"I am in the “letting go” years of motherhood. I know Alzheimer’s disease is considered the long-goodbye, but having teenagers feels as much so. Except instead of forgetting precious memories, I am flooded with them: story times at the library, field trips to the zoo, class parties, countless baseball games, first dances, and ordinary moments that have aged into extraordinary memories.
It is often said of parenting that the days are long but the years are short. I would only add that the years get successively faster like a racing heart sprinting toward the finish line. The teenage years are propelled with a momentum that has little to do with parenting but is filled with our children’s pursuits. We no longer set the pace of their days. Instead, we race to keep up or merely watch their projection as they shoot off like a ball in a pinball machine: hither and yonder, to and fro, until they finally land in their beds at night. Still. Safe. Ours.
But the truth is they were never ours to keep. They were trusted to us by an ever-generous God for what suddenly feels like too little time. Somehow, he put us together knowing that we will each learn from the other. We are shown we could love more than seemed physically possible and that we can stretch beyond what we once considered strong to a surprisingly soft place of resilience. I can’t think of anything else that compares to the ways it has broken me, built me anew, and taught lessons that only love could teach.
As these years wane, I marvel at the people my children have become. I’m in awe that I had any part in it. My inclination is to hold tight to the time remaining, but nature and nurture aren’t great friends during the teenage years and I know what my boys need is space not smothering. I hold back despite wanting to hold on. Some days it isn’t so bad. There will be unexpected conversations, pockets of time that when measured by a clock are insignificant but have a quality and genuineness that is unconcerned with mortal notions of time. I vacillate between the relief of their growing independence and the revelry I sometimes feel in being needed for something as menial as making a peanut butter sandwich and putting it in a brown paper bag. I have moments when I am so frustrated that I want to start packing their bags to send them off to college and other times that the thought of them going can stop my breath.
(Read more: mercymatters.net/2019/05/21/parenting-the-long-goodbye/#more-2446) Photo credit: Corinna Hoffman Photography ... See MoreSee Less
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My son took his AP English exam today. He had to write an essay on something that he felt was overrated. I thought that was a fun writing prompt and asked him what he wrote his essay on.
His answer: leveraged debt. I was thinking of something more along the lines of Starbucks coffee.
I have no idea what leveraged debt is, but it’s overrated ya’ll.
What would you have written about it? ... See MoreSee Less
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"By middle age, if not as early as middle school, we realize life doesn’t always go as planned. Yet we live in a world where the plan is all important – we have books about it, calendars, and self-imposed criteria for how it’s all going to go down like we are detectives Sonny and Rico on the 1980s television series Miami Vice. If we just plan life with enough precision, our boat won’t crash, drug traffickers will meet their demise, and life will be as sunny as a sweat-less day at the beach wearing pastel T-shirts and a white suit. That’s the script we are asked to write from ourselves from as early as preschool when a sing-song voice inquires about what we want to be when we grow up. As if it’s merely a matter of picking what color space ship we want to fly during our mission to Mars."
Read this week's post: mercymatters.net/2019/05/14/on-purpose-whats-yours/ ... See MoreSee Less
To the teachers:
What can I say? Thank you seems too trite, like a mere nod to your efforts when you clearly are worthy of an embrace. At the same time, that’s awkward, isn’t it? To have all of us mamas hugging on you in the heat and hurry of the carpool line.
What can I do? I send in flowers, chocolate, and notes of appreciation. I would like to send in a bottle of wine but thinking however practical that is, it may be inappropriate. Nothing I could buy could compensate you for the way you have stepped up, poured out, and gone above in your efforts to educate your students.
How can I show you how much you have made a difference? From teaching children to love reading to showing them how we love others, you have shaped them. From ordinary moments, you uncovered interests, carved out strengths, and careened them away from wayward paths by your own beautiful examples of Christ’s love.
When would I be able to tell you how much you staying after school to host clubs and sports and extracurricular’s has given my children confidence, tenacity, and cherished memories with their friends?
It’s really a daunting job, finding a way to honor you during “Teacher Appreciation Week.” Henry Adams said, “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” Likewise, I can never tell you where my gratitude ends. It’s kind of like the last 10 minutes of class after a long day. It just goes on and on.
Assumption Catholic School Bishop Kenny Keelen Henson Maureen Knight Lawrence Alicia Green Henderson Alicia Villotti Alligood Kelli Rennert Kelly Garner Bowman Kelly Hohnerlein-Branson Janice Davis Barbara Bustamante Lesher Tricia Gillooly Gardner Tony Polster Michael X. Pellicer (Melissa!) Israel Cawley Lynn Megan Stephens Wendy Nelms Erika Chadwick Lorrie Linton O'Byrne Loni Hodges Jennifer Pierce Jardine Tina Amico Jennifer Kulik Swain ... See MoreSee Less
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I keep seeing ads for Mother’s Day with petal pink letters in frilly font and slight women wearing flowing flowering frocks. It’s like advertisers think mothers dress in doilies, cover their heads in bonnets with perfectly tied grosgrain ribbon, and smile demurely all day wearing pink champagne tinted lip gloss.
I guess I should be glad they think that. Maybe they don’t notice that my flowing hair is tied back in a rubber band because I haven’t washed it, the dew on my skin isn’t from sprinkles of rose water but the sheen of oil on my face that I didn’t have time to powder, and my tinted lips are from biting them in an effort to avoid saying something regrettable.
Mothers are the toughest people I know.
I know mothers who have battled depression and still manage to smile for their children.
I know mothers who have endured infidelity and had the strength to forgive.
I know mothers who can stretch a meal so there’s enough for all the hungry tummies at the table, who make shopping at a thrift store an adventure, and who don’t dwell on what they don’t have but teach gratitude for what little they do.
I know mothers who battle cancer and other health crisis who put the comfort and care of their children first.
I know mothers whose worst fears of sexual abuse became reality and they became conduits of healing for their children despite their own rage.
I know mothers whose husbands have left them without reason or regret. Yet show their children that while marriages sometimes fail, a mother’s love never will.
I know mother’s who have been in the emergency room too many times, with too many close calls, hear frightening prognoses and stoically, heroically, get busy with the logistics of caring for their young.
I know mothers who tirelessly advocate, care for, and celebrate the lives of their special needs children in spite of the significant challenges it entails.
I know spiritual mothers who don’t have their own families but act as mentors and encouragers to other’s children.
I know mothers who have suffered miscarriages and mothers who have buried their children. There isn’t a word tough enough to describe the strength it took to endure those losses.
Every mother I know sacrifices, struggles, feels alone, unsure, and terrified of screwing up this sacred gift of raising children. Yet they have the strength to press on, to rise to the challenge, to love through every hardship, and feel immense gratitude for the life they’ve been entrusted.
Motherhood is a job worthy of a hard hat and a coat of armor. That’s the kind of strength I’ve witnessed in the mothers I know and the mothers I have. Their strength is in their softness, in their capacity to love unconditionally, whole-heartedly, and with abandon. And if there’s a justification for the frilly font and the fragrant flowers it is this: often mothers don’t want their children to know that loving them has been anything but a joyful blessing. Because as hard as it is, as strong as mothers have to be, as much as is sacrificed, there isn’t one among us that would consider it anything but the greatest gift of our lives.
So go ahead, paint me in pastels, perfume me in floral scents, and depict me as a damsel in daisies. So long as you know, underneath is a warrior strong enough to be called mother.
**I posted this last year but thought it bears repeating. I know I wouldn’t be the mother I am if it wasn’t for the strong women who surround, inspire, and encourage me. Share this with a mother you know whose strength you admire. (Photo credit: the very talented Corinna Hoffman Photography) ... See MoreSee Less
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