Double, double, toil and trouble; when I feel like a bad Mom

Joining Kathi Lipp today hoping to encourage some other Moms-in-the-Trenches by airing my own dirty laundry.  You are not alone!



Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake,
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,--
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.
--from Macbeth

Hell-broth.  
Yeah, that's me sometimes.
I also do quite a bit of bubbling, toiling and troubling.
I don't know what a fenny snake is but sometimes I have an adder's fork for a tongue.

With three kids, I find myself talking most of the time.  Instructing, answering questions, reminding, answering questions, acting as referee, calling them to dinner, and answering questions.  Sometimes I even find myself...I also fuss every day.

I am starting to get on my own nerves.

There is a kid in my life, yeah, he's one of mine and sometimes you would think he doesn't have feelings.  Talking to that boy is like talking to a brick wall.  So, to get through, sometimes you need to use a hammer. I don't mean literally, I mean strong words, not foul language, just big, deep words.

Twice this week I cut that boy to the quick.

Both times I was wrong to do it.  Both times I used my big words to make a point that was irrelevant, unnecessary and careless.  If a friend spoke to me like that we'd have to have a long talk on the porch.

I cut my boy with my words and I saw it on his face.

Hell-broth, that's what my words were made from this week.  I fell again.

I apologized and pray that he forgets over time.  Literally, I pray that he forgets my ugliness, but who's to say if he can?

I tell my kids to listen more than they speak.  You know, the whole "God gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason" thing.  

Practice what you preach, girl.  Practice what you preach.

If I listened to that boy, maybe I would know how to get through that brick wall, how to put velvet on the hammer.

Too many words are like a hell-broth, all full of junk, but certainly a charm of powerful trouble.

Powerful trouble.

So maybe I keep my dog tongues and frog toes to myself a little more.  

Maybe I make my powerful charms out of love and verses and acts of kindness instead of too many words.

If you see a big, black kettle laying by the street, I don't want it back.
m


How do you balance correcting behaviors with staying positive?  Consider sharing your advice here or on Facebook before you share so we can all chat...
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More posts like this:
Confessions of a Reformed Helicopter Parent
Yesterday: oh my words!

Letting Them Bloom

This must be the 13th post in the Bloom Where You're Planted series instigated, yes I said instigated, by The Nester.  I say "instigated" because this blogging every day stuff is hard.  I want to skip it.  But if I weren't writing to you my friend, if I weren't looking for good stuff in my life, I would probably be staring blankly at the TV.  I figure for me, right now, this is better!

This "blooming where you're planted" stuff isn't just for me.  It isn't just for grownups who pout because this fridge is smaller than the other one or introverted moms who would prefer to hide in their own little heads and not make the friends they desperately need.

The kiddos need to bloom, too.

They need to be allowed to bloom, to make their own new life in this new place.

They need help to find their way.

Robert started school at a traditional, public school for the first time in his life on September 17.  This is the right thing for right now.  My high energy, extroverted boy was wilting at home with his introverted momma who used up all her words by noon each day.  Big decisions are always complicated but I have to admit that at this time, it is the right thing for this child.

This week he brought home his second invitation to a birthday party.  I know nothing about this kid, these people, this place.  Nothing.  This is not my usual mode of operation, to drop my kid off with people I don't know to do who knows what.

On several occasions this week I contemplated losing the invitation and hoping he would forget.  "Do you really want to go?"  I asked.

I knew this was my problem, my own personality holding this boy back.

I knew it wasn't fair.  Or right.

Grab the purse and throw in a book, prepared to sit there the entire two and a half hours if circumstances or safety issues warrant my presence.  Take the boy.

It was a small place about eight minutes from my house where people can race some kind of toy car on a slot track or something.  The party was the only gig going on.  The birthday boy's parents greeted me at the door with a big sister, plenty of people to keep an eye on eight boys indoors.

I thanked the boy's mom for inviting my son, the new kid.

Robert's eyes pleaded for me to go.  So I did.

When my husband brought him home, he informed me that the folks there said Robert was the life of the party.  He beamed as he told us about his new friends.

I didn't see this coming, but it's right.

Letting him bloom, getting out of the way, this is right.

learning to let him bloom,
m

If you only read three others from this series:
Love Does, our story
Good to Know...another story about Robert settling in...
When you move back home...

sounds like life and living and love

"Listen-To-Me!" I must say it hundreds of times a day, begging for their attention so I can parent them.

"Hey you, listen up!" I say playfully, ready to give instructions for some new and no-doubt life changing project that will probably require a mop to clean up.

"Listen to me..." I think in my heart...wishing to be heard but truthfully, often too full of self-doubt to even speak.

He listened to me, and maybe that's why I married him.  He still listens.

Listen, I remind myself.  Listen, while they still want to talk.

Do more than listen, hear them.

Listen to what isn't said.

Listen with eyes and hands and heart.

Remember what it's like to want to be heard.

Sounds like breathing babies near me in the dark.
Sounds like a good man getting up early to make eggs and go to work in the dark while I sleep.
Sounds like angry sounds and crazy laughter because there are three of them.
Sounds like dishes and vacuums and the mundane things of life, call them boring or call them blessing.

Sounds like life and living and love.



Blogging today at the prompt of Lisa Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday.  Every Friday she invites the rest of us to share.  The only catch is that we do our writing in five minutes, share and encourage each other.


Other Traveler posts you might like...all about surviving life with kids...or maybe them surviving life with me...
My Name is Butmommy
Confessions of a Reformed Helicopter Parent
King Robert of the Wild Hair

King Robert of the Wild Hair

Robert’s Hair is wild.  It is a little coarse, curly, about 50 different colors ranging from platinum to light brown and there are bushels of it.  Robert likes his Hair.

It all started around the time we watched Blue Hawaii starring Elvis Pressley.  Either that or when he started reading books with pictures of Superman.  Either way, you get the picture.  He twists a curl in the middle of his forehead unconsciously and it looks just like the curl Christopher Reeve sported with his red cape.  

All summer when his Hair was wet from the pool, he ran his fingers through those curls, standing them on end a fabulous three or four inches from his scalp and they did stand straight out…it’s impressive!

Robert is nine.  His soul and his wit are about 15.  This causes an interesting dynamic sometimes.  Robert doesn’t yet crave opportunities for rebellion, but like most teenagers, he will.

I love the Hair short so I can see his big eyes and his close-cropped daddy sometimes suggests that he cut it.  I used to pester and nag until Grandma Jan suggested that we leave him alone, that he, the person who is Robert, really likes his Hair the way it is.

He isn’t proud about the Hair.  As a person, Robert is a very no-nonsense personality.  He isn’t vain about his Hair or any aspect of his appearance.

He isn't silly about things, okay sometimes he is.  He is the kid who will squish bugs who unfortunately choose to live in the house.  He does this as a matter of business, without sentimentality or squeamishness.  He is the boy who will fish toys or barrettes out of the toilet.  He once rescued a sister’s prized marbles from a rotten pumpkin full, and I mean full, of gnats.  He patiently dug through the stinky yuck, on a mission, no a Quest for his sister’s happiness, while a tornado of angry black insects swirled around his wild Hair.

Rebellion.  Ugly word.  Ugly from the beginning of time.  I don’t want to think of any of these beings that came to life before I even held them, rebelling against my crazy mother-love.  I don’t want to imagine the inevitable hurt of word or deed that will come.  I don’t want to see my sweet boy, maybe twisted in anger that neither of us will understand.  Yet I walked that path that seems to be in some degree part of our nature.  Some rebel a little, some more and some rebel early, some later.  Either way, rebellion seems to have played a part from the beginning.

So the kid likes his Hair big.  There is no rebellious intent in it unless we draw a line in the sand.  He isn’t vain about it.  He keeps his Hair clean.

What is It really all about?  Life, love, souls, eternity…what is It all about?  I am certainly only a spiritual child but I can tell you this…it is NOT about the Hair. 

Is It about how others see or esteem us?

NO…For the Lord does not see as man sees; for the man looks at the outward appearance but the Lord looks at the heart.  1 Samuel 16:7b

Is It about church traditions?

NO…From Acts 8, the eunuch said, “See, here is water.  What hinders me from being baptized?” Then Phillip said, “If you believe with all your heart, you may.”  And they blessedly pulled that chariot over and he was baptized right there, because he believed with all his heart and for no man-made reason.

Is It about obedience or going through the right motions?

NO, that isn’t enough, you need a sincere heart…Bondservants, be obedient…in sincerity of heart, as to Christ. Ephesians 6:5 NKJV

Is It about knowledge or spiritual power?

NO…And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have love, I am nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:2 NKJV

Is It about good works?

NO…And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor…but have not love, it profits me nothing.  1 Corinthians 13:3 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

For as he thinks in his heart, so is he. Proverbs 23:7b NKJV

GOD wants your heart…The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit, a broken and a contrite heart—these, O God, You will not despise. Psalms 51:17 NKJV

It’s all about the Heart…

I don’t think I want to draw a line in the sand about the Hair.  I think I will save my energy for the Heart…starting with my own.  However, my own Hair could use some work. 

Besides, the Hair is, well…kind of growing on me.

Michele

Confessions of a Reformed Helicopter Parent

During my previous life when I worked at a couple of colleges, I often found myself in a position of parenting students that were not that much younger than I was.  I was a young professional without children who had grown up with parents that encouraged self-sufficiency, strong work ethic and the development of common sense, where possible in my case.

I did not understand why these young adults were not capable of calling my office to make their own appointments when they were 100 yards away.  How was it easier for Mom to call from another state?  Or why did Dad feel it necessary to request during orientation that I "keep an eye on her" and communicate with him by email if I thought he needed to know anything?  The stories go on and on.

Society calls these parents helicopter parents because of their constant, often noisy, hovering that actually keeps those on the ground (the teachers, coaches, etc.) from getting anything done for fear of the rotors cutting off their heads!

In typical, emphatic, young adult fashion, I swore I would not hover around my kids.

Then my little darlings were born.  Robert was old enough to speak the first time he busted his knee on the pavement.  I know this because he promptly told his babysitter that I did it.  I put great time and energy into mentally recording the diaper issues (pun intended) of another child and still find myself driving them all crazy with my second-guessing.  "Do you want grapes or applesauce with that toast?  Or would you rather have eggs?  You could switch the grapes for peaches and we could do oatmeal?"  Do you hear the sound of the rotors overhead?

I seek reform!  You see, I love them all and in my old age, I want them to live next door to me but in their own home, not mine or even on land that I might own.  When my youngest is my age I will be 77 years old if I am blessed with long-life but the odds are, maybe not.  I can't imagine not having my parents but I HOPE that if we aren't here for our children, they won't need us anyway.

I want my children to know how to work and play and grow their own faith without it being fed to them on a baby spoon.  I want my kids to be able to fight for what they believe in and fight for weaker people and fight for their own health by getting off the couch even if it hurts.  I want them to have strong soul-muscles from being on weak knees and I want them to use those muscles when things get hard because they WILL get hard, maybe harder than I know.

And how can these three miracles (that's another story for another time) that so delight and exhaust me learn to do anything if I don't let them try?  How can they learn where to put the dial on the toaster if they don't burn the toast? How can they learn how yucky it feels to have shampoo in your hair when you get out of the tub if I wash their hair for them?  When they use a crayon on the neighbors siding, how can they learn that is NEVER okay if I run over there and clean it off with an erasing sponge myself?

I say, let them cry, sweep, clean, fold, and do anything that they can, while they are at home and it is about erasing sponges, spills, hurt feelings and burned toast.  Let them learn before it is about bosses and mortgages or jail.

Let them learn these lessons while I can still catch them IF they need it or HELP them if their muscles, physical or otherwise, are not strong enough.  Instead of "Let me do that FOR you..." how about, "Let's do this together..." or even better, "Call me if you need help."

Lots of little things that I learned while still with my parents gave me great personal confidence in my abilities to manage life.  I am not talking about personal pride here but just the repetition of successful endeavors, no matter how small, that made me willing to try other things, even trusting the development of my faith.  Things like knowing how to care for a home, cooking the meals that I like, seeking and finding a job during the summer, making my own schedule in high school and managing a certain amount of food, gas and fun money.

So, I try not to hover and I recently moved the first aid box to the kids bathroom from a high cabinet in the kitchen.  I mean, if you are going to get out there and ride, you better know how to put a band aid on, right?

Just don't tell them that I am watching from behind my sunglasses and just because I am wearing the iPod doesn't mean the volume is turned up...

M