Thursday, August 10, 2017

Repeat As Needed: "It's Going to be OK"

Off and on for the past week, I've felt vaguely anxious.  I haven't been able to pinpoint why, or particularly about what, but I've been the slightest bit off.  I mentioned it to my husband, who said that he felt the same way.  Then he added, "The semester is starting soon.  We're in that holding pattern again."

Light bulb moment.  My anxiety was merely a byproduct of looming unknowns.  I'm waiting on updates from colleagues; I'm creating four different syllabi; I'll meet new students and experience new classrooms in less than two weeks.  All the while, I'm immersed in the daily summer (non)routine with my kids, so my preparatory work for the semester is done only when I can steal small segments of time.

I don't know how I didn't identify this pattern more clearly.  I always feel this way before a new academic year starts.  More importantly, given that I've started over a dozen academic years before, I also know that the details always work out.  The new courses get planned, the new students become familiar, the new schedule is learned, and good things come from it all.

It all works out.

So, when the anxious feelings return, I tell myself, "It's going to be okay.  This is normal.  Keep working, trust God, and forge ahead."

It makes a difference.

At the same time, off and on for the past week, my middle daughter has acted out.  She snaps at people for no reason, storming our house in a volatile huff.  We talk one night as I'm tucking her into bed.  She's feeling vaguely anxious, too, and she hasn't been able to pinpoint why, or particularly about what, either.

She and I work through the same process.  School is starting soon.  You're waiting to learn your teacher, and you want to know if your friends will be in your class.  It's normal to feel a bit nervous.  But remember how you felt this same way last year?  And the year before?  And remember how it worked out?  You're going to be okay, kiddo.  

And then we pray.  I thank God that she'll be assigned the right teacher, even if it's not the preferred teacher.  I thank God that she'll have the right friends with her, and if it doesn't seem that way, that she'll remember that she's never alone, that God goes with her.

Together, we'll repeat this as often as needed, until it rings true:  It's going to be okay.

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Tuesday, August 8, 2017

The Perks of Owning an Old Car

We own an old car.  I won't bore you with details about make and model and year, but I will say that while there certainly are older cars on the road, ours is getting up there.  I'll call it a seasoned vehicle.

This past weekend I took a road trip to visit a dear friend.  For three hours, it just was me, my thoughts, and the open road.  And -- because of the age of my vehicle -- there also was a small trove of ancient cassette tapes that I've held onto for rare moments like this, moments when a little reminder of life at age 18, like one mixed tape aptly titled Traveling Music (circa 1996), hits the spot.

Yes, there are still some perks of owning an old car.

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Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Making a Mess of This Parenting Thing

It all started with the slime.  For reasons I don't fully understand, my oldest daughter is obsessed with slime, which is why we now own a gallon jug of Elmer's glue, a box of Borax, and an infuriating Styrofoam-bead-like substance called floam.  Despite receiving ample instruction about how and where slime should be made or played with -- hard surfaces only! not on the couch! not on the carpet! -- each of our three kids have gotten slime on various soft surfaces like the couch, the carpet, the new ottoman, and creatively, bedroom curtains.

With each incident, I grew increasingly angry.  I repeated phrases like, "You know better."  I banned it for extended periods.  Then, being more proactive and calmer, I coached them to use a plastic tablecloth.  It's mostly worked.  The girls are now mostly responsible with slime.  

Except for once last week when, belying all prior instruction and correction, one child got slime on the couch.  In an effort to clean it up, she conspired with her sisters, squirted a generous dob of hair conditioner onto the sticky mess, and then scrubbed it with toilet paper which deteriorated and clumped into hundreds of gloppy bits.  (Because that's how a child cleans slime.)  Then she spoke of it to no one.

But, as we all know, messes tend to get found out.  I spied the still-damp aftermath later that day and raised the red flag, "Alright, WHO did it?"  Even my normally calm and unflappably patient husband had enough.  I stood beside him as he railed at the girls, all of whom sat silently on the now-slimed, stained, and conditioned couch.  I was angry, playing chords of "Do you have to ruin every single object in this house?"   He seemed even angrier, with refrains of "Why didn't you tell us instead of making it worse?"

It wasn't pretty.  It wasn't the type of atmosphere I want to characterize our household.

As the evening wore on, with everyone either bristled or sullen, I thought more about the incident.  Yes, our daughter had disobeyed.  Yes, she knew it was wrong.  And yes, that disobedience made a mess -- a mess that she tried to cover up, nonetheless.

But that's where I got stuck.  My daughter had known that she'd get in trouble for getting the slime on the couch.  So she tried to hide it -- or, more aptly, she tried to fix it.  It just so happened that her fix hadn't worked, so she got in trouble for that, too.

Darned if you do.  Darned if you don't.  The Catch-22 made me pause.

I thought of some messes I've made in my life.  Big messes.  Messes with family, or messes with relationships, or messes from poor choices.  I know what it's like to want to hide those messes, to cover them up, to speak of them to no one, to hope they'll just go away on their own, and then to languish under their weight because they never really go away on their own.  They fester until they're dealt with.

Mostly, I thought about how gentle God is when I come to Him with my mess.  When I point the proverbial slime on my couch and say, "I did that.  I knew better, but for whatever reason, I still went ahead and did it.  Now it's a mess.  I'm stuck, and I'm so sorry."

When I confess, He forgives me fully.  He doesn't make me wallow.  When I confess, He frees me.  I no longer waste away under the heavy weight of my guilt.

During this particular slime incident, though, I had wanted my kids to wallow.  I had been ticked off, and rightfully so.  They did know better, after all.  But it struck me hard -- my reaction and correction had been fueled with anger and passive-aggressive complaints.  Contrast that with God, who certainly corrects, but does so with grace.

And that's how slime brought it to my knees.  That's how slime found me apologizing to my kids for my bad behavior, for my mismanagement of anger, for my mess.  Joel and I both approached the girls.  We messed up.  Your action was wrong, but so was our response.  We're sorry.  You can come to us with your messes.  We're not perfect and we might get upset, but we love you.  You're always more important than things.  Always.  You don't have to hide your messes from us.

Even more importantly: You never have to hide your messes from God.  He loves you.  Unlike us, He is entirely perfect.  His response will reflect that perfection.  There's freedom when you confess.

After all, throughout my walk with Jesus, I've learned that freedom isn't reached by letting enough time pass until I no longer feel the sting of my wrongdoing.  It's not achieved by convincing myself that I meant well.  It's not accomplished by overcoming with better deeds in the future.  It's found by taking ownership and admitting -- to myself, to others, to God -- that I missed the mark and asking for forgiveness, rather than hiding my mess.

I go to God regularly with my shortcomings as a parent.  On any given day, I feel as if there are endless permutations of ways I'm messing up my children, each time just a bit differently, like a combination lock of dysfunction.  I sometimes swing like a pendulum, wondering whether I'm too permissive or too strict, too hand-off or too overbearing, all in the same afternoon.

But perhaps this is by design.  We parents are going to mess up.  Our children are going to make mistakes, too.  When I'm honest with my kids about my failures, asking their forgiveness when necessary, we all experience healing.  It models for them how to make wrong things right, which might be one of the most valuable lessons they ever learn.

So today, if you've made a mess of parenting, don't despair and don't hide.  Take it to God.  He already knows you did it, and He'll help you to clean it up.

Are you new to Robin Kramer Writes?  I'd love for you join me and follow my blog on Facebook.  Check out some other popular posts below!

The Lie that We Should Be Like the Other Girls
Good Moms Don't Feel Like This
When You're THAT Mother (and your kids are THOSE kids)
To the Woman Who is Trying To Do It All

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Tuesday, July 25, 2017

The Receiving End of Hospitality

Recently I read a humor piece by a man who hates HGTV.  One of the reasons for his disgruntlement is that every couple buying or renovating a home claims to want a space for entertaining.  He writes:

"Maybe it’s just me, but I like to have people over approximately once or twice a year, tops.  But every couple on these shows has to make mention of the fact that they love to entertain. They love to have people over, and this open concept living room and kitchen is just perfect for entertaining!  Personally, I would add extra walls to give me more dark corners in which to hide when people visit."

This made me laugh, even given that fact that we entertain regularly.  Our house becomes a hub for friends, neighbors, and family on special events, like our recent Fourth of July bash which had so many side dishes that I dubbed it The Thanksgiving of Summer.

Plus, with my husband's job as a college football chaplain, we have large groups of young and hungry people over on a weekly basis.  We feed them from a crock pot so large that it resembles a trough.

Our brand of entertaining, though frequent, is rarely glamorous.  It's more like an assembly line where twenty guests make their way through our kitchen in a line and devour 15 pounds of taco meat, or pulled pork, or spaghetti with meat sauce, depending on what meal we prepare in bulk that week.  There are no frills, but there are plenty of dishes afterward.

This past weekend, though, I was on the receiving end of hospitality.  We visited my husband's aunt and uncle who live about an hour a way for the day.  It was a large gathering with cousins and cousins' children (who, according to Google, are called "cousins once removed," in case you wondered but, like me, can never keep the nomenclature straight.)  And there was food -- lots of food! -- and I prepared none of it.

I simply made my way through their kitchen in a line, sampling a bit of everything, and was so grateful for the hospitality.  When I commented on being chilly, my aunt-in-law (which is a term I'm making up, but think that Google would accept) loaned me a sweater.

I felt extremely welcomed and cared for.  It's good to be hospitable, and it's equally good to be on the receiving end of hospitality.

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Saturday, July 22, 2017

To the Next Crop of Young Mothers

Early yesterday evening I saw a teenage neighbor and her friend drive down our street, windows down, radio playing, friend in the passenger seat laughing, wind blowing through their hair.  It was the picture of freedom.

I watched with admiration.  It's been a while since I've looked like that.  I no longer leave the house at 7:00 in the evening, windows down, by myself or with a friend.  When I'm pulling away on our street, it's now in a minivan with three school-aged kids in tow.  I'm the mom shuffling kids to the pool with a tote bag for towels and sunscreen, or to the library with a tote bag for books, or to the grocery store where I forget our reusable tote bags and exit with too many plastic bags instead.  I always seem to be carrying things, like a Sherpa.

I'm the opposite of my teenage neighbor and her friend with the wind blowing through their hair.

Yet, I as I watched their car disappear down my street, I remembered that years ago, when my children were babies, I often felt undeniably trapped during the evening hours.  I could get through mornings and afternoons, but evenings sapped my resolve.  My girls were most fussy after dinner, and I'd spend those languid evening hours rocking and pacing with a baby crying in my ear, feeling as if the walls of my house were closing in on me, that I might never make it through.

There were some desperate nights then.

Now, with school-aged kids, even though my days still brim with activity, shuffling, whining, correction, meal preparation, and cleaning up after messes, it's not quite as hard as those early years.  When I watched my teenage neighbor drive away, I experienced a small surge of wistfulness at her freedom -- just enough to remind me of how powerful that urge had been years ago, how I had felt that I needed to get out or I'd suffocate.

I don't feel that intensity any longer.  It's easier now.

But I know that some moms, especially you dear young moms who can't even slip out to Wal-Mart by yourselves for twenty minutes because babies need to nurse and toddlers are clingy, do feel this way.  The baby keeps crying, the walls are closing in, and you feel -- even though you love your children -- that you're losing a part of your mind or yourself.

It's real.

And, as I learn mostly in hindsight, it's a stage that passes.  You get yourself back. 

One day we were the teenagers driving away, carefree.  At some point, we might be the mom rocking the baby, watching the teenagers in the car and wishing it could be us.  And maybe, just maybe, someone older watches us when we're with our young children, reminiscing wistfully about those earlier years because their own children have grown and are now gone.  Life is funny.  The cycles keep cycling.

But, today, if you're going through a hard part of the cycle, give yourself grace and keep going.  It will pass soon enough.  Somehow it always does.

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