a couple of months ago, when our good friend and neighbor steve passed away suddenly, andy and i dreaded telling the monkey. steve was to the monkey as mr. wilson was to dennis the menace: the object of affectionate and well-meaning pestering. (steve’s patience, however, far exceed that of mr. wilson!) 

the comings and goings of “buddy steve,” marked by the roar of a diesel engine, were more accurate and dependable measures of time for the monkey than the PBS children’s television lineup. and that’s saying a lot.

so, when i tearfully explained to the monkey that buddy steve had passed away, i braced myself for heartbreaking four-year-old despair. instead, the monkey simply said,

“okay. can i go play now?”

the heartbreaking four-year-old despair came yesterday, as the monkey was recalling how buddy steve and andy had fixed his sink eight or ten months ago. “buddy steve died,” he informed me. “but daddy’s never going to die.”

part of me wishes that i had simply lied to the monkey and affirmed his notion that his daddy will live forever. instead, i told him that nobody lives forever. then, both of us came unraveled as he applied this theory to mommy, himself, and finally to “the whole wide world.” with tears streaming down his face, he crawled into my arms and wailed,

“the whole wide world is going to die.”

then, in what i believe was actually an appropriate action of disbelief and rage, he pitched a fit which resulted in a swift headbutt to my right cheek bone.

the rest of the day and evening were marked by periodic and tearful conversations about death and the same kinds of hopeful promises i remember hearing from my mom and dad, that we are going to be around for a long, long time. i believe it’s our job to give the monkey a sense of stability. i also believe we are to ease him into the notion that the world is not all rainbows and butterflies.

the latter, in all of its various forms, just might be the most excruciating task of parenting.

the scene unraveled quickly.

our annual trip to the pink palace enchanted forest began as it usually does, with unbridled excitement about the escalators leading to the exhibit. with spirits elevated, the boys quickly embraced beloved out-of-town friends before bounding into the faux snowy cave, dimly lit by christmas lights and animated by the same motorized woodland creatures that enchanted me as a child. there was a happy sort of pandemonium as the kids frollicked amidst the sights and sounds, pausing only occasionally under the hypnosis of what is sure to be the world’s largest and most detailed electric train set.

as we settled into the line for santa visits and photographs, i fished a wad of pipe cleaners from my purse to occupy the boys. in a previous life (otherwise known as the day before), pipe cleaners were highly revered and even trance-inducing.

however, in this scene, they were apparently a blaring disappointment. the monkey flippantly asked for “another surprise,” at which point i explained that there were no more toys in my purse.

what followed was every mother’s worst nightmare: public humiliation in slow-motion. the monkey hit me three times, despite my very clear and intermittent 1-2-3 magic-style warnings about the consequences of such behavior. i was left with no other choice but to cut the outing short and head for the car.

i held the monkey’s mid-section under my right arm while he kicked, screamed, and flailed his arms. this allowed me to chase down the escaping bird, who was suddenly deep in conversation with a singing, snow-dusted squirrel.

source: jupiterimages.com

i heard an acquaintance utter my first and last name to her friend, and i turned around just in time to glimpse the ultimate sign of judgement: her pointer finger.

during this befuddled pause, i inadvertently loosened my grip on the monkey just long enough for him to make a break for it. as i chased the monkey through a sea of themed christmas trees and parenting-horror-show spectators, the bird teetered dangerously on the edge of the escalator. in the day’s only redemptive moment, i was able to snag the monkey and return to the bird just in time to prevent his impending tumble.

we provided another ten minutes of this entertainment before we made it to the car, and as i drove home to the now familiar soundtrack of the monkey’s wailing protests, i reassured myself with recollections from 1-2-3 magic. i remembered the notion that sometimes parents have to punish everybody, ourselves included, to get the point across. i replayed the author’s insistence that humiliation is a small price to pay for the future reward of well-behaved children.

but seriously. is there any other job in the world in which you’re not doing it right unless you look like a complete idiot?

after the “disenchantment,” the monkey was an angel for the rest of the day. 1-2-3 magic did pay off. but there was something about his demand for “another surprise” and his sense of entitlement during the pipe cleaner incedent that makes me want to read yet another book: the price of privilege.

one of the best parts of facilitating this little makeshift blog is that readers regularly send me recent and provocative articles about the state of modern motherhood. thank you, and keep ’em coming!

the last two articles i received are friction-inciting commentaries on the cultural construction of motherhood. one deliniates the high child nurturing standards held by american women. the other investigates the high career-related standards held by this same set. taken together, these articles reveal a veritable fog of ridiculous expectations obscuring nearly every aspect of women’s lives.

the first is a wall street journal article by erica jong describing the attachment parenting craze as a sort of self-inflicted prison for mothers, who, despite their best kid-wearing, cloth-diapering, baby-food-making efforts are never able to meet the socially accepted standard for mothering, which was created in large part by dr. sears. but no matter what one’s thoughts are regarding attachment parenting, it’s hard to disagree with jong’s lament: “rarely does a new mother hear these golden words: “do the best you can; there are no rules.”

the second article is jessica olien’s slate magazine exploration into the culture of motherhood in the netherlands, where part-time work, outings with friends, and self-care are celebrated ways for moms to spend time. as opposed to the guilt felt by american mothers who remove themselves from the full-time workforce, dutch women do not seem to link their self-esteems to their workforce prowess. the conclusion is that the drive that american women have assumed in order to further women’s progress has “set us up for a world in which none of us is having any fun.”

olien writes,

“…american women as a whole are not getting any happier. if anything, the studies show that we are emotionally less well-off than we were before.”

high standards have the potential to launch us into more meaningful, productive, and useful lives. but perhaps something has gotten lost in translation between our feminist fore mothers, who constructed domestic co-ops and deconstructed glass ceilings, and those modern women who have inherited big tasks that have somehow become detached from the big dreams that birthed them. what was once a grand vision of equality seems now to feel more like a universal clamoring for perfection in every arena. the guilt that ensues squelches the kind of big dreaming that women once had for the state of the world. and so, in the words of jong, we reduce our visions to the scope of our homes and families. “[we] substitute our own small world for the world as a whole.”  

standards ought to be the bi-product of dreams, the way they came into this world in the first place. so perhaps the key to generating a world that is fairer (and for heaven’s sake, MORE FUN) is to leave our faithful posts as the keepers of the rules and ideals. if we join the ranks of the dreamers, perhaps the standards we generate will make more sense in our contexts. perhaps standards will not imprison us but free us. but the only way to get there is to start where the women before us started: with a vision of a better life.

i love me some note cards.

i never leave home with out them. they are the perfect place to record a genius idea, deposit toddler scribbles, and spit out used gum. i wrote all of my school papers, from tenth grade through graduate school, by putting one fact one each note card, arranging them into themed stacks, putting the stacks in order, and settling down in front of my computer in the midst of a veritable note card village. i even wrote my most recent homily this way.

when i started the re[frame] productivity system for creative people a few months ago, it wasn’t so much because i had friends who had successfully completed the program and were happy with the results. nor was the main draw its enticing low price of $42 for six weeks worth of daily emails explaining a detailed process in simple, attainable steps. it was the note cards, folks. i loved the idea of writing one “to do” on each note card and organizing them in a cute little box under headings for each day of the week. so excited was i about the power of this little box and its contents to transform my chaotic world that i diligently worked the note card system for months.

during this time, i returned emails and phone calls promptly, sent school picture money back on time, made headway on long overdue projects (the sewing room reorganization, for example), and developed a regular schedule for household tasks such as doing laundry and making dinner. i was the very picture of productivity. the problem was that i wasn’t feeling very creative anymore.

there was no time to whip up crazy pants for my boys in my newly organized sewing room. i began having visions of things i wanted to paint or cook, but there wasn’t time to bring them to life. i pictured myself (and still do) dropping by amro music of an afternoon, renting a fiddle, and spending “free time” indulging myself and horrifying others with the excruciating cacophony only a beginning fiddler could produce.

so for the last six weeks or so, i have abandoned my dear note cards. we are living in piles of laundry and dirty dishes but the laundry now contains several pairs of fabulous new crazy pants for the kids, and the dirty dishes are the result of creative cooking experiments. i have devoured a few great books (both the for-fun kind and the brain-stimulating kind) but there are an embarrassing number of unread emails in my inbox.

i generally prefer allowing my intuition to guide me from one task to the next. the only problem is that my intuition is not so good at taking care of business. and after a while, it becomes evident that i need things like friends, and clean underwear, and an unsoiled mug for my coffee. 

so today, i’m getting back on the re[frame] wagon. i’m returning to the world of note cards. however, instead of attacking every piece of unfinished business in my life the way  my dog attacks his breakfast (in an near-violent frenzy), i’m going to take a more measured approach. i have only one goal for the week, and that is cleaning out the bird’s closet. i know there must be clothes to fit this child in there somewhere!

is there any way to be both productive and creative at the same time? or is this particular brand of balance just another part of a mother’s quest for pie-in-the-sky equanimity? i think i’ll just write these questions on note cards and carry them around in my purse.

at the end of august,a complex idea was conceived. the monkey stated his halloween intentions in great detail, and a committee (comprised myself and the monkey) was formed to carry out the tasks at hand. feather boa… check. tie dyed union suit… check. homemade mask… check. facepaint… check. the result was one very happy “rainbow kitty cat,” and two parents who fell asleep last night knowing that we did the right thing by letting the monkey be the monkey.

we did, however, impose our own halloween ideations on the bird, who rocked the neighborhood as elvis (the rock star, not the webkinz mountain goat).

next year, the boys probably won’t even need costumes. they’ll just smile and reveal their rotted out teeth — a consequense of this halloween’s tootsie rolls and smarties. perhaps i should dress as a wicked dental hygienist. time to form a committee.

as someone who seeks middle ground motherhood between the extremes of june cleaver and superwoman, i must take a minute to reflect on the recent death of barbara billingsly, the woman who brought june to life, warm rolls to the dinner table, and visions of peaceable family existence into the american consciousness.

image from cultureblues.com

 june never ordered takeout. she never poured herself a glass of wine at exactly five o’clock. she never forgot to shower or brush her teeth. she gave her full attention to her children and husband, even while whipping up culinary delights and wearing recently ironed clothing. some viewers saw reflections of their own family lives in the cleaver household and derived a sense of okay-ness from such screen-lit similarity. others escaped their own family dysfunction and entered a miraculous world where all conflicts were resolved neatly at episode’s end. for all of the flack that i have given billingsly’s character for helping to create monolithic and impossible standards for wives and mothers, even i must admit one thing. the mothers who came before us, those who gave expression to their gifts and desires during a time when there were fewer options for doing so, cannot be faulted for aspiring for and achieving near-perfection in the realms over which they had charge. there is something to be said for doing a good job, even if that job is more narrowly defined.

yesterday’s “my thoughts” column by bill haltom  in memphis’ commercial appealwas about the reassurance june cleaver brought into american homes during the time of sputnik, bomb shelters, and fears of war with russia. haltom writes,

“And then there was June, the quintessential 1950s mom. While Sputnik in the skies above terrorized us, the very down-to-earth June Cleaver reassured us that everything was going to be OK. She wore pink dresses and beautiful white pearls. She stayed at home while Ward went to the office and Wally and Beav went to school with Larry and Eddie…. 

It was the American family at its best. It was America at its best — America at work, at school, at peace, at home.”

was this really “the american family at its best?” perhaps this was merely television at its best — distracting, inspiring, giving viewers a brief respite from their anxieties. this kind of simplistic nostalgia is unhelpful for those of us who are attempting to take the realities of today — the thrilling and overwhelming abundance of choices many women now possess — and construct authentic lives of meaning and contribution. 

i’d like to think that barbara billingsly was willing to re-imagine women’s roles in a way that her character, june, was not. perhaps this kind of resolve is what led her to play the cameo part of “the jive lady” in the movie airplane in 1980. i leave you with this little clip. perhaps i could even say that it is american film at it’s best…

friday and saturday brought us back topinecrest, the presbyterian camp where andy and i both spent time as campers and counselors. i officiated a five o’clock wedding there in the beautiful new chapel, so we packed up the whole fam damily and left memphis around noon. after the hour’s drive, there was plenty of time to enjoy the fall day in the country before the shin-dig.

i could write a whole post about what it’s like to try to keep up with two small boys at a wedding. there was the part where i was making small talk in the food line while the monkey engulfed himself in my dress and wrapped his body around my legs, the scene where the bird ran off into the wooded darkness, the ten minutes before the ceremony that i spent frantically looking for drawing paper for the monkey, and the constant and desperate begging for slices of the not-yet-cut wedding cake.

but this is not a post about the split second it takes for my family to turn a party into a circus. this is a post about marrying young.

the ages of the bride and groom were a topic of conversation among dismayed family and friends during the wedding weekend. the bride is 22 and the groom is 21, which makes them a year younger than andy and i were when we got married and several years older than the bride’s parents when they got married. modern wisdom suggests that it is best to do a bit of growing up before one joins one’s life to another, and though this was not my experience, i certainly see the value in doing so. but it seemed appropriate, in celebrating this couple’s courtship and marriage, to highlight the particular challenges and joys that arise when the newlywed years contain the decisions and experiences brought about by college, graduations, grad schools, vocational discernment, and watching cake boss on tv. here are some excerpts from my homily:

[Groom] and [Bride], “people are going to say that you are too young to get married.”

At least, these were the words of [Bride’s] dad, who warned his daughter of such nay saying.

 Then, he shared his own experience of marrying early, and of the grand privilege it is to grow up with one’s partner. There is something to be said for learning life’s lessons together in young adulthood… and in every age and stage to follow.

[Groom’s] sister chose and read scripture from 1^st Peter for this service, and, [Groom and Bride,] I cannot think of more fitting words for you. These words are a call for all people of faith to discern what our God-given gifts are, and to use these gifts to uplift those around us.

 This kind of discernment is ongoing, of course, but the crash course in self-discovery happens when we are young. This means that by marrying early, you will be doing the kind of work together that many people do alone…

…We are all here to celebrate the life you are building together, your shared journey of faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms. Let this be so, in young adulthood…. and in every age and stage to follow.

of course, there was much  more to it than this, but while i was delivering the homily, i had one of those rare (for me) preaching experiences where i was actually feeling the words and saying them at the same time. all weddings are supposed to be a time for all of those in partnership to celebrate their lives together but at this occasion, it was especially natural and easy for andy and me to celebrate our marriage. we were in a place where we did some growing up together, and 17 years after we chased campers around the pines, we found ourselves chasing our very own children among those same old trees.

there is no one right time to get married, but marrying young was right for us. it was right for the parents of saturday’s bride, and it seems right for the newlyweds, who are presently honeymooning in st. lucia — the same place andy and i went after our wedding 11 years ago.

andy and i have never exactly been the late night partying type. even before the monkey and bird hit the scene, we could rarely stay awake for so much as a late movie. i know. it’s pitiful.

but even now that our late-night drowsiness is justified by early rising and toddler-chasing, we still love to imagine ourselves as the kind of people who can stay out past ten o’clock without turning into pumpkins. we set our sights on an occasional party or the midnight bike tour, for example, arrange for the kids to spend the night with their grandparents, and count down the days ’til our big blowout.

but something always happens in that liminal time after we drop off the kids but before we arrive at our destination. the thought of simply going to bed at 6:30 creeps its way in, and in an instant, our wild self-ideations are replaced with the allure of an entire night of uninterrupted rest, complete with comfortable pajamas, bad television, and takeout supper.

i have no idea why andy and i were able to resist the bed’s magnetic force last night. we came thisclose to bagging our plans to hear our favorite college band, jackopierce, play at the levitt shell. and i will admit that it wasn’t until we were sitting snugly on our quilt listening to the soundtrack of our college days that we turned to each other and said,

“i’m really glad we came!”

don’t get me wrong. sleeping is still my all-time favorite activity. but last night i remembered that listening to good music, re-living good memories, and resisting the rut can be energizing too.

and p.s. if you want to know what cary and jack have been up to, check out this link.

i am not a science person, and i never took physics. perhaps this is why i have managed to reach the age of 34 without fully grasping the simple concept that i cannot be two places at once. but andy’s three-day out-of-town conference last week was just the crash course i needed to fulfill my “knowing one’s limitations” requirement.

lesson one occured at memphis botanic gardens’ big back yard, where i encountered another mom, who was expertly holding her ten-week-old while her three-year-old was tentatively exploring.  

i, on the other hand, darted frantically from one child-in-constant-motion to the other. the bird fell, the monkey was hogging the slide, the bird nibbled on someone else’s lunch, the monkey needed help finding the mallets for the “house of rock,” the bird was dangerously close to the creek, the monkey…

wait! where was the monkey? hiding in the worm hole. cool.

only this wasn’t so cool with the aforementioned mother, because while my attention was on the monkey, the bird was playing with the enticing gadgets on her ten-week-old’s empty stroller.

i scooped up the bird in a flurry of apologies. she said nothing but went to work on the stroller with wet wipes.

the big back yard is just that — big. but no matter how far we strayed from the perturbed mother and her statuesque children, the bird always managed to find his way back to her alluring collection of stroller toys. when she started scolding the bird and yanking him away from the empty stroller, i knew it was time to go. i also knew that in about a year, when her baby is walking, this mother would be joining me in the impossible attempt to be in two places at once.

lesson two occurred at the end of my solo-parenting duty, just as i was congratulating myself for maintaining patience, relative calm, and a sense of adventure while andy was away. the phone rang, and a kind and gentle church parishioner on the other end of the line expressed legitimate disappointment that i had not visited his family during a very critical time they had experienced in the previous few days, the same few days i spent playing the roles of mom, dad, and cruise director for my kids.

i was, and still am, riddled with guilt.

i’m also frustrated that in many cases for me, quality ministry and quality parenting are mutually exclusive. but no matter how hard i try, i cannot be in two places at once. sometimes being fully present to one child means being only marginally present to the other. sometimes providing stability during a critical time for my children means not providing empathy during a critical time for parishioners.

this is the reality of my life right now, one that i am having a hard time embracing. even i were a science person, i cannot change the laws of physics.

“i have such a good life, i want to appreciate it more — and live up to it better” (13).

this is gretchen rubin’s explanation for why she has written the happiness project, an account of her year-long experiment to increase her appreciation for life. and this is also my explanation for why i wanted to read her book. rubin takes seriously current research that purports that 50 percent of one’s level of happiness is genetic, 10 to 20 percent is tied to life circumstances, and the “remainder is a product of how a person thinks and acts” (6).

after a period of introspection about what sorts of factors affect her personal level of happiness, rubin comes up with 12 goals and works on one each month. included in the happiness project are things like being mindful and paying attention to life’s details, reading more, staying in touch with friends, and lightening up her parenting approach. the idea is that readers will come up with their own particular sets of goals and carry out their own experiments in happiness. but there does seem to be one universal cornerstone of happiness, valued so highly by rubin that she makes it her goal for january. in a word, this factor is…

rubin sites research that suggests that “along with tight work deadlines, a bad night’s sleep [is] one of the top two factors that upset people’s daily moods” (19). furthermore, “getting one extra hour of sleep each night would do more for a person’s daily happiness than getting a $60,000 raise” (19).

the critical reading glasses i learned to don in college and grad school make me want to question these assertions. but the parent in me knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the importance of sleep could never be overstated. sleep is everything. without it, chasing a toddler feels like running against the wind with a parachute on your back.* with sleep, it’s possible to host a play date, cook dinner, deal with a sick dog, talk to one’s boss on the phone, and smile — all at the same time.

i’m not sure whether or not i’ll conduct my own happiness project. what i do know is that i am completely sold on the benefits of a sleep project. in fact, i’ve already started. last night i got ten uninterrupted hours of sleep. that’s right, TEN HOURS! but i’m on vacation, and my parents are keeping my kids. the real test will come on wednesday, when i return home to my kiddos and routine. will i go to bed earlier or succumb to the mind-numbing television that i dearly love?

oh, and if you’ve just put your kids to bed and you are up too late reading blogs, go to bed! when you wake up, you’ll feel like $60,000 dollars.

[source info for this post can be found on the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

*as i tried to think of metaphors that fully describe the difficulty of feeling sleep-deprived while chasing a toddler, all i could think of were other things pertaining to parenting a toddler. as it turns out, being sleepy while chasing a toddler is like pushing a stroller up hill, snagging a toddler from the stairs 50 times a day, looming over a toddler in the baby pool, cleaning up after a toddler eats yogurt, et cetera. in short, chasing a toddler on four hours of sleep is like, well, CHASING A TODDLER ON FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP!