A Quiet Night

Tonight was a night reminiscent of a scene on television from the shows I watched in my childhood.  Always having chaos, anger, strife, and noise in my childhood home, I often imagined that normal families really were like the ones on “Leave it to Beaver” or “My Three Sons.”   Being the first Friday of the school year, we celebrated with Chinese take out.   The four of us sat around the kitchen table, each armed with chop sticks. My husband and I managed well, but the children preferred to impale their chunks of deep fried chicken with a single chop stick,  using it as if it were a skewer and then proceeded to dip the meat  into the starchy neon orange sweet and sour sauce while we talked about their experiences at school.

Then we baked chocolate chip cookies for dessert.  (Notice I said baked not made. I admit it, we used pre-made refrigerated dough.)

Then I folded laundry while the children took their showers.  As usual, my daughter maneuvered her way into the bathroom down stairs, which she prefers because the water pressure is better.  After folding the laundry my husband and I sat in the living room and had a conversation about our work days, with the only interruption being the sounds of a happy little girl singing sweetly in the shower:   “I will love you forever and ever, love you with all my heart; love you when we’re together; love you when we’re apart,” surprising me with the clarity in which she articulated her words and how strongly she sang the tune.  She sang in the manner in which a child sings with all the confidence in the world, unaware and unconcerned with the off key notes or missed beats.

I stopped  and took a mental snap shot of that moment.  There was no television on.  No radio on.  No computer on.  No telephones ringing.  No arguing.  No crying.  Just simple conversation interrupted only by the song of a child.  I was struck by the weightlessness and simplicity  of that moment.  The quietness of it softened and cushioned the air around me, brightening the light within me a bit.

This evening I’ve been granted a reprieve from the darkness and angst that stalks me.  I am thankful for it.  Thankful for the hard work that has gotten me to this point.  Thankful for the love and patience I’ve received that enables my growth.  But mostly thankful for the power inherent in the human capacity to forgive, or to at least try.

2nd Grade Jitters

“Mom…you have to sign up to be able to go to the bathroom.  What if I can’t remember where it is?”   To make matters worse, not only does tomorrow mark the first day of the second grade, the grade in which bathrooms are no longer located within the classroom, but the twins are entering separate classrooms for the first time in their life.   My daughter said “Mom, my brother isn’t going to be there to remind me where things are anymore.”  I think of how anxiety provoking that must be for them.  They’ve been together every day of their life with the exception of the 9 long days my son spent in the NICU after birth.

My breath rattles and shakes as I inhale, trembling for them.   I remember those first day jitters myself and I didn’t have to worry about being separated from a companion who had been present every day of my young life.   As I tucked them each into bed, I tightly hugged them and gently kissed their cheeks, reassuring them that I would walk them both to their classroom to make sure they found it okay and that we would locate the bathrooms before class started so they knew how to find their way. I reminded them that I had clean shorts and underwear hidden at the bottom of their bag where no body would notice, but they’d be there just for an emergency.  I think back to the first time they had to ride the school bus while in kindergarten and some how they got separated en route from the bus to class.   My daughter stood crying in the middle of a stream of happy children, when the assistant principal asked her what was wrong, she simply sobbed “I’ve lost my brother”  while he navigated his way to the end of the building, beaming with pride over his accomplishment only to be heartbroken by the sudden realization that she had not made it along with him.  He began to cry as well, quietly stating to the teacher “I’ve lost my sister.”

Faced with a new set of concerns this year, as I wrapped his blankets around him, my son softly spoke, almost a whisper, his voice cracking as he choked back tears “But what if I get sent to the  Principal’s office?”

“Well, then you will have to go, but even if you do,  your daddy and I will love you anyway”  I said, kissing his cheek.

I didn’t think I was anxious or worried about them returning to school until I heard the trepidation in their voices.   There is nothing like parenthood to make a person feel utterly helpless.  I run through the mental checklist that I imagine is necessary to ensure that I am buffering their discomfort and that I am functioning like a  somewhat competent parent:   School supplies (check); pencil box (check); snazzy new outfit (check); new sneakers (check); water bottles (check); tissues (check);  home made lunch packed with love containing a balance of healthy foods and sugar (check);  greeting card surreptitiously placed into their lunch boxes with enough of “x’s” and “o’s”  to let them know Mommy and Daddy love them, filled with a few quarters and stickers (check…check)…and still I feel helpless.

Like a mother bird kicking her baby out of the nest uncertain whether it will fly or crash, I am nervous for them but know that I need to let them spread their wings and fly. . and I am sure that their flight will be magnificent, as soon as I can get that cushioning to break their fall, strap on their safety helmet and cheer them on enthusiastically…you can do it kids, I know you can…

God Sightings: Through the Eyes of a Six Year Old

“Mom, we have home work to do.   Well, not real home work.  There is no writing or studying.”

Thinking that my daughter was referring to the thick packet of worksheets and reading lists sent home from school for summer vacation, the very same packet that I inadvertently threw away, I  asked her to explain her homework more to me.

“We need to be on the look out for God sightings” she answered.

Then it dawned on me that this was homework from her vacation bible school.  I felt a sense of relief and peacefulness come over me.  Statements like that were the exact reason I signed the twins up for it.  It was why I had to color code my calendar in order to figure out how to coordinate and keep track of all the  transportation, child care and work schedules, sometimes cursing myself for trying to juggle so many things at once, feeling slightly like a masochist who brings unnecessary discomfort on them-self.   There have been countless moments where I thought, “Forget it. Why bother. They’ll never notice if they don’t go.”  But that quiet part of me that listens to unspoken wisdom whispered softly “This is important. Make the sacrifice. Find a way to get them there. Things will work out.”

My daughter proceeded.

“Do you know what God sightings are?  We each have to share one tomorrow.”

I mindlessly rattled off a list of things I thought were indicative of God’s presence, from rainbows to the child birth, then rambling on about Noah and God flooding the earth.  She replied in such an adolescent tone, not uncharacteristically precocious for her 6 years,

“Mom!”  As in, Mom you need to be quiet now! “I ALREADY  have one.”

She said it with such assertiveness and confidence that I was instantly intrigued and completely dumbfounded by what she might say next.

“Oh sorry honey” I said. “Tell me what your God sighting is.”

She answered “It is getting to see my mom and dad.”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me by my own ignorance and lack of insight.  She knew right a way that a God sighting means love.  Her response and insight was far simpler and more pure than I could have fathomed.

Then she asked “Mom, can a God sighting be when there is something bad?”

“Well, what do you mean honey?” I asked.

“I told them that Aunt Bev has cancer.  Can she have a God sighting too?”

Tears filled my eyes and both pride and sadness filled my heart.  I don’t know if I will ever stop being surprised by her insight or that of her brothers.  I explained that yes, Aunt Bev could have a God sighting and that sometimes God brings comfort and peace, acceptance, to people who are dying in pain if they are willing and trying to look for it.

Then she quickly changed the subject and began to describe the songs that they sang at vacation bible school.   She showed me the dancing and hand gestures that accompanied the words.   She broke out in song, singing sweetly, imperfect, and beautiful for her confidence.  She swayed her arms over her head, dancing in rhythm as she sang the words

Stand firm when life changes.

Stand firm through the ups and downs.

Stand firm, for you know that God is in control.

The storms of life will push and pull, but we are standing on the rock that never rolls.

Again, tears filled my eyes.  Is she six or is she an angel?

I gently asked “Do you know what that song means?”

She innocently replied, “No Mommy, will you explain it to me.”

I paused for a moment and said. “Well, honey, it means that some times it seems like life is so awful we are just going to die because of it.  It seems like everything bad is happening around us and it hurts us so badly that we think we  aren’t strong or brave enough to get through it.  But, we need to remember that God never gives us more than we can handle and if we put our faith and trust in him, then we will some how find the strength to survive even, when we think we can’t.”

“Oh” she said thoughtfully “I should sing this to Aunt Bev.”

Her astute clarity clouded my own as I fumbled for words, trying to choke back my cries for fear that she would think she said something wrong if she heard them.  I replied with a simple “Yes you should” but wish instead I had said “Oh my precious, sweet little girl, you should sing it for the entire world.”

Mothering a Sensitive Son

At age 6 my son is more a little grown up than child at times.  Yesterday as he picked out his new sneakers for school this fall he carefully compared the prices choosing the more affordable pair even though he preferred the ones that were colored green.  Given complete control of the situation and allowed the chance to choose any sneaker that he wanted, he made the practical choice.  I wouldn’t have ever done that as a child. Instead of listening to music on the radio he prefers the news.  One night, like usual, when I went up to tuck him in bed he had talk radio on, but a different station than normal.  He laid in bed on his back, his hands folded under his head and said “Mom, they are talking funny.”  I replied “because they are speaking in French.  Would you like me to change it?”  “No, it’s fine.” And he just laid there, listening until he fell asleep.  He’s done things like that for a few years now. Last night as we were driving home from a neighboring city he seemed a little more forlorn and withdrawn than is normal so I asked if he wanted to listen to the news on the radio and he let out a yelp of joy “Yeah! The news!” I’m not sure why his sister didn’t protest because she typically prefers the Top 40’s but she must have picked up on his sadness and decided to consent and placate to him as well.   As he grows I am beginning to see these patterns of sullenness emerge more frequently. It’s painful to recognize the familiarity in the way with which he isolates himself from his peers, hangs his head low and sits sad and forlorn because I remember doing the same thing as a child. I’ve heard him profess that some times he hates his life, that he always gets kids in trouble, that his life is not good.  I sit back and look at our house, look at his toys, the pool and the yard, we’ve done the DisneyWorld Vacation, he skis and has any video game that he wants.  He makes his bed, gets help for reading, and knows how to care for the dogs getting a quarter each time he feeds either one.  I scroll through my mental parent checklist: 1.) tell him you love him all the time, even when you are mad  (check) 2.) tell him you are always proud to be his mom, even when he makes mistakes (check) 3.) Make sure he has proper nutrition balanced with sweets and fun little treats (check) 4.) teach him responsibility by helping with chores (check)….there are a few more items, but every one I can think of I check off that it’s something I try to provide.  It is far more difficult to refrain from checking off my list of things I’ve done wrong, it’s hard not to blame myself when I see my child so sad.
Having walked the path of depression my entire life I fear that he will be cursed with my genetics just as he has  inherited my sensitivity and birthmark.   I always appreciated  that he has one that matches mine, almost the identical shape, but more faded and in a different spot because it made me feel more connected to him.  But now that feels like a knife to the heart when I watched him cover it with his hands in an attempt to hide when his uncle noticed it for the first time a few weeks ago.

I wonder if all parents worry about how they are doing raising their children and whether the degree to which I worry is actually normal or not. I wonder if there are parents that end up having healthy, loving, lasting, close relationships with their children and if so, how do they do it? Some days I am convinced that because I was dealt the hand of dysfunction that I will unintentionally instill it within my children, and to some degree I have already by creating discord and disharmony in my marriage. As I watch families I admire struggle with personality clashes that threaten to sever parent child relationships I wonder if there is any hope for me to get things right with my children.  I think  the odds are against me.

I know an elderly couple whom I respect greatly, both loving and kind professionals, depression era survivors, overcoming life’s endless challenges they raised a child who had bi-polar disorder during a time that little was known about it when the side effects of medications made functioning just as difficult as the disease itself. While he was in his twenties they lost their battle to the disease as he took his own life. I think about what that must have been like for them, the horror of losing their son that way. The feeling that you’ve failed in the worst way as a parent exacerbated by the ripple effects of those family dynamics that still echo today as they describe on going challenges that they face with their other two sons because of the focus they placed on the “troubled child.” They’ve told me the think they failed as parents to their healthy children because they didn’t attend to them enough.   They day we had this conversation I had felt that my world had been turned upon its head because I had no idea that they had gone through so much and felt that if they got things wrong, then surely I am doomed myself. As I watch the adult son of another couple rage against the flaws of his father I am so disheartened and discouraged, what chance have I got to get this right?  If people I admire and turn to for guidance and advice are challenged to rear sensitive sons how will I ever protect and buffer my child?  My heart is laden with sadness and fear.

Thinking about these things yesterday, I sat with my arm around my son at dinner.  Giving him a kiss on the cheek I pulled him close and whispered in his ear and asked “Do I tell you I’m proud of you enough?”  His reply was  “not really”  like a dagger through the heart.  There is a part of me that questions his answer, “could he be saying that just for attention?” “could that only be the way he feels in this moment” “what does he mean, I tell him I love him probably every day and that I am proud of him at least once a week!”  But then I realize maybe none of those things matter in this moment, it’s how he feels and maybe I should just honor it.

How do we know we are getting it right until something happens and we realize that we actually got it wrong but by then it is too late.

I Tried Not To Be Catholic

I fought against religion because my mother so intently evangelized God’s love and the power of Satan.    The fear that I would end up in Hell because I was not good enough is one that has torture my mind as long as I can remember.   I remember being afraid, so much so that I could not sleep at night.  “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”  What if God didn’t want me?  What if I wasn’t good enough and I died and he wouldn’t take me….I worried and worried and worried…never realizing that the prayer was meant to bring me comfort.  When you are a teenage girl who’s just been hurt by a boy, you don’t want to hear how weak you are because you allow the devil to influence you, you simply want a hug from your mom.  I never got that, so I turned my back on God in favor of alcohol and cigarettes.  I was 16 when stole my first bottle of my father’s scotch and hid it under my bed.  I knew it was wrong, that was why I did it.   I didn’t like the taste but I loved the burn.  When I felt angry or nervous I’d just take a shot, I don’t know that it ever got me drunk, but that wasn’t the point, it was the very act of being defiant.  Which is why I had a brief stint where I started to smoke.  The boy that had just broken up with me hated it, so I’d smoke just to prove my point, I was hurt, I was angry, I was reckless and I simply didn’t want to care, so I pretended I didn’t in hopes that I wouldn’t. . . I was lost and simply needed a hug from my mother and was angry at the God that my mother so passionately loved more than me.  I thought that if he were watching he had abandoned me.

It would be decades later before I realized that my story is more reminiscent of “Footprints” in the sand than of being forsaken by God.  So, despite my  attempts to futility fight against my Catholic faith, I am indeed Catholic and in the recent month I have been attending Mass three to four times a week and I find that on the days I don’t go, I miss it.  Part of me screams out “how the hell did THAT happen” while a part of me, in a calm and gentle voice soothingly chimes “of course it did.”  That doesn’t mean I accept and agree with every decision and belief disseminated from the Vatican.  My beautifully blessed children were conceived through in vitro fertilization, they’d not exist had I’d followed the church’s dogma devoutly.  I spent years searching for spiritual answers because I did not want to be small-minded in any way.  I thought that one denomination or religious view would constrict my lens and narrow my scope to the point that I became blind and ignorant.  Yet I have still settled into it and have accepted that may Catholic faith is as much about accepting things we do not embrace and daily practice just as much as Buddhism or any other spiritual belief.  I’ve come to recognize that the person who practices Reiki goes through cleansing rituals of fasting and meditation and believes in “laying of hands” just as intensely as a Christian might.  I recall the words of the Dalai Lama when he said that if we tried to feed the world only with wheat we would be ignoring all the people who only eat rice and that the reason they eat rice is because wheat does not grow where they live.  So in that, I believe that God appears differently to each of us and I took the long route to cut through the chase and simply accept him for who he is.  I suppose it is the accessibility, the simplicity, the tradition and my childhood roots that have brought me back to the Catholic Church with some gentle nudging and encouragement from a few influential people.  The noon day mass several blocks from my office, or a seven am service each day just makes it easy to be there.  A Sunday service that engages my children a block from their favorite restaurant allows me to feel I’ve done well and not tortured my kids through an hour of boredom.  Despite my growing devotion for the Catholic faith, I still quote Elizabeth Gilbert, when asked what type of God she believes in she replies “a mighty one.”

I scrutinize myself and worry, wondering how do I raise my children to embrace a religious belief when I felt so burned by God’s love in my youth?  My mother’s adoration of God somehow became perverse and distorted, her religious fervor fueling her emotional abuse and medical neglect.  I hated going to Sunday Mass, it was so boring, confusing and I never understood it.  She’d send us to Religious Education classes but instruct the nuns that we were not to learn the “Hail Mary” because we’d be worshiping false idols.  She didn’t want me to learn about evolution for that matter either. I remember the little things, like being put in a pink floral dress for First Communion and wondering why I wasn’t in white or the way my father would stop by the convenient store on the way home to buy the Sunday paper and purchase himself a coffee.  When he returned to the car the aroma of coffee and donuts emulsified through the air.  I remember always wondering why he never offered us anything, never brought us donuts or cocoa but simply lived in this world where there was only him and he had no affect on us.  Breathing in the belief that I didn’t matter along with the scent of coffee.   So it should come as no surprise that I have struggled to find a way to create a different experience of religion and faith for my children, one that is fun, intriguing, and happy.  One that brings comfort instead of fear.  One that brings acceptance instead of judgement and forgiveness not blame, at the same time I am redefining faith for myself.

When you attend Mass frequently you begin to notice the little things that go into the procession, the flow and beauty of the tradition.  there is so much I just never knew.  I find there are moments where I am touched by the spirit, flooded by the power and grace of the moment in the same way that I felt when I meditated.  These days I  often leave Mass feeling like I’ve just had an hour massage of my mind and spirit.  I think of the times that I went to Mass and felt nothing and angrily said “see, there God, it didn’t work” and used it as an excuse to never go back.  Yet I am reminded of the times I paid for a massage that failed to get the knot out of my back.  Instead of saying “see it didn’t work, this is a hoax, how foolish and stupid I was for trying,” I scheduled another and forked over more money.  I failed to realize that if Church didn’t work the first them, then I just needed to go back, I simply hadn’t prayed long enough.

Yesterday I went to Mass with my children and brought along my niece and my nephew (ages 7 and 3).  That meant that I waddled into church alone like a mother duck leading her flock, four children under the age of 7.  I reminded the twins that their cousins didn’t know what to do during Mass so it was their job to make sure they didn’t feel nervous and to help them through it.  I listened as my daughter grabbed the cards with the new Mass language and showed her cousin how to find the readings and hymns in the great big blue books that line the pews.  She showed her how to cross her arms for a blessing instead of communion and watched as my son held the hands of his cousin leading him down the aisle.  I sat with a child on my lap during the sermon, another one tucked under my arm, just soaking in the hour of contentment that they experienced simply by being with me.  I think back to my childhood and wonder whether I might have enjoyed Church more if it brought me an hour where my mother sat silent and simply hugged and snuggled with me.

At the end of the Mass before we exited the pew an elderly man approached me wearing a pastel yellow polo shirt. He walked up the aisle from the back of the Church, leaned over and embraced my arm.  His voice was soft and spoke kindly, warmly yet matter of factly, stating to me “You are an incredible mother.”  I felt my jaw hit the church pew and was quick to reply “Oh, only two are mine, the other are my niece and nephew.”  He simply smiled and tipped his head saying “It doesn’t matter” and walked away.  I stood shocked for a moment thinking to myself “how the hell did THAT happen” but quickly followed it with “of course it did.”

A Norman Rockwell Night

I decided to take the kids out for dinner tonight and I wasn’t surprised that the chose their favorite restaurant,  the one where we often go for breakfast after Sunday morning Mass.  It has these large over sized booths with tables that are far too high to sit comfortably in.  The seating is so awkward that it makes even the tallest adult feel like a child.  It’s the type of place where you can sit in the illusion of anonymity, where you hope a sideways glance or muffled conversation goes unnoticed, but in a small town it never really does.  But it’s at least clean and quiet and perhaps that’s why they like it, although I suspect it has more to do with the Oreo milkshakes than anything else.  As they ate their dinner, my children chattered away, discussing their upcoming summer break, the end of the school year picnic and the friends they will miss.  When all of a sudden,  my daughter spotted the pickle on my plate.  While she  was polite, she asked for it before I could got to take a bite.  You should know that there is a back story to my daughter’s pickle passion and it revolves around a grown up teasing her by saying that our pine trees really were trees where pickles nicely grew.  She was four or five at the time it started and the joke has only grown and so has her love for pickles, so much so that she insisted we plant plenty of “pickle bush cucumbers” in our garden this year because she wanted to see how pickles really grew.  So, being the enabling mom that I sometime turn into, I surrendered my pickle without a fight, knowing she’d enjoy it far more than me, except that I got great pleasure out of recalling the way she giggles when she finds a pickle tree pine cone.

After dinner the three of us agreed that we’d split a brownie sundae, so my son joined us on the bench, with me squished in the middle.  Soon there were three long sundae spoons diving in the bowl, scooping out dripping ice cream, gooey fudge, and chunks of chocolate brownie.   The kids were silent except for the smacking of their little lips.  And I just breathed them in.  I sat froze not from the treat but because of the perfection of the moment, a mom surrounded by her two precious children, all scooping a special treat out of a single bowl.  It was a Norman Rockwell moment.

On the drive home I handed each of the children a single lychee fruit for them to look at and to taste for the first time. I explained that I had gotten it while at work from a friend who had liven in India who used to eat the lychee fruit as a little child.  My daughter looked it over, grasped it in her hand and began to describe it by saying, “Mom, it looks like a strawberry but feels like a pine cone.”  I explained that it taste a little like a grape, that you peeled off the skin and ate the pulpy fruit and left the seed behind.  Then I told her it grew on a tree just like a pickle.  She just looked at me and rolled her eyes like, come on give me a break “Pickles don’t grow on trees Mom” was her reply.  She then asked if she could bring the fruit to school tomorrow to share with her class. I said of course quite quickly and she asked me to review the information she knew about the fruit.  She said “It is a fruit that grows in India.  It’s shape is like a strawberry but it tastes kind of like a grape.  It feels like a pine cone and it grows on a tree.”  And then I stopped and looked her square in the eyes and said ‘That’s correct.  It feels like a pine cone and it grows on a tree…just like pickles.”  And my precious little girl stopped in disbelief because for that split second she really thought that maybe pickles were pine cones after all and for that moment we both lived in a world where pickle trees existed.

Mothering My Children While Mothering Myself

How does a person mother their children when they’ve not been mothered themself?  How do you mother well when you don’t want to make it through the day?  How do you live with the fear that you are handing down your dysfunction to your beautiful innocent children?

If I’ve ever fought for anything, or been committed to something, it’s been my children.  But even that I’ve gotten wrong at times, having difficulty stepping out of myself to put my children first. Every once in a while, life provides me with a reminder that they are young and still need me.  Although I’m terrified that they’ve not gotten enough of the needed things from me.

The other night our puppy wandered off.  Our home is surrounded by some thick and bushy woods but sits off a road that cars frequently race down, so the danger for this young pup was very real.   My children knew it and through their heartfelt sobs and frenzied pace the ran about the yard, screaming out the name of their little dog.  I piled them in the car and rolled the windows down and as we drove slowly up and down the road, my precious little children yelled for him, cried for him, and told me they were scared.  It ripped my heart out of my chest to see my children in such pain and I couldn’t help or comfort them. 

I have a horrible defense mechanism that I wish would change, and I can’t control it, although I really try.  When I am feeling something that really really hurts, sometimes I get a nervous smile, or a little chuckle.  I hate it because it is the opposite of what I should be expressing in the moment, but like a nervous tic, an involuntary spasm, it just happens, always at the wrong time.  I had been thinking about how helpless I felt, how I could not protect them from pain, how my young children had learned to love this puppy more in one month than I’d learned how to love people in decades and it happened, the chuckle and the smirk.  And my son called me on it.  “Mom, why are you laughing, nothing is funny.”  A bullet through my heart, crap, he saw and heard it.  I think my reply was something stupid like “I feel sad for you right now, but the way you and your sissy love your dog just seems so very cute.”  What a crap reply.  He is smarter than that.

As we walked down our long and gravel driveway I watched my son comfort his sobbing sister.  Through her  heartfelt cries, she hollered for the rambunctious little pup, tears streaming down her face, she turned and looked at me and said “I hope he doesn’t die.”  My sensitive little man put his arm around her shoulder and said “Don’t worry, he’ll come back, we are going to find him.”  I reached for her hand, and together we all  walked in sorrow, our silence broken by a cry or a bellow of the puppy’s name.  We returned to the house and again walked around our rather large yard, in the pouring rain, screaming for the pup feeling hopeless.  Out of desperation I remembered a prayer  that a friend had taught me, one to say when something was missing.  So the kids and I gave it a try.  We had done it once before with no success, several months ago, so I was skeptical, but at the least it gave me a sense that I was actually doing something and it softened the hard edges of the sense of helplessness.  “St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around.  Something is lost and it needs to be found.”   Over and over again my children, in unison, yelled this to the air.   Thirty minutes of searching and still not a thing.  My mind was racing, thinking we’d never see the pup again.  My children coped with their stress by calling to St. Anthony while looking for clues,  “here’s his chain, this is a clue! He must have come this way.”  As we walked through the yard I stopped by my garden.  At this point I had felt we had searched as much as we could and if the dog did not return I’d start to make phone calls and engage additional help.  But my children were not ready to give up.  So when I stopped and started to tie my tomato plants to their stakes my son looked at me cross-eyed and suppressed his anger, very kindly and gently said “Mom, I know your plants are important, but why are you doing that now?”  Another bullet through the heart.  Another crap reply, something along the lines of “Well, I think we’ve looked as much as we can and that the most important thing is that we stay calm and that we just be outside and the puppy will hear us and he’ll come back.”  And then God smiled on me because no sooner had I finished that sentence that running through the woods, covered in mud and soaking wet, the puppy came bounding back home.

I simply cried with relief.  I no longer had to watch my children suffer in pain. My children thanked St. Anthony. I thanked God and then threw away the lasagna that had gotten cold and fed my children ice cream for dinner.

Yesterday while playing, my son fell off the hammock.  There were no major injuries, just childhood bumps and bruises, scratches and some scrapes.  But his pride and feelings were injured more than that.  While I worked cutting back some flowers and pulling up some weeds, I over heard the conversation between my children.  I heard my son tell his sister how he thinks he’s clumsy and said that other kids at school are mean and tease him because of it.  Then I heard him say “well, my life, it’s not that good.”  My precocious little daughter started to cry for him and said “You need to stop blaming yourself, there lots of things your good at.  You need to stop blaming yourself because it makes me sad.”  The wisdom of children.  How can I be a good mother to children who are so wise.  I was flooded with self-pity, insecurity and fear, convinced that I will damage them and that I am going to fail them. 

I didn’t want to interject but wanted to bring comfort to my small and sad child so I simply reminded my son that no one is perfect, we all have our flaws and that’s okay and there are many things he does well.  Quickly his sister and I rattled off a list of things he had done that were, well, just great.  But he didn’t buy it.  Sitting sad and forlorn, looking down at the ground he swung slowly on the swing.  I walked over and hugged him, reminded him I loved him, that I couldn’t ask for a better son, and then just let him sit in his sadness for a bit.

It wasn’t long before he’d forgotten all his pain and was splashing and laughing in the pool, remembering his excitement because he was going to a friend’s house later that day.  But I hadn’t forgotten and my heart still aches because I fear that I’m not getting this right.  I fear that he is getting my neurochemistry, that my madness has somehow damaged him, that I’ve somehow cracked his blank slate and am dooming him to a life time of dark misery.

How do you mother a child when you still need it yourself.  How do you keep from damaging your child when you’ve lived on a path of destruction?  And how do you undo the damage that you’ve already done?  I don’t know that I have the answers and it frightens me.