A lazy Saturday, nothing to do but sit in my backyard and sip wine…
Who am I kidding. The only thing lazy about that Saturday was me because I didn’t want to take all five kids to their dentist appointment only to hear that the kids could use some serious lessons in teeth-brushing.
So there I sat, the six of us in the dentist’s office. I actually know my dentist personally because he used to help in my kid’s Sunday school class eons ago. Lucky for me, he never judges me when he gives me the run-down after all five have been seen and evaluated. He gently tells me of “a few things to be aware of, but nothing to be worried about…right now.” Meaning, I’m trying to be polite lady, but please, for the love of all things edible, teach your kids how to brush their teeth already.
Kid number four was taking a wee bit longer in the designer dental recliner complete with the blue bib/drool catcher, when I hear a buzz coming from my phone. His buddy’s parents were wondering if he could come over for a swim and some play time. I respond in the affirmative. Between the sudden drilling I hear and the sense that my wallet was getting lighter by the minute, I come up with a plan that involves getting the remaining children seen, the usual post-dental re-cap, scheduling the next six month check up, and then running him over to his friend’s home for a pool play date while trying to fit in a few minutes of shut-eye because I seem to be going in and out of sleepy consciousness on this Saturday morning.
I arrive at his friend’s home. Knock on the door. My son is beside me with hair that is sticking up from the-would-be-hair-stylist-mom that’s been overbooked for the last six years. Yet he’s happy, clutching his swim suit in a grocery bag and a smile across his face. I can’t quite decide if he’s happy he’s seeing his friend or happy that he is not going to be hounded by one of his twelve siblings that day.
The door opens, and I see two wonderful people who knew Jason before he passed and one little boy who breaks into a wide grin at seeing my son. The boys run off, but before I can get to my car and get horizontal for a quick cat nap, mom asks me a litany of questions any mother would ask. Does he have any allergies? Does he have any sunblock? That’s okay, she has ample supply. Does he need to be home at a certain time? Would it be okay if they went to the beach, or would I prefer he stay home and swim in their pool? Is there anything else I should know about, you know, to keep him happy, healthy, and safe?
I look at her with half-glazed eyes, and simply respond, “do whatever you want with him.” As long as he returns home alive, I’m good. He’s good. We’re good.
Most mothers perpetually live in a state of longing for two minutes of alone time in the bathroom. And mothers of too many kids very clearly say that unless someone is bleeding profusely, no one is to interrupt the few minutes of precious peace that we steal whenever we can.
Me? Post-grief? Do whatever. Just don’t kill each other.
My standards have become so horrendously low since I’ve taken on the title Mother and Father together at one time, all the time.
I’ve made peace with the fact that I will never, ever be the mother who shows up with expertly designed cupcakes made from scratch for birthdays and gift bags full of dollar store trinkets for classmates. They’re lucky if I have time to run to the grocery store before school to grab those pre-made sugar cookies with an inch of icing on top, shoved into their backpacks. And hopefully two packages will be enough or someone’s going to have to share.
I’ve made peace with the fact that I won’t ever be one of those moms who make “Welcome Fall” Pinterest decorations with toilet paper and nails.
I’ve made peace with the fact that I, by some standards, am a complete and utter failure as a mother. I do the bare minimum in comparison to most in my circle. In fact, if I were in mothering school, I’d be considered “differently-abled” as in what I’m able to do is so fundamentally different from the typical American mother that no one would recognize me as a mother in the first place.
But what I have learned over the past 6 years is that toilet paper and nails do, indeed, serve a purpose. And although some can fashion a beautiful bouquet of fall flowers and fronds and snowflakes of unrivaled variety that would make Martha Stewart cry tears of joy, toilet paper wipes my kiddos’ bums. And nails are pounded into my wall to hang up backpacks (when the kids even remember to hang them up at all). Well, one nail is slightly dislodged, but I’m sure I’ll get to that sometime in 2050.
I know that without the cutesy decorations that adorn many homes, the random socks and candy wrappers under my couch, a pine cone and hot wheel car shoved down my shower drain, semi-decent report cards, and “he gets an “A” for effort at the basketball game!” is good enough.
Because I’m not concerned about my house covered in toilet paper and nails. Nor am I concerned about grooming my son to be an all-star NBA player, and fortunately, I have another shower in my house so I can put off calling the plumber for yet another week.
Rather I’m concerned about the state of my kids’ hearts rather than the state of my house. Anyone can learn to spell (spellcheck!), multiply (calculators!), and figure out if we truly are the only living creatures in the entire universe (hello Google!). What I’ve learned is that learning to love the person beside you is something spellcheck, a calculator, or Google can never do.
Learning to comfort a friend who is feeling sad, sit by a classmate eating alone at a lunch table, or learning to be patient when little brother is struggling to make a point at the dinner table is far more important than realizing two and two equal five.
It’s not about the decorations. It’s not about the book smarts, (unless you’re going to be a lawyer, then in that case, get right to it). And it’s not about the toilet paper bouquets.
It’s about the people we see. The people we know. The people before us, beside us, and behind us. It’s about reaching out to the one who is on the ground and helping her back to her feet, speaking words of encouragement into a hurting heart, and placing an arm around a crying sibling who is grieving the loss of his daddy.
So when you see my kids, their hair is crazy, their clothing is well — kind of clean, and really, I promise, I’m working on the teeth brushing thing. But what I hope you see are five children who have endured what most will never see in an entire lifetime. Five children who know how to love, comfort, and walk beside others in the most difficult of times. Kids who aren’t afraid of the hard things in life because they’ve lived through some of the hardest things in life.
They’ll be the first to grab the toilet paper, dab your tears as you weep, drape an arm around you, and tell you everything will be okay.
Because you will be okay.
Because they are okay.