Parenting Advice: From Where I Sit Now.

My daughters are adopted.  They came to us at seven months of age.  They had been diagnosed as  having failure to thrive based on failure to double birth weight by age 6 months.  They both had thrush, ear infections in both ears, had been tested for cystic fibrosis and cleared, reflux, a respiratory infection coming on and impacted bowels.  The had 'flat affect'(didn't express emotion in facial expressions) and were bald on the backs of their heads, had not rolled over and couldn't sit up unassisted--as a result of having been left in car seats most of the time.

The pediatrician said to me, "If I adjust for prematurity, and I am not going to."  And proceeded to tell me what to do to bring their height and weight on the chart.  I did it.  I felt like a hero in an action movie...like a mommy Indiana Jones or better, Luke Skywalker -- checking in with Obi-Wan and going another round.

I watched them grow.  Put them on their tummies and they shot across the floor like wet soap.  I used cloth diapers(the old-fashioned kind, not your modern handrails and ramps version).  I was the only one who got stuck with a pin.  I stopped buying little bottles of baby food and fed them veggies I mashed with a fork, and rice I cooked and mashed myself with a little formula for richness.  There was no citrus, peanuts, dairy, corn, wheat or shellfish before age 12 months. I had them on a feeding schedule and a sleeping schedule.  At Obi-Wan's direction, they held a crayon correctly (actually, they grabbed it right the first time and ate it) and drank from a sippy cup before 12 months(Obi-Wan wanted the lid off and I decided not to have the mess).

One was 1/2" taller and 1lb. heavier at every doctor's visit.  Until the 14 months visit.  The smaller sister was an inch taller and a pound heavier.  She had gained the difference, plus what her sister gained, plus that much more.  Only time ever.

Mirror image twins, they preferred different hands, but Type A girl, finding a right-handed world, spent several months deciding the right hand would have to do.  She walked first, but rejected it for the infinitely faster, crawling.  Her smaller sister waited a week or two and stood up and walked away.

When they were about 3, something began to happen.  People began to say, "They're quite tall, aren't they."  Yeah.  They went to a bad gym for a few months.  In a 45 minute class, they sat for 35 minutes and then rec'd a backward disciplinary action (didn't get a stamp) for not paying attention.  They were 4.  What did they do while they were seated?  Watch the competitive team.  What did they do when they got home?  Whatever they saw the big girls do.  Fortunately, we were no longer able to continue with that program.  Or they might have broken their necks.

They are now taller than I am.  Both are of a healthy weight.  Their standardized test scores yielded a number of scores ranking among the highest of national comparisons.  They don't need braces, even though they sucked their fingers until they were 5 and 9 respectively.

They are stunning.  They don't really know or see what I see go on around them.  I am protecting them from some of it. (One day I might calm down enough to blog about perverts in Taco Bell, but probably that's a tale you won't hear.) I have been asked why they don't try modeling.  Because it is imperative to raise girls who don't derive their sense of worth from their appearance.  Modeling at age 14 would be counter intuitive to that purpose and mission.

They are fast. They qualified for AAU Track and Field Junior Nationals.  Had we been able to go, they would have participated in high jump and the 4x100 relay.  Tuesday, Type A came in second to a high school aged guy who is studying to be fast.  I told her to catch him next time, so I could laugh.

They were struggling in the summer. There was a girl in their division who was in everyone's heads.  I told them to imagine there were two chicken legs on a plate in the kitchen.  The three of them are watching tv and I say, "there are two chicken legs."  Okay, kids, Whose chicken legs are they?

Both said, "Mine."

I said, "It belongs to who gets there first."

They beat her*.

Am I bragging?  I don't know.  I just showed up.  They did the rest.  Mostly, I am keenly aware that I am only good for analogies.

New mom, yes, you.  Especially the one that the doctor said, "label, could be label, 40% will label, label, label....but perhaps if you are lucky, only label."

God chose you to parent this person.  Some days will suck.  You are going to yell.  You are going to cry.  Maybe for days.  You are going to have to forgive them for doing stupid shit.  They are going to get hurt and you are going to hate God for a little while because He let it happen.

Then you are going to stand your ass up.  Dust yourself off and quit pouting.  You are not going to parent by statistic or by popular vote.  You are going to parent your child.  Your way.  You are going to give your life away.   You are the mom.

 

I chose to write on Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop, prompt 5, Advice to new mothers.

Preview

I am sharing my awesome with Jennifer at:

Once Upon Everyday

I shudder to think of the times I am wasting.  Shut up in the house, irritating my kids.  "Smearing around; making messes" (this is one of the phrases my children will use to imitate me at some point).  Underachieving. Be honest. You can tell.

I follow Anna See's, An Inch of Gray.  Last week she lost her son.  I hadn't been there much, because she is a phenomenal writer and ethereal.  I fee like a poser.... okay, yeah.  I already covered that.  He was 12.  She posted what she had read for his funeral.  It was gorgeous.  Lavish.

I realized if my child were swept away tomorrow, I couldn't write such a post.

My husband had just finished telling me about a guy he knew when he was in high school, who has accomplished such a lot in his life.  His website says his resume reads like a fairy tale.

No one ever expected anything of me, and I have not disappointed.  I am dissatisfied.  I feel I have missed the mark.  "It is amazing what you have been able to acheive, coming from such dysfunction."

No.  People have come from worse circumstances than I did and done much greater things.  I have missed the mark.  Scripture says:: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.  Nothing is impossible with God.  All things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose.

I have to figure out how to do what I am supposed to be aimed at.  I am moved to know my kids better.  We made a good start today.  I am going to start the household projects I have been putting off.  We have to live here, this isn't a rest stop on the highway of life(though it was smelling like one when the weather was hot).  I want it to be a place of refreshing for a traveler on the way. Not a truck stop.  More like the Inn at Blackberry Farm.  Well, since I am starting from zero, somewhere in between.  Actually, that was my dream as a kid.  For my house to be a destination.  Where people would just show up and hang out.  Drink tea.  Crash if necessary.

In a few weeks, I will have lived in this house longer than I have lived in any place.  Five years and five months.  Sometime in late October.  Maybe that's why I had that vision of home while I was so little.

I don't really know what I am trying to say.  I use the blog to think through things.  We only go around once.  We don't know how long it's gonna last.  We need to live like there is no tomorrow.  I want to do things differently.  Be more present.  Have no regrets.

~just got up and groused with a child over something stupid~

Am I even qualified?  Will I just disappoint again?  Which things are important?  Where do I focus my energy?  How much do I let them lead(cell phones all around!!!) and how much do I just lay it out there for them to appreciate someday when they are grown..?

"Her everyday life read like a fairy tale."

Cousins Are Where It's At

Since the weekend, I have known that dear blog friend, Jennifer's, cousin Dalton was seriously injured in a four-wheeler accident.  She has asked for prayer for all the family and the doctors and the details.  We are praying.  And God is answering.

I have cousins.

They are the siblings I don't have.  Even my cousins who have brothers and sisters say we are more like sibs than cousins(or maybe cousins are just supposed to be like this and it is one of the things our family did right).

If this had happened (and if they called me), I would be as concerned as Jennifer is about Dalton.  If any of these people's kids, I would want to be called on to pray.  I would want God to hear us cry out.

I would consider it a profound privilege to intercede for the healing of my cousins' babies.

Jennifer is an online friend.  And an IRL friend.  No need to ask that silly question here.

Please jump over to her post @Momma Made It Look Easy to get the details, and join us.

Say It To My Face

Dear Face,

I owe you an apology.   I know better.  You look a wreck and it is all my fault.  I could blame the stress, old age or diet.  In reality, we both know it is the crappy makeup and skin care to which I have been subjecting you.  Truth be known, we both feel the difference.

Back in the day, the "gift with purchase" was to me, like Everclear to a sorority pledge.  I had no idea what was going on until my defenses were down and I had no favorite.  I loved everybody-- Lanc*me, L@uder and Clini&ue (sounds like a law firm); everybody was welcome.  I couldn't wait until the next "Beauty Event" and hung around the mailbox to catch the invitation when it came.  Yet there is not a 12 step program for those who NEED the feel of the good stuff.

No one cares.  It is only you and me, and I am sorry for how badly I have treated you.  I promise to only treat you with the tender loving care to which you are entitled.  I promise never to put that horrid base, that feels like cream of mushroom soup, on you again.  I promise only to call you clean when I have used at least three steps.  Not because Three is magic, but because I want to be deliberate.

Yes, I have read the awesome book.  I know what the author says.  I feel I can make us all happy.  But it may take some time. I am sorry you have been the one to pay the price.  It should have been me.  Please give me a second chance, Face.

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What is the best thing you ever did for your face?  What is the worst?

Parenting Teens: a Guide for the Teen

Sooner or later, we deal with the teen years.  As a teen, as the parent of a teen, or as someone who is still waiting for a drink at the freaking Sonic.  In the scheme, we are just inside the door of these precious moments with twin fourteen year-old girls.

Yet.

We are already the veterans of the learning curve. We've upgraded our b.s. detectors.  As such, we have some pointers for those who think they know it all already, the teens.

GUIDE TO PARENTING THE TEEN YEARS FOR THE TEENS

1. Quit.  You are not parenting me. I had a mom.  She got to clock out when I took over for myself.  Over 25 years ago.  Stop weighing in on adult decisions about which you have not been consulted.  Just stop it.

2.  Trust.  You don't need to know why.

3. Stop talking.  You literally have nothing to say.  The things that come out of your mouth make me worry that you are, in fact, schizophrenic.  No.  Really.  No apparent connection with reality.  Your sister has noticed.

4. Wear clothes.  You are doing pretty well.  Just to be clear, current fashion is exactly 'late 80s prostitute'.  Forget about it.  I don't care if EVERY other girl is wearing it.  That is EVERY other parents' problem.  You don't have to have self-respect; you just have to go around looking like you do.

5. Not really.  Respecting yourself is simple.  You deserve the best.  Keep your bathroom nice.  Stop digging stuff out of the hamper and spraying it with odor eliminator.  Change your freaking sheets.  If a friend is doing something stupid, invite her to do something else; if she refuses, walk away.  Be yourself.  You are cool.  If someone doesn't like that.  That is fine.  You will find someone you really connect with.

6. School. Just to have this out on the table, do NOT leave another thing until the last minute.  The, "I need a map now, and I won't help with dinner, that's your job and I am going to style my hair for practice and I told you I needed it," shtick is a one and done.  There won't be a next time.

7.  Parenting.  I am still parenting your siblings.  Why don't you step back?  I mean it.  I am right here.  Why don't you hold yourself to the same high standard you hold them?  All you manage to do is let me know you know exactly where the standard is when you aren't meeting it.

8.  Roll your eyes. Just one more time. So help me.

9.  You are just tall.  Being tall doesn't give you wisdom, anymore than being a good cook makes me run faster. You have parents because you are large and have a lot of information, but no common sense.  We are here to protect you until you have figuratively slammed your hand in enough doors to figure out not to place your hand on figurative stoves or stick figurative bobby pins in proverbial electrical outlets.  This is why I say, "Uuuuse Your Miiiiind-uh," so much.

10a.  I love you.  Stop slamming through life.  Two people may or may not have sustained injuries this week, due to your charging around. Get your elbows off the table.  Chew with your mouth closed.  Take smaller bites. Don't scream when you laugh or sneeze. SIT LIKE A LADY.  NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT. 

10b. I see that you want a boy or five to think you are cute. I appreciate your description of what is and is not dating(blog fodder to be sure) and your illumination of the difference between my archaic use of the term "like" and the modern use.  BUT. You are NOT going to be dating( or "not dating" either) for awhile, so you have plenty of time to work on becoming who you are so you don't need validation by a boy.  Pretty is as pretty does (see 10a).  Even the most gorgeous woman who is mean or stupid or acts like Mr. Ed at the table will be passed over for a less striking lady who is nice to herself and EVERYONE else.  Boys like pleasant humans.  (Ironically, I am encouraging you to have better manners to impress boys you can't date.  I am not ashamed.  I am tired of looking at your food and if I can use a boy to get what I want, that's fine.  It's a victimless crime.  Don't do what Mommy just did, Girls.)

Your dad is an architect. What he builds represents him.  I am a mom of girls.  What I build represents me.  I know what is in you.  You are beautiful, never sick, always enthusiastic and have never attempted anything without success. And you have great hair.  The world is freaking yours for the taking.  I am here to give you direction, and apply the brakes when necessary.  If you get yourself under control, I won't need to apply the brakes so often.

I am sharing my awesome with Jennifer...

Blessed are the Gentle; And the Rest of Us, Too.

I haven't like the sound of my last few posts. I can't stand the sound of my own voice. This was a huge problem for me on the other blog, as well.  I sound so cranky.  I want to be gentler.

A friend gave me Ann Voskamp's book.  I was stirred; I was shaken. I was irritated.

She is smooth and consistent.  She feels deeply and experiences the support of her husband and his brothers and thousands of fellow bloggers and thankers.  She thanks God. She doesn't complain. She is grateful. She is called to call others. She is a good girl, and look how God has blessed her.  I realize the point is gratitude, and knowing God better through obedience to Him.  I got that.  I got that right quick and then sat and marveled at the seamlessness of her voice.  If I could strum the strings like that, I would be really, really thankful.

I know.  Hilarious. (Just like the fact that she is another blogger whose book I read and said, "Totally worth the fuss.")

I know if she were to read this post she would slap her lyrical forehead with the heel of her poetic hand and think, "Ribbons of moonlight swirled through the window as I read another stupid idiot's point-missing post."...or some such.

Woe to me, if I skim along the surface and try to be more poetic when I thank God for closer parking spaces and Fanta Grape. I want to dig down deep.  My deep.

I want to be gentler.  Calmer.  More confident. But I want a gentler me.  Not my imitation of someone else's gentleness, or their voice.

As I read, I became more and more acutely aware of the danger of making the list(you can link your list to her blog, weekly) to impress the author, or the other women, rather than to find your own thousand.  Just between you and God.  To try to make a poetic list, rather than a spiritual quest to restore thankfulness to its pivotal role in relating to God personally.  Which I need to do desperately.  Desperately.  But.

My voice is sardonic(yes, there is exactly a word for it) . It just doesn't sound like the babbling of a brook on the Canadian prairie.  It sounds like an air wrench in the automotive center at W-M. Sadly, I just don't think it's going to change.

Created in the image of God, every person, every culture, every style, every voice expresses a view of Him that cannot be complete without every piece fitted together.  For every lyricist, there is a [non-poet] whatever we may be. 


What are you?  Poet? Wise Acre? Or Someone who...?

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...on an unrelated topic...every time I look at a blog these days, a blogger has scooped a topic  I have thought of and may even have a post underway on it.  Is that a good sign or a bad one?  I don't want to seem like I am going around copying.

WW: A Food Story.

 No kidding.  It got like this.

 

 Attitudes suffered.

 Not all of them.

I hate don't love doing this with the whole crew along.

I was dancing, too. No, I mean I was literally dancing in the aisle at the store.

I wonder if mercy and grace taste like ice cold milk

Linking with Wordful Wednesday at...