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The Doing of the Self

"I WANT TO DO IT MYSELF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What parent hasn't heard this impassioned cry, the huddled masses yearning to break free, the voice crying out in the wilderness? This one phrase has the capability to wrench forth many emotions; pride, fear, and on some days, a weariness that seems to seep into the bones. Oh, we know, us modern parents, that we should not stifle our child's independence. We must encourage his autonomy. We must never do for him what he can do for himself, lest he end up living in our basement when he's thirty.

I believe these things. It's crucial. Just not at 7:23 in the morning. At 7:23 in the morning, I am dying inside while Gianna puts on her socks in an almost leisurely fashion as the time is just roaring by and I am attempting to strangle my own shouts of agony; "We're late, LATE, LATE!!!!!! Just....give me that sock!" Ah, but in the beginning, it was not so. The first time the little tyke did anything for herself, I naturally reacted by throwing a small parade, dancing around squealing, "Ooooohhhhhh you put your shirt on all by yourself!!!!!!!!!! Genius!!!!" The first outfit chosen solely of her own volition, there was much picture-taking (well....there would have been if I were the sort of mother who took lots of pictures. I'm working on it) and indulgent smiling at the mismatching colors.

I promised myself before my children were born that I was not going to make an issue out of things that were not illegal, immoral, or dangerous. Despite my promise, many a morning I've found myself cajoling, wheedling, and advocating certain shirts over others, this dress over that one, these shoes instead of those....I should have been a lawyer. Or maybe a marketing executive. But I was an English major, you know, and so I've got a a way with words. Unfortunately, my words fall on deaf ears. (Pause to note the irony of that statement. Ok. Now we can move on.)

Most mornings, I begrudgingly end up allowing Gianna to wear whatever offensive combination of patterns she has come up with, and I move on, but gone are my triumphant shouts of, "You did self!!" These have been replaced with a mumble, usually uttered while I'm dropping her off (late, always late) at school, trying to avoid looking the teacher in eye, I hand over my garishly adorned child and say, "I dunno....she dressed herself...."

If Mama Ain't Happy, Nobody's Happy

For as long as I can remember there was a standard-issue wall hanging in my parent’s kitchen that read, “If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy.” It’s the kind of thing you can only find in a place with “bazaar” in the title. 

As a kid, I used to study my mother and puzzle over that statement. What did it mean? My mom worked three 12’s a week as an ICU nurse, volunteered at our elementary school, and bused us to numerous after school activities, not to mention the cooking and cleaning and homework-assisting. She was forever scheduling and coordinating as our busy lives swirled around her. I was fascinated by the assertion that if SHE wasn’t happy, no one was happy. Was it true? And indeed…when I paid attention, it was.  Not only was it a downer if the Madre wasn’t cracking embarrassing jokes, but nothing was quite as fun when she wasn’t around. I’m a grown up now (or so I’ve tricked people into thinking) and still…when I am visiting my parent’s house, if my mom isn’t there for dinner, it’s just not as fun. I’ve discussed this phenomenon with my siblings and we are in agreement. Everything is better when mom is around.

Mothering is hard work. Ask any mama. It’s a lot of bodily fluids and sleepless nights and endless permission slips to keep track of and worry. Always the worrying.  And to add to it that you alone are responsible for your family’s happiness? Must I always be cheerful, lest my crankiness, or annoyance, or frustration, inhibit my family from being joyful? Is that even possible? For a long time after Gianna was born, I struggled to figure out how to be a mother, and a wife, and still be….me. Should my marital status totally define me? Should my status as a primipara define me? Who was I? So much about me had changed, was there anything that had stayed the same?

I’m not sure when I realized that no; the proverb in my mother’s kitchen didn’t mean I always had to be the smiling love slave to everyone else. Rather, that simple statement acknowledged a power that is unique to us mothers: the power to set the attitude within our homes. It’s the power to serve gracefully and to call our families into service as well, to give of ourselves and be an example of sacrifice and charity for our children. Ah, but if only we always used our powers for good. Who has that kind of energy? I wondered. And where can I get some? 

When Gianna started taking a weekly ballet class, another buddy of mine said, “We should do that. We should go back to ballet.” So, after nine years out of the studio, I bought myself a pair of shoes, tights and a leotard….and went to an adult ballet class. For ninety glorious minutes I thought of nothing else but plies and tendus and when I left I felt….refreshed. Oh, I had my pitifully out of shape derriere handed to me but…I was back in the game, baby. I was ready to change diapers and slap on band-aids and read the same book over and over again.

Every mama needs a ballet class. A time to go running. A place to do yoga. A girl’s night out. A spa day. A drive around the block in a quiet car where she can listen to whatever music she wants. The chance to luxuriate in bed for an extra 30 minutes on a Saturday morning. An hour of quiet adoration before Our Lord. It’s hard to find these moments, for two main reasons. For one, we’re the mamas and we get all guilty if we take time to ourselves. For another, it’s hard to admit we can’t do this on our own steam. However, we must find the time, cuz if we ain’t happy….nobody’s happy.

Why, I'd love to read you Strega Nona for the 10th time today!

When Did This Happen?

It's amazing. When did this:

Become this:

And when did this:

Morph into this:

Every parent marvels over the growth of their children. "He's just getting so big!" They exclaim. And, "I can't believe it, I feel like just yesterday she was a newborn!" This morning, as I watched Gianna dress herself for school and Dominic fed himself Gianna's left over oatmeal, I couldn't help thinking to myself for the millionth time, "Who are these big children? And when did they get here? Where are my babies?"

A few months ago I read Sheldon Vanauken's A Severe Mercy  on the recommendation of Maureen over at Little Stay at Home Momma. In it, the author shares correspondence with C.S Lewis during his conversion to Christianity. One of my favorite letters from Lewis regards his logical proof that there is some other, higher place for which we are all intended. He says,


"We are so little reconciled to time that we are even astonished at it. “How he’s grown!” we exclaim, “How time flies!” as though the universal form of our experience were again and again a novelty. It is as strange as if a fish were repeatedly surprised at the wetness of water. And that would be strange indeed; unless of course the fish were destined to become, one day, a land animal."

Of course, that higher place where there will be no time as we know it now, is heaven. How wonderful that in the swiftly growing bodies and minds of our children we are reminded that we are just visitors here; that we are working for the Kingdom.  In moments of sadness or nostalgia over our no-longer-a-baby babies, may we remember that we are destined to become, one day, inhabitants of Heaven.