Give it Away

So at about 10:15am this morning God told me to get off my butt and do something. Clearly, I did, because what else could I do? I blame the whole thing on Jen Hatmaker.

Some of you may laugh, but this fall I started my very first Bible study class ever. I decided I needed some Mommy time each week and Protestant Women of the Chapel (PWOC) seemed like a good fit. It’s a military, multi-denominational group that meets once a week with snacks and has a bunch of Bible studies and child care.

I eased myself in by doing a study of Jen Hatmaker’s book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess. For those not familiar with the book, Hatmaker, a blogger, writer, and pastor’s wife, took seven months and dedicated each one to an area of life that she felt was excessive. It wasn’t just about getting rid of those old snow shoes you said you’d use but never did; it was about trying to re-evaluate her life through the lens of how much she has just by virtue of being a US citizen versus the vast majority of the world. If we all took a few minutes to compare our lives to those struggling, we’d be pretty embarrassed and possibly even ashamed. It isn’t about trying to make you give away family heirlooms. It’s more about opening your eyes to the real needs of those around you and making a difference where you can. That’s where God tapped me on the shoulder this morning.

Like many churches, ours has communion on the first Sunday of every month. As a member of the choir (I sing Soprano), I have to be at both services. There’s not enough time to go home, so today I took 7 with me so I could do my reading between services.

So there I am, in this nice little library room at my church, eavesdropping on a Sunday school class of people old enough to be my grandparents and reading. Suddenly Hatmaker shares this story about a friend of hers who suddenly realized that Staci, her daughter’s friend’s Mom, was seriously struggling. Single mom, working full time and going to school. The family owned two plates. There were three of them. So Hatmaker’s friend demanded a list of what that family needed. Four days later their apartment was furnished and their cabinets were full down to a bowl of Red Delicious apples on the counter. When I read that story of how a small group of women completely transformed that family’s life, and quite possibly saved them and their future, I cried. I cried in a cute little library at my church while trying not to attract attention.

Suddenly I remembered that a few days ago I pulled on my maternity skinny jeans and found $80! That is quite a bit more than the crumpled $1 I’d expected to find when I unfolded the bills. My clothes had just come back from a round of pregnancy with my cousin in Nashville, but a few quick texts resulted in the fact that neither of us remembered misplacing $80. How comfy are our lives when $80 misplaced makes no lasting impression? In the end, I decided we could split what was essentially the windfall, and we each ended up $40 richer.

Then God poked me in the head. I picked my butt up and drove around the corner to the Dollar General, a store, incidentally, that I’d never stepped foot inside before. Being honest, I felt like it was for poor people. I didn’t need to shop in a place like that. In this case, it was a block from church and for $51.30 I bought 34 toiletry items for Welcome Central, a local non-profit that connects people in need to services in the community. They’re a first line of defense and the people who come to them are often on food stamps and have immediate needs. While you can buy tobacco and alcohol with food stamps, you cannot buy toilet paper. (Because that makes total sense.) So I bought toilet paper and shampoo and soap and combs. I bought a moment of dignity for someone in a rough situation. I bought the comfort and confidence of being able to present yourself, clean and refreshed to the world.

What else would I have done with $40? Nothing noteworthy. It would have been spent at Target on things we almost certainly didn’t have a lasting need for or on an Elsa wig for H’s Halloween costume (I’ll freely admit, that’s still happening, though it had better not cost $40! Thankfully I am blessed enough to start seeing the poor and still afford to give my five-year-old a bit of magic.)

As I headed back down to the choir room after dropping off my bags of toiletries in the atrium, I was amazed at how God had so clearly spoken to me in that moment. I’ve always been a Goodwill donations person, but I can be pretty lazy the rest of the time. I was even more amazed when I checked the flyer and realized that  though I’d been meaning to grab an extra shampoo at the Commissary anyway, the last day to donate was next Sunday, when I would be out of town. That moment in the library was the moment. The only moment when I could make that difference with money I’d lost and never missed. Money that could feed a family for a few days or help a bunch of people who just needed toilet paper.

It makes me wonder what else I miss in my frantic Mom-of-young-children world. Probably a lot. But my eyes and ears are opening, and I hope they never close.

Want to be Friends?

In the Methodist preschool at the bottom of my street, sitting at a round table near a bright window, approximately 100 years ago, I made my first best friend. I honestly can’t remember if I went up to her, pony tail swinging, or if she came up to me, but I do remember that the conversation went about like this:

“Want to be friends?”

“Sure!”

We quickly discovered that we both liked ballet and that was that. We were best friends until I moved away just before the fifth grade. We were in every class together, we played all the time, and I even visited her a few times after we moved when we were in town seeing my grandparents.

 Circa 100 years ago. Who wouldn't be friends with a cutie like this?

It’s a singular time when making a friend is just that easy. There’s no fear of rejection, no worrying that you’ve said the wrong thing, no wondering if you should call or if she should call, no hurt feelings if you see her out with someone else. That all comes later.

When you’re a military family, not only do you move all the time, but you make friends all the time. Unlike moving, which is pretty easy for me to grasp and organize and become fairly efficient at, making friends remains more challenging. I’m an introvert by nature. The thought of going to mixers and socials on my own, while not terrifying, is not appealing. Likewise, starting conversations with random women while getting my nails done or waiting in line to pick up kids. It’s not something that comes natural to me.

At a time in life when I feel like most people live near their closest friends—the ones they made in preschool—I am getting ready to move again. Having only just started to feel somewhat settled in Illinois, we are off to Kansas and what’s more, we’re off to Army life for a year.

The one bonus to so much moving is that after a few years you tend to know someone or at least have a mutual friend with someone in the place you’re going. In fact, one of the other Air Force families that will be stationed in Kansas is best friends with one of my friends from another base. Instant friend, right? I always hope so. But what I have learned is that all those other people know other people too. It’s no longer the case that it’s your first base and everyone is new and it’s a super-intense bonding time. And I’ll tell you, I’m still friends with those girls, and I know any one of them would have my back today. No, the further you go in life, the harder it is to become enmeshed in the web of true, long-term friendship. There are prior friendships, school obligations, and life obligations that often make it hard to form those deep bonds.

All I really want is to live in the same town as my parents and my awesome sibilings-in-law and one of my oldest middle school friends and let my kids grow up in a space where there are all these grownups that love them the way we do and where there are all these cousins that can be their forever friends. It kind of kills me that I can’t provide that for approximately 10 years.

This is the first move too, when H will be in elementary school. From here on out, it’s just going to get harder on her. I wince because I know that we have some rapid fire years coming where we may bounce around a bit. For my very introverted girl this could be an opportunity for serious growth or an impetus to hide in her inner world. That means I have to set the example.

I don’t love the idea of starting over AGAIN. Of worrying that I’ll say the wrong thing or make friends with someone who turns out to be false or feel like I’ve failed to find that close friend in a new place. But if I don’t try, how can I expect H to? And if I don’t show her over and over that we can go out and be friends and make ourselves vulnerable, how can I honestly support and understand when it doesn’t work, as it sometimes doesn’t?

I yearn for the times when a mutual love of ballet could cement years of friendship. It seems so easy. But I’m not a kid and there’s more to life than the smooth precision and easy joy of dance class. There’s struggle, and grief, and grace, and joy to fill life out in ways I couldn’t imagine as a child. And as sorely as I wish that I could stay safe in my circle of already friends, who know my wrinkles, I also have to remember how much those friends have made me grow by challenging me in ways I never expected. Who’s to say this next friend might not be one I’ll cherish forever? How could I miss that chance?

So, want to be my friend?

Mom-nesia

Mom-nesia: (n) loss of a large block of interrelated memories caused by child birth.

I find myself at a bit of loose ends this morning caused by a bout of Mom-nesia. Yesterday I found a reminder in my email that I’d signed J up for Parents’ Morning Out. Surprise! When I signed him up for three or four sessions to cover my piano lessons, I thought they started next week. Here I am. No piano and no kid, because I saw the email too late in the day to cancel the reservation.

On the plus side, I’m going to get a pedicure later on. I would be using the gift certificate I got for my birthday last year, but I didn’t read it and neglected to book with one of the two people specified by the gift card. I’ll be paying for it instead.

I’m not sure if it’s sun spots or early onset dementia, but I suddenly seem to be going through a bout of serious Mom-nesia. I can’t seem to manage to organize anything properly. Yesterday I got lost driving home from Lebanon (town, not country) and ended up on my way to Indiana. The worst part is that I didn’t notice until we passed signs for Breese, IL. “Hmm,” I wondered, “I’ve never heard of that town. Where am I?” I almost missed picking H up from school because of it.

What do we do when life spirals to the brink of chaos? Well, I’m getting a pedicure. But I’m also feeling like I’m not up to snuff. I’m feeling like J is getting too many bottles, which makes me feel both like I’m a bad mom and that I’m horribly judgy because lots of babies get lots more bottles because their moms have to work and be gone. Where is the balance?

I fear I have entered a new phase of life where not only do I need to write things down to make sure they happen, I also need to cross reference, create alerts, and check in with Josh as a sanity keeper. I’m becoming my dad. (Sorry, Dad!)

While perusing in Lebanon prior to my unplanned country drive I saw a sign that said, “Moms are like buttons. They hold everything together.” Lord knows it’s the truth. When I get really frustrated I remind Josh, loudly and with a little bite, that the family wouldn’t function without me. If I don’t get myself together, we might find out how true that statement is.

Government shutdown notwithstanding, this is actually a great time in our family’s story. Josh is home EVERY night, H is increasingly independent (and back talky), J is growing so fast, and I am trying hard to make some room for myself with choir and piano. We don’t even have to attend four out of town weddings in the span of two months this year. Life is actually pretty relaxed.

Maybe that’s my problem! Not enough stress! I’m used to Josh being gone; organizing multiple cross country trips; shuttling children hither and yon; cooking, cleaning, and shopping with a baby on my back; and whistling a merry tune all the way. When faced with what many would consider a normal existence, I’m having a bit of trouble adjusting. We will file this under “First World Problems.”

I’m still going to have to make some concerted efforts to recheck appointments before scheduling babysitting, but while I’ll do so, I’ll remind myself that life could be way worse. Plus, my toes look cute.

Party Pooper

While the children were happily munching their snacks at H’s fourth birthday party, blue marshmallow pops stickily and rapidly disappearing, J woke up from his nap. I excused myself, and headed off to quickly get him up and fed so I wouldn’t miss present opening. As I washed my hands after changing him, I got the following text. (Please note that I am not responsible for the poor grammar.):

I am so ready to go. This is boring and the momma are weird.

The blood drained from my face and every party planning, living-up-to-other-moms phobia I have flooded into my chest with a whoosh as I read this text, sent from one of the moms in the next room, at my daughter’s party.

Was this really just sent to me? Surely she meant it to go to someone else? What mom was she calling weird? Should I say something? Should I let it go and be the bigger woman?

It was too rude to let pass. I had also spent too much time carefully cutting bathing suits out of scrapbooking paper, making tissue paper puffs, and crafting a swimming pool cake complete with teddy graham swimmers. The children had all been playing wonderfully; they liked the craft I’d pulled out of thin air two nights earlier when it was clear that the thunderstorms in the Midwest would make our kiddie pool too cold for swimming; no one had complained about our snacks. The text came from a woman that I’d been friendly with all school year. I had thought we were friends—not besties, but more than just acquaintances.

With shaky fingers I sent her back a message saying, “I think perhaps your last text went astray.” I am non-confrontational. I expected her to either ignore it or to somehow explain herself. I still felt sure that she had sent me this message by mistake. By what explanation could it be justified to send it to me on purpose? Immediately, she wrote back and asked if she could come talk to me. She came into J’s room while I nursed him. I could go into the attempted explanations, but it’s not worth the space. Suffice to say she apologized, and I thanked her for doing so.

As you get older it’s harder and harder to make friends. As a mom especially, I find myself talking to women on a regular basis whom I know only as Susie’s Mom, and with whom the only connection I share is the commonality of our kids’ ages or extracurricular activity. I spend lots of time talking about kids and parenting, but rarely do I discuss myself. I almost never talk about the fact that I play two instruments or that I used to ballroom dance or work in corporate communications. I don’t discuss my favorite authors, bands, or the latest piece on NPR.

On the other hand, I’ve never heard anyone on a playground or in line to pick up kids discussing in depth, life-long-friend making topics. I hear the same banal, “How’s your day going?” conversations that I’m having myself. Yet, I always feel as if these other moms have somehow created the type of friendships I’m looking for. I wonder when they find the time, and why they never invite me along. Is there some secret handshake I have yet to learn that would give me access to coffee dates at Starbucks and lunches out? My own newness to the area and my penchant for seeing the best in people leaves me open to false friendships from the type of people who smile at your face and sneer at your back. Every time I run into someone like that I’m shocked because it’s just not how I operate. What you see is pretty much what there is to see.

With a smile plastered to my face and a raw hurt in my heart, I rejoined the party. It wasn’t my day. It was H’s day, and no matter how I was feeling, I wanted her to enjoy herself. After the cake had been eaten and the goodie bags handed out, I showed my husband the message and shared its aftermath. I realized that this woman, who had taken my daughter to school and whose daughter I’d watched in return a few times, was in fact a virtual stranger to me. Despite countless 10 minute conversations, I know almost nothing of her actual life or character. I don’t know her favorite anything or how she met her husband. The relationship we had (which is now very much over from my viewpoint), was based on the fact that we happened to be in the same place, at the same time three days a week to get our girls from preschool—nothing more.

None of that excuses the extreme rudeness of her text, no matter who she intended it for. It does remind me, through the harshness of experience, that the moms we meet in these casual, harried, child-intensive moments are not always true reflections of the women themselves. Some friendships are best left in the pick-up line at school.

When I Grow Up

As I mop the spit up from my shoulder for the seventh time today and discover with a horrified sniff that I do, in fact, smell of sour milk, I wonder how I came to be in this place. I was probably not a normal kid. I used to dream of owning my own robotics firm with an in-house day care for the daughter I wanted to have.

I went so far as to major in Physics in college and make a good effort to look at electrical engineering graduate programs for robotics. It tipped off an early-20s existential crisis that ended with me in a science journalism masters program. I have never worked as a full time science journalist in any sense.

Most days I don’t have time to contemplate how my dreams changed from high-powered business owner to mom. I carry my son and chase my daughter, clean messes, and make dinner. I’ve moved with my military husband all over the country, which in itself would be enough to foil my childhood dream. Moment to moment, I’m happy.

The niggling little problem is when I talk to friends and family I haven’t seen in a while, and they ask a question that I’m coming to half-dread, “So, what’s new?” I can tell them about my husband’s job. (He’s loving being home with me and kids; not really digging office life.) I can tell them about my daughter’s days in preschool. (She can write her name!) I can tell them the new baby tricks J is mastering. (If he could lift his head up, he’d be crawling. Until then, he’s bulldozing.) But I honestly have nothing to say for myself. There is nothing new, and certainly nothing exciting.

Like so many moms, I struggle. I like being at home to see J grin at me when he wakes from his nap. I like, most of the time, to listen to H sing to her tiny princess figurines at one of their endless weddings. I know deep in my heart that I’d be unhappy if they were at day care. I know from experience that life in cube-land would not fulfill me. But none of that is an answer to what I’m going to do with two degrees that cost as much as a small house.

Part of my mid-mom crisis was to start this blog. And all 50 or so of my steadfast readers have certainly helped provide me with an outlet. But, despite harboring secret dreams of writer-dom, I know I am good, but with only moments of greatness. I continue to contemplate an Etsy shop for crocheted baby gear. It’ll probably never happen because I’m not actually an entrepreneur. (Yet another good reason for not opening that robotics firm.)

What I am passionate about is childbirth. I would like dearly to go to nursing school and become a midwife. Until we’re in a position where Josh is done flying and the kids are more self-sufficient, that isn’t going to happen. And I don’t really know where that leaves me.

Good bloggers have a goal they’re taking you to. There should be a cathartic summation that ties it together and leaves you feeling complete. I don’t have one for you today. I leave you instead with a question—how do you tell yourself that you’re doing one of the greatest, most important jobs on Earth on those days where it only seems like you’re marking time?