Bad parents!

It’s likely that those who are eager to cast the first stone have not, in fact, ever brought up children. Because as every parent can attest - every good and caring and attentive parent - near-disaster seems to hide around the corner at least once a day, and kids have an uncanny ability to seek it. Or, if they’re too young to seek it, we can manage to find it ourselves through a moment’s distraction or inattention.

When you first gaze at your newborn in the crib, and your heart bursts with love and wonder, you make a vow that you will do anything to protect and care for that little one. And you mean it. But growing up is a messy process, and no parent or child gets it right 24/7/365 for the next couple of decades. A loving and dedicated parent can end up looking really bad once in while.

I once nearly drifted out to sea on a slowly-deflating float, not because of bad parenting, but just because - you know, it happened. I shudder to think of the close calls my brothers and I had growing up, and it pains me to remember the trips to the ER with my boys. And I guarantee that’s the case with every parent that decides to roll the dice and have children in a world filled with risk. Stuff happens. Even to families with parents who are trying their level best to get it right.

Yes, there are bad parents. There are sickos who endanger their children carelessly or deliberately. But, I would dare to say that they are a tiny minority. Most of us live with this layer of secret terror in our souls that we’re going to screw up somehow, and that even our best efforts can’t shield our kids from every arrow flying around out there. It’s the good parents who care, and who learn from their mistakes and press on.

Amazingly, somehow, most of these little creatures actually make it through. And when trouble hits, parents need a supportive shoulder, not a scolding index finger.

So, next time there is a news item about some kid getting hurt or barely avoiding disaster, avoid the temptation to cluck your tongue and shake your head and say, “Bad parents!” Most likely, they’re good parents who experienced what every other parent eventually experiences - reality. And when you screw up, give yourself some slack too. Those parents you look up to, who seem to have it all together? - they’re skating on the edge just like you, hoping and praying that their mishaps never become public fodder.

Do be careful about inflatable rafts and undertows, however…

(Image credit)

Not that Lucy. The eponymous ditzy redhead character portrayed by Lucille Ball could hardly be more different than the Lucy I’m talking about: Lucy Stone, the first recorded American woman to retain her own name after marriage.

Actually, I don’t really love this Lucy, who died 116 years ago today.

Lucy Stone, the first American woman to use a maiden name after marriage. Image: Wikipedia

Rather,  as another married woman who’s demurred from adopting a husband’s name, I hold an abiding respect and appreciation for her. And as name pioneers go, I flatter myself as a kind of 21st century cousin.

When my daughter was born a year ago, my husband and I gave her my last name. Her four-year-old brother, meanwhile, has his last name. They each have the other parent’s last name as their middle moniker. So we parents, Cari Noga and Mike Henderson, have as offspring Owen Noga Henderson and Audrey Henderson Noga.

It’s different, to be sure. We’ve fielded some flak over it, mostly well-meaning inquiries about whether we’d considered that this might confuse the kids – and, to my ears, implying that’s exactly what we’d be doing.

Au contraire, I say. Indeed, it deviates from the U.S. norm. But if the kids are raised with this as their norm, there’s no place to sow confusion.  That question is also cloaked in the patriarchal stereotypes we’re trying to shrug off. No one objected that our son would be confused because he and I didn’t share a name. So why should our daughter feel confused about not sharing one with her dad?

After a year of living with it and writing about it (my personal blog explores the anomaly of having two kids with the same, married parents but different last names. OK, and a cute-kid picture now and then. I’m only human.) I’m ready to take the next step: advocacy for name choice equality. As this Salon article from 2000 puts it, why should a baby get the father’s last name? At the very least, can we think about why it’s the automatic choice for almost everyone? Other than that it’s expected and easy, there’s no real reason.

Admittedly, it’s uphill trudging. The most generous estimates I’ve seen say that only 10 percent of American women keep their names upon marrying, making for a small pool to persuade.  But the importance of the advocacy piece was reinforced for me this summer.

In August, researchers from Indiana University and the University of Utah presented to the American Sociological Association their findings that 71 percent of Americans they surveyed believe it’s better for women to change their surname upon marriage. In addition, fully half supported government regulation requiring name change. (See UPI piece and Times of India story.)

“It was a little shocking to see,” said Laura Hamilton, one of the study authors and a Ph.D candidate at Indiana. (Read more about the study, “Mapping Gender Attitudes with Views Toward Marital Name Change” and my interview with Hamilton on my personal blog.)

Shocking, indeed, are such value judgments about what should be a woman’s private, individual choice. It’s also evidence how hard it is, even 116 years after Lucy Stone, to swim against the tide.

But, like Nemo, I’ll just keep swimming. After all, while patriarchal tradition has prevailed the last few centuries in most of the Western world, it isn’t this way everywhere. When I first broached this idea to my husband, he started doing genealogical research and found that ancient Scots – a dominant strain in his ancestry – gave daughters their mothers’ names, while sons received their fathers’. Some Native American tribes and Jewish denominations, to name some found right here in the U.S.A., practice matrilineal traditions, where one’s lineage is traced through the mother.

Let me talk about my husband’s reaction to the idea more. He’s an open-minded guy, but I wondered if this would just be too far out there.
Initially, he did hesitate, because he wanted our kids to share a last name. But I asked him to keep thinking about it. As he did, I got more invested in the idea for what I think it teaches both our kids.

We’re providing a crystal clear, living lesson of what we believe about family: Mom and dad are equally important influences in their lives.

So, from my cyber-soapbox, I make my pitch to you. Think about it a matrilineal name. Talk about it with your husband. (Or, husbands, with your wives.) Block out tradition, the questions from family members, all the white noise that obscures what really matters. Then, just do it.

It's lonely out here.

No one has mentioned my nominee, however: Lisa Snyder, a mom from Middleville, Michigan. Snyder watches her neighbors’ kids for about a half-hour each morning, filling in the gap between when their parents must leave for work and the arrival of the school bus, which stops in front of her house.

Admittedly, I’d never heard of Snyder until two weeks ago. Her 15 minutes of fame came up because someone reported her neighborliness to Michigan authorities as running an illegal daycare. Rightfully, the media coverage has taken a tone of aghast incredulity, and it looks like the law here in Michigan will be amended.

And yes, I’m being facetious about Snyder as a Peace Prize contender. But not a lot. Lately I’ve often found myself in a state of mind I’ve dubbed the “back 40 blues.” Everyone knows the beautiful proverb turned hackneyed political cliché: “It takes a village to raise a child.” My personal adaptation adds a coda: “It takes a village to raise a child – and I’m living on the back 40.”

Most of the back 40 blues trace back to having a second child, as I wrote on my personal blog last week. In a way I didn’t anticipate, the demands of two vs. one completely drain the reserve energy, patience and time I used to rely upon when everyday issues and inconveniences cropped up.

In other words, I’m far less able to cope with disruptions to daily routine – illness, car problems, daycare holidays – at precisely the same time the odds of such disruptions have doubled.

Look in the mirror, right? We didn’t have to have a second child. True. But that easy blame-guilt response doesn’t feel fair. I compare myself to my mom. She didn’t work out of the home when my brother and I were as young as my kids. But when we were in elementary school, she took a part-time teaching job three days a week – the same kind of schedule as my part-time community college PR gig.

Maybe she just handled it better. (She was, after all, almost 15 years younger than me at this stage of motherhood.) Or maybe it’s because, on our same block, she had three peer moms, all raising kids in about the same age range. A posse of Lisa Snyders, if you will. The kids were all friends. The moms shared toolbox and cupboard inventories without hesitation. Most importantly, they backstopped each other when it came to pinch child care and errand-running. Maybe my perspective’s skewed by green-colored glasses, but they all helped make everyone’s lives run more smoothly – dare I say peacefully?

I look at my block. The house next door was foreclosed on over a year ago and has been vacant for more than 18 months. On the other side, our elderly neighbors spend half the year at their second home. Though we’ve lived here six years, we have barely a nodding acquaintance with the rest of the block, which offers only one other home with kids. Several rentals, with their short-term occupants, challenge any efforts to develop my own backstop.

Beyond the block, I do have local in-laws half the year. But a cancer recurrence this spring effectively quarantined my mother-in-law in the village. Babysitters? Our most reliable moved out of the area in June, leaving us with one in the stable.

So what to do about it all? One of the ideas I didn’t get around to executing this summer was to host a block party, to allow all the neighbors to at least meet each other. Granted, it’s a big step from sharing hot dogs together to the communal snow shoveling, car pooling and backup child care that I envision.

But the Nobel committee said Obama, despite lacking a long list of accomplishments, deserved the award for inspiring a world vision of peace. Likewise,  Snyder inspires me. The back 40 could get annexed to the village. So on behalf of Michigan moms, I’m awarding Lisa Snyder a Block Peace Prize. And if she wants to move up north, the house next door is a steal.

Image credit: www.oklo.org

The Toyota Prius

I was so lucky to sit on the Saturday afternoon keynote panel at the Type-A Mom conference. The topic was ‘Breaking the Mommy Blogger Mold’ and I was chosen because I don’t fit within the mommy blogger mold in the ‘traditional’ sense. If there is one - which was what the panel was about.

If we look at the current Mommy Blogger ‘norm’, a Mommy Blogger is a mom that writes about being a mom, parenting, her kids and, oftentimes, products that her she and her kids use as they live their lives. And then we can easily deduce that I’m not a Mommy Blogger. Because I don’t do any of those things. (Except on this lovely blog on occasion - though I still don’t think I fall into that category because I’m not ooey or gooey about it.)

I really write about writing. But I am a mom and I work in a little shed/office in my backyard so I can see my kids all day (if I want to) and if they need to see me (and I grant them access).

So, this Mom-ness (and my blogging-ness) got me a speaker spot at the Type-A Mom Conference. And it got me something else - my very own product. The best product, if you ask me.

The good, good people at Toyota gave me a conference weekend ride in the form of a gorgeous, energy efficient Prius. It was waiting for me when I got off the plane - sort of like a white horse (I think I was my own knight in shining armor in this scenario).

First of all. I want one. Of my very own. As soon as possible. Please.

Second of all. The Prius looks small, right? It isn’t. It’s kind of huge inside. It reminded me of one of the magical tents in Harry Potter - where it looked like a normal tent (or car in this case), but when you stepped inside, it had 10 rooms and at least 2 floors. The Prius isn’t quite that big, but it sure was roomy. Four of us gals fit very comfortably inside, we easily could have taken on a fifth and we had loads of room in the trunk.

Third of all. Have you been in a Hybrid? This was actually my first one, so I can’t say this across the board, but, it’s really quiet. It took some getting used to. “Is the car on?” I kept asking everyone. It was. It’s just that, in addition to its silence, you press a button to start it, you don’t put the key in the ignition - something that I’ve now come to realize tells my brain that the motor is running. Of course, the gas mileage was out of the park. I drove from Charlotte to Asheville and back (two hours each way) - plus all over Asheville in search of fantastic food - and barely used more than a tank of gas.

Fourth of all. And I know this isn’t something specific just to the Prius, or the Toyota, but it was special to me and my Prius all the same. It’s called ‘built-in GPS’. You see, in my car, I have a dinky GPS box that I plug into my car lighter. It won’t sit on the dashboard, it never listens to me and my requests and, frankly, we just don’t get along. I don’t trust that woman. But the GPS in my Prius was built-in. It lived right in the dashboard with the stereo, CD player and temperature control. It was easy to program and not at all temperamental. It took and gave directions very well. It got me everywhere I needed to go with total confidence and serenity. I didn’t need to look at a map or worry - leaving me free to enjoy the fabulous ride…

I look down at Owen, my drowsy, nursing, one-year-old son. We’ve spent

An equinox birth throws life off-balance.

hours on this sofa corner since his birth last September. From his vantage point, the view is always the same. From mine, with the view out the window, it’s been relentless change.

In the first weeks of his life I watched the maple leaves turn from green to yellow to orange-red. They floated to the ground, leaving stark branches against a cold, gray sky.  I imagined the tree might feel as helpless as I felt as a new mother, powerless to stop its once lush, full canopy from withering and dying.

Inside, I wanted to turn back to our days as a couple, before my husband and I ever conceived the notion of parenthood, let alone a baby. Our son’s care was a chronic round of unrewarding drudgery: Feed, sleep, wake, change, soothe, repeat. After his first week at home, any maternal joy was smothered by anxiety, exhaustion and resentment. Life as I’d known it had withered. The birth that had come, ironically, with the autumnal equinox had thrown me completely off balance. 

Late fall can be cruel, watching the trees’ blazing coats become tatters, knowing that inevitably, all must succumb to the wind, wet and winter. Last fall, it was colic that snuffed out the color in our lives. The crying was worst in late afternoon, coinciding with my husband’s return from work. I became a clock-watcher, willing those wails to wait until Mike at least had got in the door. I usually lost. We played pass-the-baby for four hours, until exhaustion finally led to sleep. Minutes later, we too were in bed, clutching each other for comfort, emotionally as bruised as the mottled gray sky. Oh, how I wanted those trees leafy and green again, as they were during my pregnancy, when we imagined only the fulfillment of becoming a family.

November. First snowfall. Wet, heavy snow, the kind that falls around 30 degrees and melts in two days. It plastered the naked maple branches. One 2 a.m. feeding, a sharp crack pierced my drowsy stupor. I got up from our sofa corner and peered out at the dark back yard. A huge branch had cracked off the old white pine, the heavy wet snow too much for it to bear. Frosty needles wiped the glass of the sliding door as it rested on the patio.

Later I would notice how crazily that branch had grown from the pine’s trunk, jutting out at an unsustainable angle. It was no surprise it yielded to the pressure of the snow, but I never considered it might fall. Nor did I see the metaphor it made to events on my side of the sliding door.

Some time before Christmas. I took Owen to run errands. Snow that was staying covered the streets. An opaque, dirty white sky blurred into the earth at the horizon, giving me the sense of occupying a fishbowl. I parked on the bridge over the river. We ran our errand, then returned to the car, me pushing his stroller through the sidewalk slush. From the corner of my eye I noticed the cold, frothing river. The car seat is heavy. Owen is strapped in. I could just drop this in, and it would all be over.

The thought wandered through my mind. I felt detached from it, like my mind was a marquee and this was today’s message. I felt no urge to act, to actually dangle the car seat over the bridge and release my grasp. I was merely a bystander to the emotions playing in my head. That was the scariest part: Not that such a thought could percolate up from the trough of my postpartum mind, but that I reacted so numbly, as if it were unremarkable. I snapped the seat in the car, shut the door and drove home inside the dirty white fishbowl that was my world.

Winter deepened. We approached the three-month mark. This was the crossroads. Even the few parents who would confide that they, too, had struggled with infancy assured us Things Would Get Better at three months. Instead of feeling like fumbling novices, rushing to our library of parenting books with every question, we would be competent, confident, instinctive parents. We could decode crying, soothe and comfort on demand. Another seasonal coincidence held tantalizing promise. The three-month mark fell on Christmas. If true, it would be the best Christmas present ever. It was also just days after the winter solstice, the return of the light. After living in a world shadowed by tormenting regrets and wishful thinking for three months, I willed for light again.

But those other parents were wrong. Things did not get better. Instead they deteriorated with every January day. My snowbird mother-in-law returned from her Florida home to lend a hand. From my corner on the living room sofa, the world looked cold and bleak. We’d dragged the broken pine branch off the patio into the backyard. Snow would cover it, then melt, exposing broken, dead, ugly branches. As a mother I felt broken, dead and ugly, too. “I want to like it more,” I told my husband one night. Talk about the awful truth. Owen was crying less. He was sleeping more. He smiled sometimes. But though I loved him, I did not like being a mother. Like the pine branch that cracked under the wet snow, I too broke down. I called a counselor and made an appointment.

I never thought I would welcome February. In February, winter becomes wearying. February teases with its thaws and lengthening daylight, yet the knowledge that winter’s grip won’t relent for at least another month. Last February, though, life finally relented. On the recommendation of my counselor, we arranged part-time child care. Owen’s sleeping improved. He started eating food in addition to nursing, relieving the pressure I carried to be his sole source of sustenance.

But it was the child care that was balm for my wracked psyche. These were golden hours, 16 of them each week that nurtured my starved soul. Time to work, to write, to feel competent at something. I started to anticipate the days again. Knowing respite was available, I unexpectedly began to enjoy my hours with Owen.

Spring beckoned. From the sofa corner, watching the maple tree begin to bud out in the front yard, I realized our kinship. All living things need time to replenish. Fertility and dormancy are a necessary cycle. As mother and son, our relationship started to truly flourish as the buds unfurled into the first of the green, green maple leaves. In the backyard a rhododendron, formerly shaded by the fallen pine branch, bloomed this spring for the first time, a gorgeous deep fuchsia.

Like the rest of the landscape, Owen and I ripened together in the warmth of summer. Mother is still the most draining, demanding role I’ve ever attempted to fulfill. But this fall, as I sit with Owen on the sofa corner, watching the maple leaves once again flutter to the ground, I feel no longing to return them to the tree.

* * * *

Dear readers – this essay was written upon my son’s first birthday in September 2006. (That’s him below, blowing out the candles at his fourth

Four years ago, I couldn't have envisioned a birthday celebration

fete last weekend.) My hope in publishing it now is that it will help balance the fairytale so many women are led to believe about motherhood. Unrealistic expectations and the feeling that I was alone in disliking and regretting this life-changing role worsened new motherhood for me.

I’ve recovered fully, and even had a second child, now one year old. With my expectations of motherhood more realistic, I did not experience post-partum depression with her. I hope that also helps women for whom PPD is a real and present threat to their well-being and that of their family. So please forward and link to this post. I’m glad to join This Mommy Gig — and I promise to be shorter in the future.

You, my friend, are in serious trouble. You have been the unwitting participant or enabler of reading a book that has been banned.

And this week you are encouraged to celebrate it!

Yes, this is Banned Books Week - a national celebration of the freedom to read.

According to BannedBooksWeek.org, “It was launched in 1982 in response to a sudden surge in the number of challenges to books in schools, bookstores and libraries. More than a thousand books have been challenged since 1982. The challenges have occurred in every state and in hundreds of communities. Click here to see a map of book bans and challenges in the US from 2007 to 2009.”

That penguin book for preschoolers? “And Tango Makes Three,” by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell is once again one of the 10 most-challenged titles over the past year. Why? Reasons cited are: anti-ethnic, anti-family, homosexuality, religious viewpoint, and unsuited to age group.

The 2009 celebration of Banned Books Week is being held from September 26 through October 3, but you can be a rebel all year round - now go read something someone doesn’t want you to read!

(And if you really want to cause trouble, check out these other ideas for marking the week.)

Last year I read “Bridge to Terabithia” and loved it. Haven’t decided what to read this year yet, but open to suggestions…

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• Banned Books Week (huffingtonpost.com)
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• Mapping Banned Books in the U.S. (mediabistro.com)
• Celebrate Banned Books! (bilerico.com)

Fast forward to today!  To start with, I am now married to a great guy.  On Friday, our little boy will be two years old.  TWO!  One…Two!  Wow, they grow so fast.   Today, I work mostly from home running my consulting business.  My husband quit his job 18 months ago to stay at home with our son  and pursue ministry work.   So, here we are together… with our ball-obsessed dog, Maggie.   Snug as bugs in a rug.  Life is very different in this new place.  Very good, and very different.

As I have chatted and tweeted, laughed and cried with my other, now married gal pals — especially the ones with children — we have come to an agreement over the nature of a few, key changes in our lives.  My dear friend, Ann, encouraged me to share some of our thoughts with you here.

The new sexy: Hubby doing dishes, laundry and then vacuuming

The new “moo-moo” Yoga pants and a hoodie

The new workout: Picking up toys

The new mop: Calling the dog to lick up mess from floor

The new clean: Dishes out of the sink, everything else stuffed in a closet

The new gourmet: Anywhere kids eat free

The new sushi: Peanut Butter and Jelly cut into triangles

The new sleeping in: 8 am = Heaven!

The new Ann Klein: “Finale Clearance” (say this with French accent)

The new splurge: Expensive shampoo and conditioner

The new mani-pedi: Taking a hot, uninterrupted shower

The new good hair day: CLEAN

The new favorite outfit: Anything that FITS

The new dress up: Wearing a bra

The new date night: Staying awake through the END of the movie

The new foreplay: Kicking off the yoga pants

The new gal bonding: Half -completed thoughts uttered in between shouts of “NO, <insert child’s name> No biting!”

The new teething ring: The dog’s ball (builds immunity)

The new promotion: Transitioning from Pampers to Pullups

The new fabulous: Absorbing each new beautiful word my son says

The new sunset: The peace that comes after bedtime

The new romance: Knowing my husband loves me — even in my yoga pants

In short, life is good.  It’s not always easy. It’s often hard work.  I’ve learned to let go of control and my own “standards” and desire for order.  But in doing so, things have developed a curious order of their own.  I have been released into a life I’d only dreamed of.   It’s a life indescribable… and one I call, “The New Happy.” Memories of the old life aside, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I was traveling recently and found myself with some downtime in between layovers. I headed into one of those airport “all in one” stores to find some trash mags or something “light” to read. Instead, I found myself picking up a copy of Beautiful Boy.

Somehow I had missed the buzz about this book and the real life story behind it. I suppose we all pay the most attention to things that matter to us or are relevant to our own lives. This story wasn’t relevant to me in any way other than it was written by a parent, and I’m a parent. The jacket cover was compelling - it is the (half) image of what looks like a young boy leaping with joy. The name of the book piqued my interest as well… how can you not look at your own sons and think, “oh, my beautiful boy”?

So I picked up the book and I don’t think that I put it down until I was finished. This book is something that every parent of a teen or a teen-to-be should read. It was heartbreaking, compelling and honestly gut-wrenching.

The book is from journalist and author David Sheff. It chronicles his journey from raising his young son to watching his demise as he became addicted to marijuana, heroin and ultimately, crystal meth.

I knew nothing about crystal meth before reading this book. I didn’t want to, wouldn’t have thought about it and didn’t think I needed to.

But as I read this book, I became compelled with the years that are ahead of me. And I became damn scared of the challenges that I’m sure to face as a parent.

I’ve always known that there will come a point in my “parental life” that I will need to address the issues of drugs, alcohol and other other not-so-fun discussions with my children. But I think, like most parents, I’ve been assuming that those discussions would come at a much later time in life. Sheff’s son first got drunk at the age of eleven. That age is only four years away for my oldest son.

After reading this book (and yes, I highly, highly recommend it), I find myself torn. When do I talk to my children about drugs? When do I recognize that they’re becoming curious and to what degree do I discuss it? How do you have these discussions without making your teens run right to the very thing you’re trying to discourage them from?

If you’ve been through this I’d love to hear how you did it successfully. What age were your children when you first talked about drugs and alcohol? How did you handle discussions about drunk driving? Did you react with anger the first time your son or daughter was caught drinking? Any other insights to share? I’m sure our readers would also love to hear your advice or experiences in handling such a difficult part of raising children.

After reading David Sheff’s book, I picked up his son’s companion book – “Tweak - Growing Up on Methamphetamines” - the same story from Nic Sheff’s point of view. If I thought David’s was hard to read, Nic’s was one that I had to step away from a few times. The things that he did to himself with - and for - drugs were almost unbearable to read. But it’s also a story of love, learning, family and raising children. It’s a story of heartbreak, self-hatred and ultimately, the human spirit.

David and Nic Sheff talk about their story on Oprah

David and Nic bring to light some very difficult situations that will force us all to think twice about the decisions we make as parents. And, the fact that at some point, you have to let your children live their lives – although we want to, we can’t fix everything for them. Sometimes, learning that is the hardest lesson of all.

Here’s the thing: I don’t know how big I am, or how small for that matter. Literally. I’m shocked by the mirror and the scale. I’m shocked when things are too big and when they’re too small. I’m shocked when I see pictures of myself and I come up to everyone’s chest. I’m shocked when I see my reflection and I seem larger than I expected.

As a result, I don’t trust any of it and I go about my days having no idea what I look like or how my body actually fits into space.

And, really, why should I? This is a case where the contrasting target is moving. AND, this is a case where the physical is heavily influenced by the emotional and intellectual self. For reasons feminine, cultural and uniquely circumstantial, my size and my perception keep changing.

• In high school, I was popular, successful and an athlete. I was larger than life, but my body felt small.
• In college, I was invisible, drowning with an eating disorder and unhappy. I was terribly insignificant, but my body felt huge.
• As I entered adulthood, I was told to be independent and strong, but society and its magazines were reminding me not to get too big. I was confused and yo-yoing, my body didn’t know which way was up.
• As I became a mother, I urged my body to grow in order to support my babies as they came to be and as they continue to need my protection, time and attention in this world. I am expanding rapidly, my body feels like it isn’t my own and its borders are too far away to see.
• As a wife, I need to pull those edges back in to ‘me’ so that I can feel my woman-ness. My body feels conflicted and exhausted and totally bent out of shape.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of this blog and a few others and in my immediate community, I receive insanely wonderful connections and feedback. My brain and heart feel big.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of the world and social media, I’m just tiny. Little fish, big sea.

When I look at all of this, I see that the common thread here is relativity. It’s similar to the fact that I still feel 17, but my birth certificate says I’m 36. I mean, really? Is that true? What’s true?

I’m not sure there’s a way to escape it. But, I’m certain I can’t let it color my forward motion. If we sat around all day and thought about the 300 million people on Facebook, we would never join or think it could be a successful social media tool - and we’d miss out on connecting and sharing with old and new friends. If we thought about the millions of other writers that are out there - either getting published or struggling with rejection letters - we would never type another word.

Why do we look to the outside to define our size or simply who we are? Why would we look outside when outside is constantly changing and insecure? Huh. Maybe that’s why we’re so insecure.

Hard to pin your edges on something that moves, expands, shrinks and bends, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the inside - that still thinks it’s 17 and perfectly sizable that needs to be the touchpoint. That way, at least, it’s always up to us, the magnitude of the space we take up in the world.

Originally posted on Writing Roads

Image credit: Steph & Adam

But tonight was warm, and not that many fields were occupied. Heading back to the car, however, I saw one person quite occupied - a woman juggling three little ones, all under the age of six.

I asked if she needed any help as she corralled her brood and their stuff into the family-mobile. Of course she didn’t - she’s a Mom. But what I really wanted to do was tell her how much I appreciate what she’s doing. Because it thoroughly warmed my heart to see her doing what countless mothers simply do - shepherd their little ones into adulthood.

When I look back at our family pictures, I still marvel that we (and by that I especially mean, my wife) managed to survive those years of the endless demands of little ones. It’s an awesome, wearying, and unending responsibility. Successful entrepreneurs, great athletes, talented artists - all have my respect, to a degree. But devoted mothers draw out my unbounded admiration.

For every awkward-feeling person that comes up to you and tries to tell you “thanks” for being a Mom, there are probably 100 of us who think and feel it but maybe don’t quite know how to express that appreciation without seeming…well, forward. Maybe it’s a little safer here on this blog.

So, if Mom-ing has been a bit tiring and unfulfilling as you juggled through today, I have one word for you. Thanks. Oh, and here’s two more: You’re awesome!