him we did so. I think we should leave it there for at least a week. It’ll be there when I’m good and ready to pick it up.
So, yeah…Teenagers.
Thank you, MTV.
A couple of weeks ago my daughter found a picture of herself from her Birth Day. She started to ask a bunch of questions, but mostly she was concerned with the blood on her legs.
“Is that the blood from when they cut your stomach open to get me out?”
“They didn’t cut my stomach to get you out.”
“Then how did I come out?”
(Fun Conversations With Kids!)
“You came out of my vagina.”
“ARE YOU KIDDING?” She said, in a tone that suggested she was TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY.
“No, I’m not kidding.”
“But how did I fit?”
I did my best to explain. I think I used words like “stretch” and also “cut a little with scissors.”
She actually asked me if the doctors had a “pachina sewing kit to fix my pachina up.”
HA HA HA.
She’s brought it up a few times since we talked about. Like, we’ll be out shopping and out of the blue she’ll say something like “Mommy, did the doctor have to cut your pachina a little to get me out of your tummy?” These random questions she asks in public prompted my husband to ask “why did you tell her that?” You know, I could have made up some cute little stories about how babies magically float out of your stomach in a Bubble of God Love or something. But that’s not how I roll. I’ve always been honest with my kids when it comes to How Our Bodies Work.
Yesterday I was watching 16 & Pregnant while the kids were outside with their daddy. G walked in to grab a drink just as the girl was giving birth. She stopped. Stared at the TV.
“She’s pushing her baby out of her Pachinee, Mommy!” She shrieked. “Is that what it was like when you pushed me out of your pachinee?”
“Yep. That’s how you came out. Just like that.” I replied.
She stood there to watch and it was like suddenly, IT ALL MADE SENSE– her very own “A-ha! Moment.” She grabbed her drink, walked out of the room without saying a word. Twenty minutes later, she walked back in and handed me a picture and said “This is from the day you had me.”
She hasn’t asked another question since.
Thank you. MTV
Pieces
She had been waiting for this all day long. “When daddy comes home, we’re going to make our confetti craft, right mom? “How much longer til daddy gets home because I am so excited to make my confetti craft!” All day long, she talked about it.
Daddy came home. “Can we do our craft now?”
“After dinner, mama.” He answered.
Dinner was over and she immediately ran to her room to get the toilet paper rolls she had been saving. I gathered the supplies we’d need and we both set them up on the table.
“I’m so excited!” She would say. “Me too!” I’d say.
We began to prep, carefully checking the supply list. Within a minute I realized we’d forgotten to buy a tool we didn’t have on hand– a crafting needle. My husband, ever the genius, was all “never fear! I can make one! Out of a nail.” Myself, ever the doubter, scoffed at him. “A crafting needle out of a NAIL? How?” “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll go make one.”
After 18 years of being married to him, one would think I’d stop doubting him. He has a solution for every problem, big and small. (Unless we’re talking about “money problems.” But every other problem, he will fix it. He has tools and he’s not afraid to use them!)
G followed him into the garage, while I sat at the table waiting, with the laptop open, mocking him on twitter.
He returned 5 minutes later with the solution to our problem.
After we had all of the supplies we needed, we started to make the confetti rockets. We were cutting, gluing, measuring all the while talking, being silly and laughing.
It was wonderful, really, the 3 of us, in our crafting bliss, but then I realized we needed tape. Tony went to find a roll of tape, while G and I continued cutting and gluing. He found a brand new roll and brought it to us. “I’ll open it, Daddy.” G said. “Oh, no, baby girl. Daddy will do it. It’ll be too hard for you.”
And that is when all hell broke loose.
He opened the tape, she got upset and started to cry. He didn’t realize what the big deal was, really. “Honey, it would have been to hard for you, that’s why daddy opened it. Come on, let’s finish our craft.”
“But I’m a big girl daddy! I can DO HARD THINGS!”
Not intentionally trying to hurt her, I laughed while looking at Tony. “She’s so independent. She wants to do everything herself. That’s what happens when you doubt her ability to do something.”
She didn’t find it as amusing as we did.
She ran to the sofa, picked up a picture of a unicorn that she has colored for me. She had taken so much time on that picture, being careful to stay in the lines and “choose beautiful colors for mommy.” She held the picture in the air and ripped it in half.
“I wanted to open the tape!” She cried as she ran towards the trash can. She opened it up, threw the picture in the trash and slammed the lid down.
My immediate reaction was to be angry with her. She was acting like a brat. I completely understood why she was upset in the first place. But the resulting Dramatics were over the top.
She walked over to the table and sat down. I frowned at her, because I wasn’t happy with what she had done. She looked up at me and said “are you sad that I tore your picture?” Then she hung her head down in shame. She got very quiet. And then, she broke.
“That was the picture that I made for you, because I love you. I’m sorry I ripped it and threw it away.”
She realized that she had done something that wasn’t very nice. And she was remorseful.
I picked her up and hugged her. “I loved that picture, G. I wish you hadn’t ripped it and thrown it away. But I know you were angry and sometimes we do things we shouldn’t when we’re angry.”
In that moment, I knew exactly what she felt like. I’ve done things I immediately wish I hadn’t when I was angry with a someone that I loved. I’ve said the most hurtful thing I could think of out of spite, I’ve thrown things, I’ve hung up on people.
She apologized, I forgave her. We hugged, she and her daddy hugged and we all took a few deep breaths so we could refocus. We all decided it was best if we put things away and finished the craft tomorrow. It was late, we were tired and even the girl agreed it would be best to go to sleep and come back to finish when we were nice and rested up.
Tony took her into the bathroom to brush her teeth while I began to pick up the mess we had made. I gathered a handful of trash, opened up the trashcan and saw the torn, wrinkled picture. I got all choked up when I saw it there. I remembered her little fingers working for hours to make that for me. I remember how proud she was when she finished it and handed it over to me. “I made this JUST for you, Mommy. And look! I stayed in the lines!” I picked up the pieces out of the trash. I began to put it back together. Then, I carefully taped it together. I smoothed it out as much as I could. By the time I was finished, you could barely tell what had happened earlier.
I couldn’t wait to show her. I put it behind my back and walked into the bathroom where she was still brushing her teeth.
“I have a surprise for you.” I said, in the same way she did when she first gave it to me.
I pulled the picture out and held it up.
Her eyes got THIS BIG. “My picture!” She screamed. “But, how did you fix it?” She asked, slightly bewildered. “I just taped it up in the back, see?” I showed her where I had put the tape.
A smile swept across her face. She ran over and hugged me. “Thank you Mommy. I love you and I promise I’ll never rip it ever again.”
Being a parent is so unpredictable. One minute, you’re happily cutting tissue paper, stringing beads with twine. The next you’re holding your weeping daughter in your arms, knowing what you say or do in that very moment will impact her delicate heart, mind and soul for days if not years to come. You do your best to make the correct choice in your response, take a deep breath and trust that it was the right one. And if it’s not, you own up to it, you say you’re sorry and vow to do better next time.
I think this time, I did the right thing.
My Babies Daddy
I regret publishing the previous post. I wish I had waited until we had kissed and made up. That way, I could have written something I was proud of. Sigh.
In any case, we ended up having a wonderful day with our children and really, that’s all that matters.
