Maneuvering Life and Motherhood with Twins Plus One
“Respect your elders” my mother used to always tell me. Then I watched as the elders, elderly, and the older than me would disrespect me and what I had to say. As if my point of view and intellect carried any less weight as a human than theirs. Sure, they have walked the earth for some time, but does that qualify them for some hierarchy of respect that is given and not earned? Continue reading “Wisdom of Youth”
Life is about creating a story. The story we write or create is based on the decisions we make banded together with His story. So often we think we have total and ultimate control over our decisions and to some degree we do. Often we are allowed the opportunity to live our life a certain way, where our Father allows us to learn the hard lessons in life, sometimes painful, challenging and can reveal the worst parts of ourselves. Continue reading “Confessions of a Prodigal Son”
As we grow older, we gain an amazing sense of wisdom and we also gain a sense of gratification with the life we have lived. Lately I have been able to spend a great deal of time with my aging parents and grandparents, reveling in the lives they have lived, soaking in all the experiences. My mother is one of the assisting caregivers for my grandparents in their aging process so I have had the opportunity to experience certain situations that come with age. Even the situations that are not pleasurable. For many older adults, incontinence is one of the things they worry about, and sometimes experience, the most.
Worrying about incontinence is very understandable. Sometimes there may be a bit of denial about adult diapers becoming a part of their daily life. Many adults do not like using the word “diaper”, and that is completely understandable. My grandfather is one of these adults, at the ripe age of 84, he does not want to accept getting older though his mind is as sharp as it was when he was 40; his body, unfortunately is not as sharp and neither is the muscle tone that aids us in our facilities as we age.
If you think your parent, patient, or someone else you love may have to take that step in wearing something to remain healthy and sanitary, here are some things that you may be able say to help him or her to feel better about and prepare them in the situation.
Provide Him Or Her With Samples
Many people hear “adult diapers” and they think about these big, bulky diapers. They immediately think about what a baby wears, and they imagine they will have to wear something like that. They think that if they wear those big diapers people will obviously know what they are wearing. That is not how things are anymore. The disposable briefs and underwear can be pulled up and down just like our normal briefs and underwear. You can provide samples that allow them to feel how comfortable they are. They will also be able to see how they will be the only one who knows they are wearing adult underwear.
You Don’t Have To Use The Word “Diapers”
No adult wants to feel like a baby or young child. If you want ease your parent or patient’s concern,
you can refer to the incontinence products as adult underwear or adult briefs. To some people, using
the word diaper can be a bit insulting. You don’t want to add insult to injury to someone who is
already having a difficult time accepting they may need assistance with incontinence.
If you feel as if you can have an appropriate and gentle conversation with him or her, you may have
to make them aware of the things you have noticed. Sometimes as adults get older, they cannot
smell as well as they used to. They may not be aware of a smell. Many adults and their family members fear incontinence, but if you are kind and considerate in your approach you can have a better chance of getting them to at least try them.
If you need help on choosing adult underwear or briefs for someone you love, or if you want to purchase samples to show them, click here to find out more to help work through this new transition in aging. What was helpful for my family is that Comfort Plus is a company based right here in Arizona. We didn’t have to worry about which representative and if a representative could assist us, we had peace of mind with dealing with a local organization.
While we would all love to age perfectly with grace, sometimes we have to accept that our bodies age faster than we would like. However, accepting the unpleasantness in aging does not mean that we have to be treated disgracefully. Incontinence products allows our aging loved ones to still be engaged in their activities without feeling embarrassed or insulted.
Saturday morning was shaping up to be like any normal weekend. Sleeping in, The Chad and I enjoying coffee and a bit of indulgence in our favorite MMORPG. We whipped up some breakfast for the three footers, retreated for some more quiet time at which time G and his sibling entourage asked for their 30 minutes of play time on their tablets. The Chad and I see the importance of practicing with technology as we found their standardized tests include capturing these skills, so we obliged to their request. Little did we know that G would take advantage of this play time and he would be exposed to material beyond his years. He wound up on adult sites and when we discovered his transgressions, at that moment I wasn’t ready to be a parent, I wasn’t ready for my 11 year old son to be exposed, I wasn’t ready to accept my son was growing up way too fast.
When The Chad found G fumbling with his tablet and his face stark with surprise, almost ghastly, we knew something was wrong. The Chad snagged the tablet and we began to review the history. What we saw was something no parent is ever prepared to digest.
We immediately addressed the discontinued use of the tablets and any other technology until further notice. Our daftness was slapping us squarely in the face. Assumptions that we made that our children were too young to seek out these urges were piercing us. We needed to take corrective action post haste, while too late, we had to prevent future damages.
I stood in my kitchen, gazing lovingly at my little boy, sick to my stomach. My doe eyed, chubby baby who was always happy was now exposed to something way beyond his young years. When did he start to grow up? I was choking down tears as my jaw was clenched in pain to hide my fear, my sadness, my immense concern. Reeling over what to say next. His fear pained me the most. G was more concerned about our upset, thinking that he was in trouble and not that his search yielded results that were inappropriate for him, his age. I reached out to him to tell him we are only concerned, we are not mad; we asked him what he was feeling, what he was thinking. At that moment he is what mattered, his experience, and how we explain the experience in an intelligent, objective manner.
I hunched over my sink as I continued to fight any urge to vomit and prayed. I prayed to God for wisdom, strength, clarity, on how to address our conversation with G. I prayed for understanding as to why my son was seeking out adult material on the internet. I prayed just to tell my Father of our experience and that I was so uncertain of what came next but that I trusted he had a plan.
The Chad and I ducked into our room with G to talk about the events. I wasn’t prepared for this. The Chad wasn’t ready for this.
We started off with the basics. Anatomy. In order for him to understand the gravity of the information we were about to share with him he needed to be able to hear the science. He is a science kid, we knew he would get the science. I’m rambling, much like I was that day…at moments.
After we covered anatomy we discussed the mechanics of how the anatomy operates. We paused and asked him if he had questions, we knew he was soaking in all we were telling him like a sponge. We continued down Alice’s rabbit hole as we tripped along, maintaining our diplomacy.
G explained to us that he had urges, thoughts, he was curious. Curious about what exactly. “Undressed women” he said. Composing my laughter was a struggle so I maintained a stone face at his proper choice of words in his answer. Digging more into this we found he was curious about the opposite sex, nude, as boys would be, the desire and curiosity were natural. His comfort level began to increase and he detailed how, while inappropriate for his age, he was curious and interested in “naked ladies.” So much of me was relieved at his naivety and sweetness. I appreciated his candor, his honesty, his ability to speak boldly to us at a time where we felt uneasy, knowing he was uneasy.
Explaining sex to a young boy, I thought might be easier. What was easy was explaining how none of this was wrong. His feelings weren’t wrong. His urges weren’t wrong. His curiosity wasn’t, isn’t wrong. Sex is not wrong. False expectations is wrong. False hopes, those are wrong. The expectation that sex is perfect the first time is wrong. We wanted him to be prepared for reality.
Discussing sexual intercourse with my son was not a highlight for our weekend. Discussing pornography was not what I thought would be the catalyst for our conversation into sexual intercourse. Having this discussion with my [too young] son was not what I was prepared for as a parent. I knew the day would come but I was hopeful, fairy tale hopeful, I had more time. As The Chad and I talked to him about everything we finally got into the details of what led us to this conversation. Our assumptions were that he was seeking pornography at some level, our assumptions were awful, maybe a coping mechanism. When G began to unravel the details and we were more level headed we were greeted with relief.
Comedic relief came when we digressed a bit from the topic of his searches. Pausing to allow him to ask questions, the most memorable question arose and still makes me laugh is, “why does it pop up?” As adults, we automatically go dark on our humor, but his question was in relation to pop up advertisements when he improperly clicked during his search.
My heart swelled with love and joy for his innocence and grasping for understanding at this strange new world I wish he had not yet been exposed. While at that moment I wasn’t ready to be a parent with the sobering experience of detailing sexual intercourse and the entrails that accompany, I thanked God for my son. I felt blessed in that moment that he still had some innocence, that he had such an amazing spirit and outlook. He asked questions, listened with intent. Most of all, I was [am] grateful he had both of his parents to discuss such a difficult, intimate, and sometimes precarious conversation. We both spoke to him with love, facts, and understanding of sex from each of our points of view as a man and a woman. We precluded assumptions, expectations, falsities. His father and I reassured him that there is no shame and he could continue to be open with us as he evolves and matures during this difficult time in life where everything seems to be spiraling out of control. When we felt life as a parent was spiraling out of control.
My tone has changed as of late. If you have been around me long enough, you know that the holy roller seems a bit fetched, if not out of character for me. I was likely to quote Andrew Dice Clay before I ever quoted scripture. Oh! I digress. Funny thing about character is how we evolve. Changing with the seasons, age, enlightenment of our environment, as if a light switch was turned on in a room of pure darkness. Life for me seemed to be spiraling into that room. I was not walking with God as I am today.
Walking wasn’t easy either. I tripped along thinking karma would float me along through the nethers of the universe. A magic carpet ride of listless engagement on my part, that basically if I lived a decent life and acted as a decent person everything would turn out alright. Even if I effed up royally, in the end my karma bank would be in the black.
Or so I deluded myself to believe.
The deeply human part of me was calling for something bigger, to be a part of something bigger. My purpose was far greater than anything I could imagine. Not that I would break out into a leotard jumpsuit of red and blue with fabulous hair like Linda Carter (who was friends with my grams by the way), more so that I knew my purpose in the mortal realm was temporary, there was more to life than me.
Truer words could not have been spoken to me one summer evening while visiting my brother. The Chad and I sat out on the back patio slash balcony of my brothers home in Northern Arizona in a small town called Show Low. His home is on the side of a mountain with breathtaking views. Overlooking a bluff, Show Low creek, and sprawling meadow lands with tall, wild grass, spotted with feral sunflowers, littered with sage and speckled with wild horses, elk, and an occasional jackrabbit. A view so picturesque, one could only paint with their imagination. We sat in the cool night air listening to the pines whistle in a monsoon storm as rain patted on the roof above.
Our conversations were light and airy, typical chit chat to warm up the tone of the evening. Just then, my brother fired a grenade into the conversation. “When I die, I want to know that my sister will be joining me for eternal life. I want to know you will be joining me in heaven. I love you Karie and I am concerned you don’t have salvation and we won’t be together forever.”
Sweet Jesus.
He took my breath away as I sobbed. I knew exactly what he was saying and I knew my life needed a change. We discussed the outlook of karma, living a good and honorable life, being good to others in spite of ill will or harm. Further discussion about how The Chad and I have embraced various religions and their sound beliefs. Not that anything was wrong with Christianity, but at the mention one might be confused with extremists due to media exploits.
For the years leading up to this moment I was engulfed in a rat race of desperation to grapple to the top of an imaginary corporate ladder. Hyper-focused on a goal that would offer me what? Happiness, success, notoriety within the corporate realm? Further separated from my family in order to serve the overlords of big bank. Aching in my heart, a burning in my chest, my eyes bled tears as my soul felt as if it were ripped open to expose a truth I had been denying myself.
Our discussion tripped further down Alice’s rabbit hole yet rose towards the Kingdom.
The next morning I attended church with my brother for the first time in over 15 years. His pastor spoke of living a life under the idea of karma, a life devoid of the Holy Spirit. Could he have been at our table on the balcony last night? I took communion for the first time in over 20 years, I was a small girl shortly after my baptism when I took part in this ritual to honor my Savior. Fighting tears to prevent others from seeing my brokenness as my brother and I held hands during the service and worship. I left the service that day feeling a sense of redemption, as if I came home.
The week after was a struggle. My renewal was tested as I returned to work and I struggled with situations that would push my every limit. I prayed to tolerate my boss just a few days longer. Yearning to be in the word again, to hear what my soul was craving, I needed strength.
So I found my home at Central that upcoming Sunday. I walked in alone and afraid, my uncertainty felt like a 600 pound gorilla. The message was more than appropriate and befitting to where my situation lay. After the service I knew I had found my home. Week after week I attended and sat in the seats alone. I took the time to soak in the message, but felt an emptiness that I couldn’t share my new understanding of the world. My life felt like it was moving forward but my marriage was askew.
The Chad is the love of my life, but I felt as if we were not connecting on the same plane. Mostly due to my Sunday absences. So we felt a strain, until my prayers were answered. Praying for Him to touch Chad, open his heart and mind. He agreed to attend with me, upon the condition I kept the hellfire, brimstone and flames at bay as he entered the worship center. Pft, as if I had a say with The Big Guy on what happens.
His decision was not light, but he was surprised at his lack of spontaneous combustion as he entered the worship center. We discussed at length the message our senior pastor shared and he thoroughly enjoyed the rich history that came from the simple Bible teachings. One of the many qualities that drew me to Central.
My heart was full and my soul lightened as I could share this evolving part of my life with my best friend once more. Our conversations engaged a new level, we saw changes with our children, this new life we were living was infectious. Even our best friends joined our fellowship and our relationship with them changed. A strength, peace and love we had never felt before engulfed our way of living. Transforming our professional lives. Infusing our spirits.
These changes were not without a cost of pain or death. A slow and excruciating death to the person I once was in order to envelope my life with Christ. Spiritual warfare at some level raged on between my old self and the person I was becoming. My career began to change on the most drastic levels, so much so that being fired is just what He wanted to truly ensure my proper path in life. Even then I had unrest. Bouts of darkness as I would retreat to my head with thoughts of not being good enough, a failure, self deprecation seemed to be normal. Prayer seemed in vane. Staying the course because there was no turning back. Following Christ came with a stigma that seemed to spark shame at the mention to others, hushed tongue…I am a Christian. Realizing so many had brought shame to the the true word of God, Christ; their misinterpretation would not be my shame, I would sing the praises of what being a follower of Christ truly represents.
What He was telling me taught me about faith, hope, patience, trust and love. In all of this was whimsy. Life seemed to have a bit more spontaneity and I found a new appreciation for people, community, and the richness we offered each other as a collective. Above all else he showed me that had I stayed my course I would have found more pain than happiness, more destruction than what we were building as a family, and the semblance of myself would be far from recognizable.
As a follower of Christ, walking with God has been the most rewarding and challenging transformation to my life and that of my family. With every change comes the exit, or death, of the former self. I wouldn’t change my choices for the world and am ever grateful for the summer evening on my brothers balcony.
Last November we made the decision to make an update to our lifestyle. You see, The Chad and I have always been outdoors people; camping, hiking, the open road and the wind at our feet describes our nonconformist hearts. Our life prior to children was filled with impulsive joy rides and haphazard escapades. The main aspect of our willy nilly adventures came in owning a Jeep. If you have never owned a Jeep you miss the mystique of breathing in the fresh air on this off-road convertible. As I mentioned we updated our parental lifestyle; we went out and bought a four door Jeep Wrangler, because life is better in a Jeep.
Sans kids, The Chad and I went everywhere in our Jeep. One most memorable trip together was when we lived in New Mexico, we made an impromptu decision to load up camping gear and head north. Exploring the open wilderness we set out for the Jemez Mountains. Natural hot springs, preserves littered with Ponderosa pines, volcanoes and elegant rock formations color the landscape of this region outside of Albuquerque and Santa Fe.
We set out to the local grocery story and loaded up on supplies and off we went. As we wound around the abandoned railroad track areas and deep into a wonderful clearing outside of the Gilman Tunnels. A breathtaking pasture of green, a flowing brook and cows.
Yes. Cows.
I can digress on the cows, but lets face it, this is about life in a Jeep.
Only one of the many adventures The Chad and I tripped along while together with our Jeep. So when we purchased our first family Jeep we took our first family camping trip this past June. We came across a four wheel drive-Jeep club on Facebook, joined and set out on our first adventure.
What better locale to take a Jeep Adventure: Sedona!
This was no pink Jeep expedition either. We were blessed to have met an excellent group of people that had previously started out as sheer strangers. An entire day of roaming around the red rock wilderness of Sedona. All of our families and our children forging friendships, building relationships, life of a Jeep owner.
Views were breathtaking. Submarine rock. Chicken rock. Covered in red dust, bull nosed rock edges, smooth from years of weather and age and our Jeeps crawled over these high desert spectacles. A full day was spent out and about and we returned for a mid-afternoon break before heading back out for a night run with some other new found friends.
Our evening adventure was not as pretty as the mountainous red rocks that decorate the surrounding area of Sedona but nonetheless beautiful. Creeping along in the evening hours our group was a literal parade of Jeeps, a band of brothers and sisters sharing the same passion and love for life, the great outdoors, and doing it all in a Jeep. We all watched out for one another. Validating no one was losing fluids, making sure everyone was whole. Being a community.
That weekend was a day after I lost my job at the bank. A weekend I truly was dreading because of the unfortunate circumstances, but it turned into a life changing weekend for The Chad, I and our family. We met some amazing people, these same folks today we call friends and try to get together with as often as we can despite the miles in between us all.
If you have ever heard that it’s a “Jeep thing” or “Jeep life” it is an unspoken way of life. Hard to believe that experiencing life could be different, but there is something to be said about having the top off on your Jeep, experiencing the sights and smells that accompany a life of unbridled adventure where roads are optional. Above all, the relationships and friends you make along the way who share the same values and love for life as you do, those friendships are priceless and cherished. Let’s face it, life is just better in a Jeep.
Teppenyaki was the dinner treat for our children on a Friday night. The call was theirs on the cuisine, two out of three identified Asian, orange chicken called out from the youngest and sushi from the eldest. The perfect blend of each equals teppenyaki. While at the dinner table and enjoying the various rolls ordered to curb any grouchiness and angst 
from impatiently hungry children, and husband, I found myself wondering if I should grab my phone to document the moment. Post the food hashtag on Instagram and carry over to Facebook, with the exploits of my children as the forefront. The picture would literally eek of SOB as I would succumb to the, “look at me I am a fabulous parent taking my children out for Japanese cuisine” cliche of today’s Facebook parenting. I took the picture anyway, only to be saved until today.
Everyday I am reminded of how connected we are as a society to social media, the net, technology. Facebook posts are riddled with exploited children in their seemingly normal and mundane daily life. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just their natural habitat. Parents capitalizing on their children in vulnerable moments, Instagram posts of ER visits for a broken arm after falling off a bike, tweets about the drowning of a child, or a blog about how their child is so amazingly special and you are an asshole for not agreeing with their parenting style or fashion. Such individuals will even go to such devastatingly great lengths to validate their useless points.
For the last four years I have trudged through the whoreson of the corporate existence. I have lost much of my desire for exploitation due to the lack of overall time I had to spend with my children outside of the workplace. Many of the women who post today are stay at home mothers. In no way is this a bash to the important job and responsibility as a mother. However, how much of that time is actually spent being a mother? Are these mothers spending more time death gripping the smart device to see what Sally Shoemaker is up to and what she is doing for her children today. Or Josie Jerkoff and how she is always taking her children out for processed foods and other corporate infused noxiousness. Can you count how much time is actually spent with your children? Can you recall what they learned in school today? Did you assist with their homework? Have you had a legitimate conversation with them about their feelings, how today’s world impacts them, their future, are they physically, emotionally, and mentally prepared.
“I don’t have to worry about such nonsense right now” is the flippant response. I laugh, because we are so engulfed in our own existence and the relationship with social media and overall technology, we have become a disconnected parent of sorts. Albeit, we are posting galore on Instagram, Facebook and making our opinions heard in 140 characters or less to seem as if we are so in tune with our children’s day-to-day and well being. I enjoy the parents who post about how they work and play with their kids and the posts are occasional, while I miss their engagement, I know most are a text away. I used to be that parent on both spectrum’s, engaged and disengaged all at once.
These days I find myself in an overwhelming amount of joy, albeit sometimes bombarding, that my kids run to me first when they get home. The past five months have afforded me a gift and a blessing I will never regret. I will never look back on this time and think I missed anything. In spite of looming financial hardships and the overall frustration of not working (contributing financially), I have never been so connected to my kids and my life. I will never regret being able to experience these times in their lives.
Each day I have the pleasure of seeing them off to school. My former life I was already at the office by the time they would even wake, if not tied to a conference call as I waved each goodbye and scooted out the door. My oldest has mastered the fine art of using the telephone, calling me on days to make special requests like bringing his refillable water bottle to school for him since its a warm day (and he’s susceptible to heat stroke) and or calling to remind me of something he wanted in particular. I find his calls so heartwarming, even though just a simple phone call, the fact he thought to call me is priceless.
Every afternoon I see them barreling through the door, near breathless from racing each other from the bus stop, but managing to rattle off all they did that day or the major accomplishment. While a slave to the corporate master I would miss these moments, only to be told secondhand by my husband, missing all the excitement from the original storytellers, breathless, sweaty and grinning ear to ear. The story and moment didn’t hold the same weight.
I find myself soaking in more time with them now that they are older and more aware. We talk about real issues, concerns, feelings, planning for the future. The transactions are phenomenal and comedic. Avoidance of technology at the dinner table and throughout all our meals has become vital. Reconnecting with our kids, our lives and blocking the noise of social media and technology in order to be parents, to be engaged and to be aware. Ironic as this post may be, writing it while my children are in school. With less time attached to my phone I am taking fewer pictures as well, mental snap shots of the raw beauty of just being with my family, admiring the blessing.
My mind often travels around the thought of His plan. Maybe His plan all along was for me to re-engage with my kids. Shutting out my corporate life, disowning a part of my online life, so that I can be the influential woman for G and teach him to cook. To be the strong, confident, girly-girl mother my daughter needs to own her identity, and to be the teacher of language for my sweet middle sheep Seth, so he can one day arbitrate towards world peace with his exceptional communication skills.
Questions flood about what would have become of myself, my family and my kids if my faith had wavered any further. Would I continue on as a Facebook parent, only displaying to the world the small, snapshot worthy, shining moments instead of actually living in them with my children; where they see my eyes instead of my forehead as it is dipped into my smartphone. Would I have tripped farther down Alice’s corporate rabbit hole wallowing in my own personal hell? Questions I am thankful I don’t have to answer.
I was talking with my friend Joie the other day and I couldn’t help be taken back to the last seven years of my life. Tripping over those years of nostalgia I pondered where the time went. Today as I look over and I see two individuals, different yet similar, completely independent yet reliant on the other. Continue reading “Surviving Twins The First Year”
This week The Chad traveled yet again for work. A trade show in Tampa, really rough gig; shaking hands and kissing babies to the various vendors and clients. While this week is really no different from any other time he travels I personally am feeling rather “under the weather” to say the least, call it a funk. So in true fashion of a funk, my loving children have decided this is the week to test every boundary, push every limit, skirt every envelope. At the end of the day I just don’t have anything left. I hit the bed at 8:30 every evening and praise the Lord for that moment. Quiet. In that quiet I contemplate what am I doing wrong in raising my children, I judge myself in my solitude. Am I not stern enough? Hard to believe, I am a ball buster….or maybe I’m not with my kids. Maybe I am not nice enough? Should I raise my voice? I am not a screamer or one to yell, but maybe I could raise my tone another octave, that should do it right? Am I really being a good parent?
Struggling on where I am going wrong, I dismantle my parenting, myself and judge my ability. Even though I have small winning moments where I think I am doing things right when my children pray before dinner, thanking God for the nourishment of the food, thanking Him for their siblings, parents, grandparents, great grandparents; they show the most amazing kindness and love for strangers, exuding a strength in their quest for equality, standing up for what is right. All to be toppled upon by the simple act of defiance and disrespect towards me, I judge myself harshly in that moment. Am I really doing parenthood right?
Looking at professional fields, they seem to provide some form of training and formal education. Becoming a doctor is an arduous task with over eight years of schooling, then residency, all before landing at a local health facility. Annual training, certifications, re-certifications, more conferences, more training; I am always amazed at level of education and continuing education provided to professional fields. We often judge the accomplishment of a practicing physician based on their training and accolades, awards scattered throughout the office. One professional field I believe is always the most neglected is the parent. Scoff all you want, however I feel that this career path, because this is a lifelong career, provides the least amount of resources yet is judged and evaluated the most harshly. I stumbled across an article this week about how inhumane parents are to let a child cry themselves to sleep and learn to self soothe. When I hear inhumane I often think of the ill treatment of pets and not the ill treatment of children, to which I would correlate the word abuse as opposed to inhumane. I suppose someone was trying not to upset their readership. Why do we have such intense training and rigorous standards for the paid career paths but we lack proper training and education for the job of parenting, the basis for the future of humanity. We judge and criticize the ability to parent as if there is some grand handbook and training we are provided before, during and after birth.
At best, my first round of training came from a deaf nurse who groped my breasts shortly after I birthed my oldest son to show me how to properly feed my child and that if I didn’t breast feed I was a failure. Spectacular. Bar one had been set in my quest for perfect parenthood. Along came many other milestones, coaching from others who were clearly far more superior in their parenting, strangers in parking lots, Costco’s and even friends who had yet to rear children. All of which afforded me nothing, but more feelings of failure and made me question my ability as a parent, was I really going about this all wrong?
Where did the criterion for perfect parenting come about? Basic common sense tells me that we want the best for our children. Treat them with love, respect, no malice; we want to comfort them and ensure their safety, encourage their growth and development mentally, emotionally, physically. Somehow we don’t provide any basic training to parents on their emotional involvement of parenthood. At 25 when I became a first time mother I can look back now and think of how unprepared I was for the spirited toll to raising a child, a strong intelligent child, then add strong, intelligent twins later in life. The true meaning of double trouble. Our society has reared an ugly head in recent days that certain actions could be perceived as abuse, even called out for such actions when no harm or malice was displayed to the child.
Take for instance the new phenomenon of children who are left to play outside by themselves without adult supervision. Apparently this is the newest form of child abuse, to let your older children roam their neighborhoods on bikes and on foot to explore and play with their friends. The application of imagination is completely devoid, we must hold our children hostage to our homes. The daft choice of letting a child under the age of six (more specifically age two) roaming neighborhoods and parks unattended, this is unacceptable and a result of poor education, poor choices, and an invitational extreme where other parents (or people) take a singular event and are applying house arrest to all children. Even children who understand right and wrong and who have been afforded such freedoms to be about their neighborhood are at risk of confinement. Myself, I have let my children run like a gang of hellions. Each armed with their bicycle, helmet, and knowledge of our neighborhood and its inhabitants, their imagination the fuel for such adventure.
Call me reckless but I see a great joy and freedom for my children to be about their community, that the neighbors know my children, we have an understood respect for one another that in the event one of our children is injured or in need we would call to come to their aid. Not call the authorities. Humanity.
So why do we judge parenthood and create such unobtainable standards when we have no apparent bar for metrics? If we do have a temperature why is it that when I Google “parenting classes” and “education on becoming a parent” each result yielded advocacy, abuse prevention and my personal favorite, consultation. Not a single result offered simple classes on dealing with emotional tolls, psychological tolls, coping skills or even basic diaper changing. As a parent I judge myself with the utmost harshness, the last I need is some other parent with similar, or less than adequate coping skills determining my quality as a parent.
I berate myself on how poor of a job I must be doing as I compare myself to some imaginary standard. I tear myself down that I am not doing enough. I don’t volunteer enough in class. I don’t provide sushi in their box lunches on Fridays. I do not always read to my children. I do not always save my children, aid and abet them in a time where they need to learn for themselves how to complete a task and understand the value of singular or team effort. I guess I am not doing this mothering thing right. I must be a horrible mother for subjecting my twins to the walk in cooler at Costco when they were infants, in order to purchase organic milk, because I should have left them with the strange woman who accosted me before entering. I must be a horrible mother for loving my children unconditionally, no matter what choices they make and guiding them with love as they struggle emotionally. I must be a horrible mother by limiting screens in their lives and forcing them to play outside. I must be a horrible mother for wanting more for my children. I must be a horrible mother for waking early each morning to make my children’s lunches because I choose not to subject them to the poor food standards of public schools. I must be a horrible mother for enforcing rules and issuing personal restraint to not yell, scream, or inflict physical or emotional harm.
God help me that I am broken. God help others that they are broken too. By no means am I perfect, while I strive for 
improvement everyday, raising my children a different way than my parents, raising the imaginary bar. Parents, even people who are not parents, should be reminded that we are doing the best we can with the tools in which we have been provided. Some have become parents way before their intended time and were not even prepared for adult life let alone the responsibility of a child as they were still a child themselves. Others are dealing with truly unique situations, because parenting is not a one-size fits all standard. We tend to blanket or umbrella the imaginary parenting standard across anyone who has taken on the role as parent, blinded by the individuality that may exist and applying our standards or the imaginary standards to everyone.
Sometimes I wonder if we should apply the career of physician to parenting. Practicing medicine; practicing parenthood. Doctors do not always have the answer, nor are they the utmost authority. As technology and information progresses they[physicians] conduct themselves in an improved manner. Maybe parents should be gauged in the same fashion. As information is shared and provided in a manner that is loving and helpful we can continue to practice to be better, ending previous cycles of bad operations, seeking enlightenment and not entitlement. Instead of prancing around in a demonstrative manner of our accomplishments.
Being a parent is not easy. Issuing myself mental lashings to be feared by the most nefarious villains. How different parenting would be if we banded together as a community. Lifting each other and speaking life into one another and supporting each other as opposed to applying our personal judgment of the other. Unbeknownst to their battle, their struggle, their situation. Being a good parent is not something we learned before we had children, I am finding being a good parent is something I work at each day, with no manual, no formal education, no training. So the next time you think to judge a parent, consider what tools, education, training you received or maybe the ones they did not receive. Maybe offer that parent a moment of assistance or a friendly smile, pay forward practicing humanity instead of practicing judgment.
Talking with tweens is just another job moms carryout in our career. Nanny, maid, personal chef, short order cook, educator, project manager, team leader, manager, chauffeur, accountant, and double agent also come to mind on the short list of multifaceted careers as a parent. Double agent only came to mind as I crept into my six year old son’s room, like a thief in the night. Ever so carefully to not eek out a sound, plastering myself against the flat surface of a wall as not to be seen; which is ridiculous anyway when you have boobs and bright blond hair. All in the name of swapping a snarly tooth for various coins in an effort to challenge his knowledge and counting abilities. Alas I am the Tooth Fairy. I digress on the double agent job, if only it were sexier with firearms and thigh high stockings. Yet this is one of the the many careers we hold as parents.
Anyway, this rewarding career I currently hold as mom. I never really wanted to become a parent; mostly because I was a spiteful child to my mother’s threats of “just wait until you have your own kids,” I thought depriving my mother of the joy of becoming a grandmother was the way to go. I’m glad I was a bonehead and figured that dumb-ass move in my twenties was not a wise choice. Now that I am a parent, I really could not imagine life without my kids. My eldest just crossed into the tween years this year as he turned 11. Being at home again, I am really learning more and more about my kids and the people they are, who they are becoming. I am in full amazement and awe as these small individuals evolve, learning so much about life from them; learning a bit about myself on our journey as well. G as a now 11 year young man is like taming a giant, or a rhino, sometimes both depending on the day.
The boy is massive in every respect. He is a lean, muscular kid, who lacks solid coordination but makes up for it with the heart of a hero. Like I said, MASSIVE, even his heart. G has always been a sensitive boy; my family has no shortage of emotions, we wear them like badges of honor to a four star general, exposed on our sleeves, loud and proud. The Chad, while he will deny such accusations, is also a sensitive man; though the harsh reality of society and family of origin issues we all succumb to suppressing such humane gifts.
So last night when I cornered the boy to have him finally sit down and write out his thank you notes to friends and family for his birthday gifts, I saw the twinge of tween. The boy got a little snappy at me, call it attitude. I don’t do attitude. But I’m a parent, this is not about being right and this is not about me. Strapping on my sweet mommy voice that would charm any viper, but with the stern assertiveness of a Clydesdale I fired back. “Dude, why am I getting attitude, what’s wrong? Do you have something bothering you?”
THAT.
In that simple question a world of opportunity opened for any adult to see what they were like at 11, remembering fifth or sixth grade, saving a giant of emotions. We huddled around the kitchen island as I pressed harder, like any good investigator (check, add that to the resume) and created a safe bubble for my son to share what he was experiencing. Free of expectation, I let my gentle giant unleash a barrage of daggers;
“I don’t feel accepted. I don’t want to be at school. I don’t want to be at home. My friends are good, my family is good. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Sweet Jesus. How DOES one explain this. So I went backwards, we initiated the discussion with the topic of his friends. No bullying, nothing alarming that would require an educator intervention, no name calling. Got it. Friends equal solid. Now onto the family unit. The Chad is good, twins…well they are who they are, and that’s all good, he is good with me. Solid. Home? Home is good, he wants to be here but something is nagging at him. Listening to his voice I fought back a rage of tears. When your kid is hurting you hurt. I don’t give a damn who you are; a pain sets off in you that causes your jaw to clench, your eyes burn with tears that you wish your inner super hero could dry away, and the muscles of your bottom lip curl and flex to maintain the stoic power of parent. Cue super hero music,I always think of the margarine commercial, Parkay. Now that we have excavated into the bowels of emotion, I clawed at my own scars when we addressed acceptance.
By this time my inner 11 year old girl was a blubbering mess. Recalling the pain of that age. The emotional turmoil. I watched the giant fall before me into tears as he rebuked his intelligence, his self-worth and his overall being based on grades he had received in his class. I felt my soul fall to her knees. Tears pour down my face now, but that moment they only welled in their ducts and I exercised parental stoicism to continue to listen to my boy, this young man, struggle with new emotions. New feelings. The new person he was evolving into, I couldn’t do anything to make this rite-of-passage into mid-adolescents any easier for him.
Coaxing my giant out from behind the island I hugged him with all I had. Pushing my love from my soul as it radiated into his arms and back, encapsulated him like a bubble, and smothered him until his tears had faded away. Sharing with him my timely story about failure, I related to him how I purposely failed pre-algebra. My parents were officially divorced, I now had a one year old half brother and newborn half sister to contend with, puberty that was very unkind to me with acne and school acquaintances that took great pleasure to lambast me at any opportunity. I reassured him that his “A minus” that he was so distraught over was a soaring accomplishment, his “D” that he received was not his lack of ability but his lack of interest to put forth solid effort and he failed to follow directions his instructor set out in the assignment. By no means do grades define who you are as a person. Constructive feedback is done lovingly, knowing his teacher, she knew he could rope the moon, she was giving him the lasso to do so. Reassuring G that he is intelligent, smart, talented, loving, able-bodied, and I could not be more proud of him.
My giant began to wield his rhinoceros style strength again as the tears melted into his cheeks and his sweet dimples appeared again. We both exposed our vulnerability, more so mine as a parent, relating to his struggles. Struggles I still encounter to this day as a grown woman. Part of me today ponders of the outcome had we not had this discussion after school, had I not taken the opportunity to talk to my tween. Had I been busy making a life for myself, engrossed in the delusional and empty corporate career path, I might have missed a career making opportunity of a lifetime talking with my son. Pondering other kids, who maybe lacked the emotional support of a parental unit/figure in their lives, to just ask, “how are you?” We forget how powerful our words impact lives, children and adults. How profound a simple, loving, truly genuine question like “how are you” can unlock a garden a vulnerability in anyone. How are you today?