Just As Flawed and Human As Us

 
In the dark hours of night, sometimes I lay awake thinking about the many things I want to impart to my kids. They're in middle and high school, which aren't the easiest times. The simpler struggles of childhood, which demand a parent's physical energy, have been replaced with complex adolescent struggles. The adage is true: little kids, littler problems. Bigger kids, bigger problems. The stakes are higher, the hurts are deeper, and as a parent, it's painfully apparent that while you can do a great deal to help, you can't perfectly protect your kids.

You can't always protect them from getting hurt or having their hearts broken. You can't always protect them from battling their own struggles, grappling with their own insecurities, or fighting their own battles. You can't protect them from the consequences of their actions. And while you can instill values, model behaviors, and teach important principles, you can't always prevent them from making bad choices or hurting others.

Because these kids of ours? They're just as flawed and human as we are. And these lives of theirs? They have to learn lessons that emerge directly from pain and personal experience, not just advice. I'd love for my kids to learn from past mistakes — preferably someone else's. The reality, though, is we're all thick-headed enough that learning often comes most powerfully from our own lived mistakes.

This is ridiculously hard to watch.

I spend a lot of time on my knees for my children, talking to God with all my messy impatience and brokenness. And I spend time on my knees in silence punctuated by tears when the rawness is too much for words. God can handle this honesty. Daresay, He wants this honesty.

Even when my heart is heavy, I'm confident in this: God loves my children more than I do. And if you have kids, God loves your children more than you do. Our flaws aren't too much for God to handle, and neither are our children's. Just like our hurts aren't too deep for God to heal, neither are theirs. Just like our problems aren't too convoluted for God to untangle, neither are theirs.

It's hard to watch and wait in the wilderness phases, especially if its our kids who are out there wandering, but God is with them. God is there.

0

Apologize to Yourself in Advance

Several weeks ago I saw a meme on Facebook that said this:

Because I'm thoughtful, I immediately texted the image to my oldest daughter, a high school freshman, and wrote, "It's okay. Dad and I still love you." She clearly appreciated the assurance.

But how true is this? Parents are perpetually breaking in new realms of parenting with their first kid. You don't want to be too permissive, and you don't want to be too firm. You want to keep them safe, but you also want them to gain independence and learn responsibility. You have no precedent for how to navigate the waters because you've never done it before. And the waters themselves? They're not crystal clear beaches. They're murky. You can't see the bottom, and you don't quite know what you're stepping on. It's all a bit unnerving.

The other night when our youngest left the room, my husband looked at me and joked, "Do you ever think that she's our best shot of getting it right?" I kind of laughed-snorted (a charming tendency) because, YES, I'm banking on this. Our third child better benefit from the mistakes we've made with the first two.

My office mate, a man who has no kids, recently said, "I don't know how you parents do it. I think you must have to get in the habit of apologizing to yourself in advance. You're not always going to get it right, but you sure are trying your best."

His words encouraged me. It's smart to give ourselves permission to not always parent perfectly, which is impossible anyway, and to trust that we'll grow as our kids grow.

Sure, our kids might turn out a little weird, like that first pancake. That's okay. Weird pancakes still taste good.

We're all trying our best.

0

Honest First Impressions of Summer Vacation

We've reached an awkward stage in our household. You see, last week my kids finished their final days of school and turned the corner into summer vacation. Meanwhile, I'm teaching two classes and facing a looming deadline for an article I'm writing for work. Suffice to say, their expectations are clashing with my reality.

It's kind of like this:

My kids: Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Let's do fun things. FUN THINGS! All the time, perpetually, because we're on vacation and we're so excited! In fact, we're going to wake up before 7 so we can start our days of leisure early. Let's have friends over all the time! Can they stay for dinner? Can they sleep over? Let's go to a movie! The pool! An amusement park!

Me: It's not time for fun yet.

My kids, undeterred:  Let's eat Popsicles seven times a day. And go out for ice cream at night! Can you set up the Slip-and-Slide? How about S'mores? You just have to start a fire, that's all. You can start a fire now, right?

Me: I am neither mentally nor logistically prepared for what currently is happening to me. 

My kids: What about snow cones?

I'm not sure why I'm shocked by any of this. I visibly saw the end of the school year approaching. I crossed out days on the calendar that led to the block where, in my own handwriting, it read "Last Day of School." I observed tell-tale signs, like how their backpacks overflowed with the contents of their desks and piles of end-of-year papers. And yet, I'm shocked.

It's like my conscious mind recognized that summer vacation was about to happen, but my subconscious had suppressed what it's like when kids are so extraordinarily ever-present. But now that this awareness is resurfacing, I have two primary thoughts:

(1) In just a few short years, my kids won't be home 24/7 for eleven weeks straight. This is one of those "18 summers" before they head into college, step into their futures, and launch their young adult lives. I should treasure these moments. Hold them close. Take mental snapshots.

(2) Wait, what? These kids are going to be home 24/7? For eleven weeks straight? Jesus take the wheel.

0

Letting Kids Be Kids As Long As Possible

You can fast forward childhood. But you can't rewind it.
- Jon Acuff

This afternoon as I cooked dinner, our eleven-year-old neighbor knocked on our door and asked if my girls could play.  It's one of the first warm days of spring, and even though dinner was going to be ready in just a minute, I sent the kids outside.  They ran across the street in a pack, and I stood at our door a moment longer, listening to their banter and shouts as they bounced on the neighbor's trampoline.

Dinner could wait.

 
I've never taken for granted how my kids play with the neighbors.  For the past several years, most summer days they rotate from house to house: playing soccer in our back yard, jumping on a trampoline in the neighbor's, riding bikes up and down our hill, staging a game of hide and seek, and then cooling off in our kitchen by raiding our refrigerator for drinks and snacks, leaving a trail of cups and wrappers in their wake.

There's something organic about this.  It's wholesome and healthy.  Our door is open, kids are streaming through, and as a parent, it feels right.  The back-and-forth, screen-door-slamming has become part of how we function, just one of the rhythms of the neighborhood.  I can't help but think, "This is exactly how it should be."

But, to be honest, I don't know for how much longer this season will last.  At what point will the kids be too old to run across the street, knock on the door, and invite the neighbors out to play? 

At some point, the dynamics will change.  It's inevitable.  The kids will grow up and have more formalized demands on their time.  Instead of riding bikes, they'll be driving.  Instead of holding their once-a-summer neighborhood bake sale and lemonade stand, they'll hold part-time jobs.  The bonds of neighborhood friendship, born of convenience and shared experience, might not last forever -- not due to any trouble, but simply because life moves on.  New experiences will expand their horizons beyond their childhood street.

Yes, I know that one day -- likely in the not-so-distant future -- my dinner preparations won't be interrupted by the neighbor kids knocking on my door and asking my girls to play. 

I'm just glad that today isn't that day.

1

Successful Parenting When You're in the Storm

While I'd love to report that harmony continually reigns in my house, this isn't the case. We're a normal family. We say things we regret, get under each other's skin, fight, fume, and eventually patch the rough moments with apologies and forgiveness.

I forget that this behavior is normal. After years of practice, I assume we already should have mastered lessons of good manners and conflict resolution.  I secretly worry that any sign of dysfunction is terminal. When one kid does one rotten thing on a day when I already feel off, I can spiral quickly, suspecting that every parenting decision I've made up until that point—including, but not limited to, choices about my kids' diets, exercise, technology use, bedtime, activities, and disciple—has been wrong.

It escalates quickly. Let's say I plan a craft to entertain my younger daughters while my husband travels, but they ruin the evening by launching into an epic fight over which canvas to paint (which is a purely hypothetical example, not something that happened last weekend.)  Instead of thinking, "Well, this behavior isn't ideal," if I'm depleted and hormonal enough, in seconds it's not merely about the canvases. It's about how I've somehow failed to teach them better, or how they'll never grow up to be courteous or sane members of society.

Of course, this isn't true. It's merely a storm of swirling emotions, howling my heart’s deepest concerns.

In these moments, I think about the disciples as they crossed the Sea of Galilee. They saw the waves, heard the wind, and felt the boat's terrible lurching. In the presence of these alarming sensory cues, their deepest fears surfaced. The worst-case scenario finally had been confirmed: the ship was going down. They would die.

Meanwhile, Jesus slept. Jesus was in the boat with them, yet he remained unaffected by the waves and wind. The storm wasn't in him.

Don't we all need this ability to keep the storm "outside" of us when we parent and navigate life? When chaos laps at our feet, waves of craziness crash, or toddler tantrums and teenage eye-rolls threaten to sweep us away, we can acknowledge the storm's existence.  But then, in the next breath, we still can announce, "Peace, be still."

This declaration of peace not only pertains to what happens around us; it's equally important for what happens inside us.  We can see external storms unfold around us: children melt down, belligerently argue with their siblings, or speak careless words of disrespect.  As we watch, invisible storms, which are even darker and sometimes more damaging, rage inside us: worries that our kids are going the wrong way, concerns that they'll never internalize what we’ve taught, or suspicions that their bad behavior indicates that, somehow, as parents we've screwed up everything.

Like the disciples in the Sea of Galilee, our worst-case scenario seems to be confirmed. These ships of ours? They're taking on water. They're going down.

But Jesus would say, "Peace, be still." Not only to the conditions, but also to our hearts.

Over the years, I've accepted that it’s not the best time to engage in deep soul-searching or emotional introspection when storms actively rage around me. Let's be honest: these aren’t the right times to entertain a new haircut, much less to critically evaluate my parenting performance or analyze my life purpose.

No, when storms rage, it's simply time to ride them out and declare peace. It's enough to teach my kids that their feelings are legitimate, but new feelings will blow through soon enough. It's enough to accept that chaos is real, but it doesn't have to rule.  It's enough to survive by telling my emotions, "I feel you, but you don't have the final say in how this scenario turns out. That right belongs to Jesus, and he says Peace."

And then, because this is all extremely tiring, it's also enough to take a nap. (I mean, Jesus slept, so clearly, this response is biblical. Just following in his steps.)

Storms will come; they always do. But we can keep the storms outside of us, even if we're inside of them.

4

Parenting Survival Guide: We Will Do Better Tomorrow

If there ever was a day to be glad that my family isn't the subject of an ongoing documentary that requires cameras to capture the nuances of our day-to-day interactions, it was yesterday.  (And about a five minute segment this morning, but that's neither here nor there.)

Yesterday did not reflect our finer moments.  Not for my children, who couldn't quite get it together in the manners, common courtesy, respect, and keeping things in perspective categories.  And not for me, who failed to perform in the effective discipline, not-blowing-a-gasket, and avoiding catastrophic lines of reasoning categories.

In other words, we were quite excellent together, if you define excellence as letting every minor annoyance simmer and then explode into intense emotional outbursts.  We had tears and/or near-hyperventilation about our lunch menu, our dinner menu, the lack of a dessert menu, television limits, cell phone limits, a game of Parcheesi, and the fact that an annoying sibling had the audacity to be EXISTING AND SITTING ON THE OPPOSITE COUCH IN THE SAME ROOM as the annoyed sibling.

Gold stars, all around.

While I wish I could tell you that before our heads hit our pillows, we each experienced an epiphany where we saw the errors in our ways, humbly apologized to one another, turned the other cheek, and deferred our preferences for the greater good of the family unit, that's not the case.  Most of us went to bed cranky and peeved.

In fact, bedtime went something like this:

Husband: "The girls are in their rooms.  They're ready for you to say goodnight."

Me (lying in bed underneath my quilt with a magazine and a piece of chocolate, pretending that the world outside doesn't exist, and exhaling a labored and dramatic sigh.)  "Do I have to?"

Husband:

Me:  "Okay, okay..."  (shuffle down hallway reluctantly)  "Goodnight."

Offspring:  "Night."

Me (shuffle back to my bedroom): "There. Done."

Needless to say, familial warmth was not entirely palpable.

When my head hit the pillow for real, after the magazine was skimmed, the chocolate was eaten, my teeth were brushed, and the lights were turned off, I admitted that this isn't how I want our home to be.  Home is not a place to lace up your gloves and fight; it's a place to let down your guard.  It's a place where we -- kids and parents alike -- should overlook offenses, and daresay, care about others enough that we try to minimize offenses before they even start.

And that wasn't the case yesterday.  Yesterday was a flop.

But one of my last conscious thoughts before drifting to sleep was that we'll do better tomorrow.

We'll do better tomorrow.  Even with the ugliness of today, we still care enough to want to improve and move forward.  Even with the crummy attitudes and comments, we still want to get it right.  Even with the apathy of the evening, we still believe that these relationships matter profoundly.

One bad day doesn't ruin it all.  Tomorrow is coming.  We will fight for our family, and that's more powerful than those bad patches when we fight against them just because they've annoyed us by sitting on the adjacent couch.

We'll do better tomorrow.

Photo by dylan nolte on Unsplash

0

When Mama Snaps: The Story of a Broken Microwave, Great Chaos, and Surprising Redemption

It all started with a dozen eggs and a free helium balloon. 

One summer morning two years ago, I made a quick trip to the grocery store to buy a dozen eggs.  We had run out while making cookies for the bake sale that my three daughters and the neighbor kids hold during our annual garage sale, which was scheduled for the next day.

As I checked out, a kind grocery store clerk offered each of my kids a helium balloon.  The only problem was that the balloons were different sizes and colors, and my youngest daughter, who received the smallest and plainest one, felt shafted.  By the time I buckled her car seat, she was in full meltdown mode.  Over a complimentary balloon.

When we arrived home, I immediately took her to her room to calm down, but she continued to flail and seethe and steam.  As if on cue, downstairs in the kitchen my other daughters had spontaneously combusted into a fight about whose turn it was to crack the eggs.  Someone had spilled a box of cookie mix onto the counter and floor.  Raw egg dripped down the side of the island.

All three kids -- one upstairs, two downstairs -- were yelling simultaneously, creating a suffocating echo chamber of irrational chaos and distress.

For a moment, I remained calm and tried to create order.  I tried to diffuse the situation and separate them, but my youngest had freed herself from time-out and reinserted herself into the kitchen's fray, like an aggressive pro-wrestler who taps back into a Battle Royale.  Defying basic principles of acoustics, all three managed to be yelling louder than the others, each nonsensical in her own rage, each pushing every last button of my composure and good judgment.

And that's when I snapped.

I don't entirely remember why the microwave door was ajar (softening butter for the bake sale cookies, perhaps?), but for one moment, I fixated on that door.  Or, more aptly, on slamming that door with every ounce of strength I possessed, which, after the fourth slam, I discovered, was enough to short circuit and break my microwave.

My daughters were shocked into silence, looking at me as if I had finally lost my mind (which, for all extents and purposes, I had), and I spat out the words. "Go to your rooms. Now."

They mumbled and pushed their way down the hallway and up the stairs, still bickering.  I stood in the kitchen to survey the mess by myself.  Feebly, I opened and closed the microwave door, hoping to coax it back to life, but it was dead.  Clock-burned-out, no-buttons-working, no-hope-left, dead.

I fumed.  I fumed at the girls.  I fumed at myself.  I fumed because the average price of an over-the-range microwave is about $150, so I'd have to sell 300 stupid 50-cent garage sale items the next day just to dig myself out of the hole I'd dug.

I walked outside to clear my head and saw my neighbor.  "How's it going?" she called across the street.  I reached her driveway and said, "I just killed my microwave." I smiled weakly and wiped my eyes as the emotions surfaced, "It was either that or the kids."

She listened, hugged me when I finished, and said, "I'll send my husband over to look at it." 

A minute later he arrived to assess the damage.  He opened and closed the microwave door a few times, peered inside, pressed buttons, then unplugged and plugged it back in.  "Well," he said, "I don't see anything specifically wrong.  Seems like the problem is internal."

The problem is internal.  You got that right, buddy.  I had already reached that conclusion, in more ways that one.  Oh, I had plenty of internal problems under the surface.

The rest of the day I was off.  I finished baking the cookies.  I priced the remaining garage sale items.  I interacted with my kids.  But my equilibrium hadn't returned.  Each time I glanced at the microwave to check the time, a practice that I do far more often than I realized, the blank screen stared back as a reminder of my short temper and stupid reaction.

I had majorly screwed up in motherhood more than once before this microwave incident, of course, and I've screwed up plenty of times since, too.  When I've been pushed and stretched and tested, I've done and said things I wish I could take back, just like every other mother who's walked this earth.  But this particular time especially stung.

The broken microwave was a visible reminder of my shortcomings, as if my inability to control my own anger nullified any teaching I had done to help my kids handle their own.  More profoundly, the incident forced me to confront a latent (yet terribly incorrect) assumption I had been holding.  Subconsciously, I thought that if I lived a moral and godly life in front of my kids, that they'd grow up to be alright.  That if I set a good enough example as a Christian parent, then they'd grow up to be kind, rationale, and balanced humans who walk closely with God.  And, if I didn't do these things, then they'd essentially be screwed.

This is a foolish belief, though.  It doesn't work this way.  We don't draw our kids (or anyone else, for that matter) to Jesus just by living morally in front of them.  Raising godly kids is not about us being perfect parents.  It's about pointing our kids to a perfect God.

Raising godly kids is not about us being perfect parents.  It's about pointing our kids to a perfect God.

That night, after unsuccessfully attempting to reheat a plate of leftover Chinese food, and still more habitual glances toward the dead microwave to check the time, I tucked my kids into bed.  One by one, in the stillness and quietness of their darkened bedrooms, I apologized to my daughters.  Each apology broke the tension; each hug brought restoration.

My youngest daughter reached toward me, tenderly putting her small hand on my cheek, and said, "Mommy, it's okay.  I love you."  My middle daughter apologized in return, saying, "We were really, really bad.  We're sorry."  And my oldest, after hugging me, stopped me as left her room.  "Mom?" her voice spoke from the dark.  "This is just an idea, but you might want to keep the broken microwave in the garage.  You know, in case you get mad and really need to slam something again."

I told her that I'd keep the option open.

We live flawed lives in front of our kids, but thankfully, the flaws rarely are fatal.  We can model restoration and repentance for them.  Through our own mistakes, even the ones we're deeply ashamed of, we can teach our kids what it looks like to apologize.  We can teach them about the sweet and freeing reconciliation that comes when we take ownership of our wrongs and seek forgiveness -- both from God and from those we've hurt.

Our children will make plenty of mistakes in their own lives, after all.  What better way to show them how to make those wrong things right than to let God work his redemption through our very own failures?

Because maybe one summer morning 30 years from now, one of my daughters might be holding a garage sale and run out of eggs while baking cookies.  And she might break her own microwave when her own children have rubbed her last nerve raw.

And, at that point, she'll know just what to do.

0

Question: How Do You Do It All Well? Answer: I Don't.

Last week I received a message from a friend.  She and I both work full time.  We're both raising three daughters.  We're both married to men whose jobs require late or nontraditional hours, so we navigate many dinners, evenings, and bedtimes with our kids alone.

She's several years younger than me, though, and her children are several years younger than mine.

On that premise, she asked: "How do you do it all well?  I know I'm where I'm supposed to be, but I'm in the thick of it.  I need to look to women a bit ahead of me who haven't shrunk back in spite of motherhood, but have stepped up, so to speak."

I wish that a picture could have been taken of me the exact moment I read her message.  I was standing in my kitchen, stress-eating a handful of crackers because I couldn't find any chocolate to stress-eat.  I was nowhere near finished with my work for the day.  Dinnertime was near, yet I had no meal planned and limited groceries.  One daughter needed to be picked up from swimming intramurals.  Another daughter needed help with math homework.  We had an event at church that evening, plus I had entirely forgotten about a Girl Scout ceremony (conveniently scheduled at the exact same time as church) even though I had received multiple reminders about the ceremony, all of which I had forgotten to RSVP.

How do you do it all well?

The answer to that question was straightforward: You don't.  You just don't.  You learn to do most of it well enough, but you never quite do all of it to your high expectations.

Because "it" is huge.  The "it" in "how do you do it all well?" is mammoth.  It's comprised of unwieldy to-do lists for work, home, and, if you have kids, each individual child.  The "it" represents hundreds of daily decisions, both small and large, from what to serve for dinner, to how to proceed with a conflict at work, to how to discipline a difficult child's behavior while still showing love.  "It" stands for the dishwasher that needs to be emptied, the school picture order form that needs to be returned, and the class that needs to be taught the next morning.  "It" means that you have answers to all possible questions, like you're a human Google who can provide detailed weather reports so your kids know exactly how to dress each morning, or identify the species of a native deciduous tree by its leaves so you're poised to assist your middle schooler who's completing a science project.

Inherent in the "it" is that you take care of yourself (obviously!) and prioritize your marriage (so important!), while also spending quality time with each child to invest in their academic, social, spiritual, physical, and emotional well-being.  And, in those cozy spare moments as you ease into bath time and approach the sweet bedtime hours, "it" nudges that, while you're at it, you ought to read with your children for 20 minutes (keeping a log of book titles, of course) because, friends, reading is good and educational and fun!

So, as I paused at my kitchen counter reading her message and processing how I do it all, I laughed aloud -- one of those slightly manic laughs that, if witnessed by an outside observer, would make them question whether I was entirely balanced.

But clearly I was not balanced, because if I had been, I would have remembered the hidden stash of chocolate chips in the freezer, and I would have been stress-eating those instead of crackers.  Regardless, I formulated a response:

Dear friend, you don't do it all.  Somehow, you learn to live comfortably in that realization. Not throwing in the towel, not giving up, but also not holding yourself to impossible standards.

I poured out words that I wanted her to hear, not just in her head, but also in her heart:

You have amazing capacity. You've established a diligent work ethic that sets you apart, and your high level of competence has been rewarded by getting entrusted with more work. On top of that, God's blessed you with three spirited children who bring such joy, yet require such time, energy, and effort. And you have a husband and a marriage to cultivate! And there's church and ministry! And there is laundry -- so much laundry! -- and dishes and meal prep. And you still need to shower and groom!  There's no wonder why you feel as if you can't do it all -- there is only one of you.  And even in your amazingness, it's not feasible to always have all of these plates spinning well. There's going to be some wobble.

When we're feeling especially overwhelmed, don't we all need someone to tell us that the wobble is normal and inevitable?  That wobbling is not an indicator that we're failing, but rather, that we're somehow keeping worlds in motion?

I was reminded of a scene a few semesters ago when I had an undergraduate teaching assistant who handled some instructional and clerical tasks for a course I was teaching.  After our students had taken an exam, he emailed to ask if he could grade the exams by the end of the week, not the very next class session.  He was a terrific student and TA -- always diligent, always helpful, always on top of things.  He simply needed more time.  I immediately accepted his request: Of course you can have an extra few days to grade the exams.  It won't hurt anyone.  Your week is hectic; I know you'll get it done as soon as you're able.

Even as I responded, I realized that I was being more gracious with him than I would have been with myself.  I would have expected myself to grade the exams that night, regardless of my schedule.

In both of these situations -- my friend's challenge to balance work and motherhood, and my TA's challenge to meet a deadline -- I could easily understand their struggles.  They're remarkably competent people, both of whom have a lot on their plates.  It's natural for me to offer them encouragement and leeway.  How could I not empathize?

My responses made me wonder: If I can do this so readily for others, why can't I also give myself the benefit of the doubt when I face challenges?  Why can't I easily let go of my self-imposed expectations, especially when those expectations are arbitrary or unreasonable?

I think it's because, deep in my heart, I still want to do it all well.  I want my all plates to spin perpetually, not to wobble.

Sometimes I wish that we had audible cheerleaders who partnered with us, calling our attention to the many things we're doing well:

Remember that time you crawled out of bed at night to change the wet laundry from the washer into the dryer?  Remember that?  That was impressive.  How about the morning when you knew the exact location of your son's missing homework folder?  Not everyone would have remembered it was on the third step, sitting next to the pile of socks that you had gathered from the family room floor.  And what about that evening when you desperately wanted to watch an episode of Worst Cooks in America: Celebrity Edition, but instead you laid in bed beside your children, rubbing their backs and listening to them talk about their days?  You. Are. Amazing.

I don't think we celebrate or notice the many things we're doing well, though, because we're already rattling off the next set of expectations, like how we now ought to fold the clothes we had put the dryer, or wash the dirty socks sitting on the steps, or hold off viewing Worst Cooks in favor of checking email once more.

Let's break that perpetual cycle.  Let's notice the things we're accomplishing, not just what we aren't.

You might not be doing it all well, whatever "it" looks like for you.  Neither am I.  Nobody is.  We all have plates that are wobbling, falling, or shattering at our feet.  We mostly see our own messes up close, not everyone else's, which makes us feel more isolated.  Truth is, we're all in the thick of life.  Mess and struggle is inevitable.

So, let this post be a reminder to you -- just like it's a reminder to me -- that we can be kind to ourselves.  If you can't hear your own voice telling you this, then let mine resonate through the screen today:  Have you noticed how much you're doing?  You're killing it in so many areas.  You're doing it, my friend.

Maybe not all, and maybe not entirely well, but you're doing it.  And today, that's entirely a victory.

2

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 that evening 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 angrier, with refrains of "Why didn't you just 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 own 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 oppressive 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 to the proverbial slime on my couch and admit to God, "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 me 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. Please forgive us. 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 I don't find freedom by letting enough time pass until I no longer feel the sting of my wrongdoing. Freedom isn't achieved by convincing myself that I meant well. It's not accomplished by overcompensating 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

4

Another Parenting Milestone

A lot of parenting involves slogging through the daily routine, but every so often, you encounter a moment that stops you in your tracks.  There are traditional firsts, like the time your child first rolls or takes uncertain steps.  There are highly-photographed firsts, like first days of school.  There are firsts that make parents sigh in relief, like when a baby first blessedly sleeps through the night, or when kids first learn to buckle their own seat belts and you no longer have to wheedle yourself into back seats to click them into safety.

In my parenting journey, I experienced those types of early firsts years ago.  Even so, life keeps evolving, and yesterday I experienced another first.

I drove my daughter and her friend to the public pool, dropped them off at the curb, waved as they walked to the counter and showed their passes, and then drove away.

Let me recap: I left my child in a public place -- one that is not school -- and then I left the premises.  Because she's twelve.  Because she and her friend are very responsible and capable of surviving without adult supervision for two hours.  Because I have reached the point in parenting where I'm not needed every single moment of every single day.

Parenting from the sidelines.  It's a first, I tell you.

___________________________________________________

Image compliments of USAG Livorno PAO

0

Dear Teachers of My Children

Dear Teachers of My Children,

This past week alone, I've seen evidence of the impact you make on the lives of my kids.  I see it when I open my inbox or their Friday folders (a task that always happens late on Sunday evenings... and certain Monday mornings) and read your weekly recaps.  I see the papers that are checked, the stickers that are awarded, and the notes that are written.

What I don't see, of course, is the hundreds of moments that comprise any given school day.  I can only imagine those.  I imagine an elementary classroom full of students all needing something from you at the exact same time, much like when my own children seem to conspire and simultaneously request for me to play a game, prepare a snack, read a book, help with a homework problem, glue something that's broken, find them a band-aid, and answer a mind-numbingly obscure question.

The difference is that I have three children.  You have a classroom full of them.

And yet, you answer the questions, you help with the homework problems, you individualize the instructions, you hand out the tiny plastic treasure chests when a wiggly tooth finally has been lost, you painstakingly explain how to multiply fractions, you measure benchmarks, and you put the pieces of the broken toy that was smuggled into the classroom as contraband in a small manila envelope, safe and secure, so these pieces arrive back at home safely for us parents to glue.

In your spare time, I'm guessing that you also tie a lot of shoelaces.

Even more, you don't just teach addition or long division, reading or writing, science or social studies.  You teach problem solving and responsibility.  You teach planning and preparation.  You teach that growth comes from consistent effort.  You teach test-taking skills and stamina, and even better, you then teach our kids that their test results aren't the most important measure of their worth.

These notes -- the ones you write on Post-It notes during the nooks and crannies of your busy days -- end up coming home and making their way into our children's rooms, their boxes of treasured items, and their hearts.

I can go on.  There's the Title I reading specialist who hosted a special event at a local bookstore and gifted each participant with a book.  There's the kindergarten teacher who deftly discerns whether complaints of a stomachache are from homesickness or from illness.  There's the second grade teacher who speaks encouragement and structure into my daughter's life when learning doesn't come easily.  There's the fifth grade teacher who coaches how to seamlessly transition into middle school next year.

Don't even get me started on the other helpers: the principal who motivates and holds special lunches with students as rewards, the cafeteria workers who know the names of an entire school-full of children, the custodians who mop the floors, the librarians who remember favorite titles, and the bus drivers who listen to their small, yet impressively loud, passengers while navigating traffic.  (Driver of Bus 9, I heard about the vomiting episode that happened in the aisle last week and how you put a plastic bag over the mess until you could deal with it later.  My condolences to you.)

Teachers and aides and helpers and support staff members: Thank you.  You amaze me.

We deeply appreciate everything that we know you do.  And, even if we can't always articulate it, we appreciate everything you do that we'll never see.

4

What to Expect While Vacationing at Disney World with Kids

If your family ever vacations at Disney World, whether it's your first visit or a favorite destination, the trip will be steeped in expectations.  Obviously, you'll expect adventure and fun -- and hopefully good weather and good health during the trip.  You'll expect crowds and lines.  You'll expect parades and princesses, rides and roller coasters, sights and shows.  You'll expect pictures, memories, and probably a few souvenirs.

These expectations are all givens.  Today, however, I'm here to share some lesser-discussed things you should expect when traveling to Disney -- observations that might not make a brochure, but tried and true ones nonetheless.

  
Expect odd text message sequences.  During your time in the parks, you will send an inordinate number of text messages to your spouse, most of which will be devoted to asking and answering the question, "Where are you?"  Looking back you'll realize that nearly all of these messages would be incomprehensible without the proper context:

Had to walk to China to use the restroom. 
Waiting for pirates. 
Villains parking. 135 Scar!

Expect germs.  Your kids will touch surfaces that thousand of other people have touched -- tables, rides, railings -- and no matter how frequently or persuasively you urge them not to put their hands in or near their mouths, they will.  You'll badger and cringe and distribute hand sanitizer, but at some point, you'll simply hang your head and think, "Just go ahead.  Just lick the ground now, too."

Of course, you won't verbalize this because you know that at least one of your kids might take you up on the suggestion.

Expect collisions.  As if they want to get trampled, your kids will suddenly stop walking the moment they step directly in front of you.  Repeatedly.  If you're observant, you'll witness the near-trampling of several other children who aren't your offspring when they stop walking directly in front of their own parents.  You'll feel a little badly, but then you'll quietly chuckle.  And probably trip on your own child again.

Expect at least one moment of panic.  At some point you might be walking along with the crowds and realize that you're missing a kid, a realization that causes your heart to pound, senses to heighten, and search and rescue skills to kick into overdrive.  Typically, you'll find them just a few paces behind in an entirely innocuous activity, like tying their shoe, gazing at the castle, or wandering toward an ice cream cart.  Because you're used to your kids being directly in front of you (see above), this will throw you for a moment.

To combat this, you'll obsessively count heads -- one, two, three, got 'em.  You'll even count other people's children for them.  You're welcome.

Expect fashion highs and lows.  Despite the fact that you're gallivanting with princesses and posing for pictures on a much greater frequency than normal life, you will look (or at least feel) slightly disheveled at all times.  You will look at other parents, commiserating with their overstuffed backpacks and the child propped on their hip who, like a true toddler, keeps messing with their hair.

In light of this, you never will understand how some women are walking around in heels.

Expect sugar.  Even while adhering to some modicum of good sense and parental responsibility, you will let your children eat what they normally wouldn't.

 

Expect high mileage.  The sugar will be okay because you'll walk at least ten miles daily.  If you stay at Disney for awhile, it's like doing half marathons repetitively over sequential days -- just half marathons that take twelve hours to complete and are paused for parades, meals, and greeting people wearing animal costumes.

Expect tears.  Tears in Disney?  These are inevitable.  And that's just on your behalf.  Your kids might even momentarily melt down along the way, too.

Expect magic. You know it sounds cliche, but you'll watch your children's eyes widen and you'll suck in your breath from time to time and realize, "This really is special."  You'll think of Walt Disney's quote, "I don't want the public to see the world they live in when they're in the park.  I want them to feel they're in another world."

Nailed it, Walt.  You nailed it.

Have you ever been to Disney?  What else would you add to the list?

Image adapted from Brian Williams.

2

No Matter What, We Show Up

Yesterday my daughters' school hosted a Halloween parade.  In single file, the costumed students marched three loops around the playground before their teachers filed them back into their classrooms for an afternoon party and sent them home for the weekend, high on sugar and life.

I was impressed, but it wasn't with the costumes.  It was the fact that so many parents had come.  Some of us had taken time off from work.  Others had rearranged their daily schedule and nap times with younger toddlers and babies.  In the middle of a Friday afternoon when other responsibilities called for our attention, parents showed up.  In droves, we showed up.

I'm still not certain why this struck such a nerve yesterday, but it did.  It still does today.  These parents, my husband and I among them, are far from perfect.  In the past week alone, it probably would be hard to count how many times we've collectively been impatient with our kids, or too permissive, or too strict, or too distracted, or what have you.

But yesterday afternoon, despite it all, we showed up.  We smiled and waved each time our children circled around the playground, taking pictures and offering high fives and giving compliments.

No matter what, we show up.  It's what parents do.

0

Bored Kids? Beat Summer Boredom Before It Strikes.

Are you crying?  There's no crying in baseball.  (A League of Their Own)

It's official: summer vacation has begun!  At the onset of summer my children embrace their newfound freedom with a passion that borders insanity.  Based on summers past, though, I've learned that this euphoria lasts for roughly one week -- maybe two -- before we collectively fall apart like anchorless ships adrift in the vast expanse of endless unscheduled days.

The trick, I sense, is to insert enough routine to preserve sanity while still remaining at ease with the overarching looseness.  As a preemptive strike, I've channeled my inner Tom Hanks so I'm ready when my kids appear to be floundering and unable to figure out what to do with themselves: "Are you bored?  There's no boredom in summer!"

Let's remember this: If we parents refuse to supply a constant stream of entertainment when our kids show signs of boredom, we're doing them a huge service.  Boredom, when rightly channeled, forces kids to be creative, brainstorm activities besides staring into a screen, discover new things, and tap into the resources around them.

Essentially, summer is only as boring as they are.

I've even posted an Anti-Boredom reminder on our refrigerator, one that I originally saw posted on Facebook and then searched to discover its origins on Pinterest here.  BORED?

Be Creative.  Outside Play.  Read a Book.  Exercise.  Do Helpful Things.  These five tips are surprisingly good for parents and kids alike.

Bored?  Are you bored?  Come on, now.  There's no boredom in summer.

2

Glass Gems + Nail Polish = Kid-Friendly Refrigerator Magnets

If I were to chronicle this winter season in a journal, this would be today's brief and desperate entry: Day 75 of winter -- I forget what grass looks like.

We're worn thin with indoor activities.  My girls have colored, painted, Play-Dohed, puzzled, and board-gamed themselves into the ground.  Still, winter hasn't let up, and we need fresh activities to keep ourselves occupied during the long hours indoors.  If you're in a similar situation, let me share a craft that should occupy your kids for an hour or two.

First, buy a pack of mosaic glass gems at a craft store.

Second, sort through your old nail polishes.  Consider this a fabulous opportunity to purge any polish that's on the verge of clumping.

Third, lay down paper to protect your work surface and let your children paint the flat side of the gems.  Be creative with your approaches -- layer sparkly shades underneath opaque colors.  Use a Sharpie marker to draw designs before covering the gems with paint.

Finally, let your gems dry and then glue a magnet to the back.  (As you can see, we've made just a few recently.)

My children call them "dragon eyes."  I use them to hang copious amounts of kid artwork on our refrigerator because, as I've mentioned, this winter hasn't released us from its clutches yet.  These kids of mine have cranked out coloring pages like it's their job.

If you're feeling stuck inside, give these kid-friendly refrigerator magnets a shot.  Enjoy!

 ______________________

First time visiting Robin Kramer Writes? I'm so glad you're here. This blog is all about humor, faith, practical parenting, and daily life.  Plus, at least one reader (who isn't even related to me!) has insisted that it's wildly entertaining.  Go on, take a moment to visit my Popular Posts page or follow my Facebook page.  (Do it. Do it. You know you want to. All the cool kids are doing it.  This is subliminal message, of course.  You can tell because it's placed in parenthesis, like I'm whispering to your subconscious. But subtly, of course.)

Thanks for joining me!

2

Good Moms Don't Feel Like This (and other lies we tell ourselves)

In the span of time it took me to shower this past Sunday morning, my children erected a village of paper plates, red Solo cups, strips of paper, and Elmer's glue on our kitchen table.  The village had distinct rooms, walkways, and an elevator system.  By the time my hair was dry, my children had scripted a backstory for the small plastic figurines who populated the scene.

It's the same kitchen table that's marred with scratches from years of use, Sharpie marker scribbles from the four year old, and a piece of Scotch tape that's become one with the tabletop and remains affixed no matter how often I scratch at it with my fingernail.  This particular day the table also was crusted with Play-Doh and a dried white streak that, when in its more viscous state, had probably been yogurt.

My family ate lunch after church around this very table, our plates and cups precariously close to the edges so we didn't crowd and collapse the village which, according to my children, was ready for expansion.

As I chewed my food with my plate nearly on my lap, I had one thought:

I won't miss this.  I really won't miss this -- not a table that looks like this, not the urban sprawl of plastic cups and paper plates, not this mess that spontaneously crops up every single day.

When I'm confronted with these honest thoughts as a mother, it somehow seems wrong.  Shouldn't I be thinking about the benefit of creative expression?  Savoring these brief years of imaginative play?  Shouldn't I be putting my kids before my desire to eat lunch on a clean kitchen table?

But, to be perfectly honest, there are days when I just want a clean table.

Like me, whether you've consciously articulated it or not, perhaps you don't think that good moms should feel like this about their offspring and their kitchen tables.  Good moms shouldn't dislike byproducts of motherhood.  Good moms should be able to take their kids' childhoods in stride. 

These are troubling thoughts, especially when you are feeling this way, and you do dislike the messy kitchen table, and you aren't exactly taking things in stride.  Guilt and shame well up, muffling any inclination to acknowledge these matters, and you don't say a thing.  You just beat yourself up a bit internally.

This is precisely why I'm writing this post.  I'm hardwired to assume that I shouldn't ever think or feel this way.  But sometimes I do.  I don't think I'm alone.

When we wrestle with parenting silently and privately, it's easy to become tangled in the warped thinking that if we don't savor or appreciate every detail of motherhood then we must not sufficiently love our kids.  If we loved them enough, after all, sequential years of noise, mess, and tiredness  wouldn't grate at us.  If we were better at mothering, we wouldn't feel moments of relief when our kids headed off to school.  If we were truly selfless, as mothers ought to be, we'd stop experiencing the desire to have our own lives.

When I dare to harness these thoughts -- lasso them, drag them to the ground, look them squarely in the face, and then describe them in words -- I realize something, and it's a freeing realization:

I love my children.  I also want a clean kitchen table.  These aren't mutually exclusive sentences.  Wanting a clean kitchen table doesn't negate the love I have for my children.

We shouldn't confuse our children with motherhood.  We can love our kids daily without loving all aspects of motherhood daily.

I can consider my children the most important beings in my world besides God and my husband, and still want a break from them.  I can revere motherhood as sacred and holy and fulfilling, while simultaneously recognizing that there's a call on my life that partially will be answered outside the walls of my home, separate from a direct connection with my three children's individual lives.

Fellow moms, today if you want an entire night's sleep, or a small purse instead of a diaper bag, or a lacy bra instead of a breast pump, or an uninterrupted afternoon to read or sleep or walk through Target without nearing the toy department, or a bathroom sink that isn't streaked with globs of semi-gelatinous toothpaste, or a thriving career or ministry that requires you to periodically leave your children so you can invest in yourself and others, you are not alone. 

And you are not a bad mother.

17

The ABC's of Summer

In summers past, I've balked at the idea of planning anything that required much foresight or cleverness.  Heat saps my creativity and gumption, it would seem.

This isn't to say that I don't do anything with my kids during summer, of course.  We do plenty of things besides wallowing in boredom (which, I'd argue, can often be good for kids.)  Days are filled with visits to the pool, impromptu adventures with neighbor kids, playing at the park, trips to the library in the morning, bike rides in the afternoon, chasing lightning bugs in the evening, and popsicles all the time.

This summer marks a first, though, in the sense that we sat down as a family and made a summer bucket list.  Not just any bucket list, either -- an alphabetical summer bucket list where we brainstormed an activity for each letter of the alphabet. 

Certain letters were a breeze.  A stroll through the arboretum (A), a baseball game (B), cooking hot dogs over our fire pit (C), and feeding the ducks at a local pond (D).

We expected other letters to more challenging.  We plan to drive by our town's quarry (Q) which sounds rather lame, but you work with what you've got when you're dealing with Q.  We'll also be performing an undercover mission of cheer (U) where we secretly bless someone (which turns out to be one of my favorite entries on the list), and exploring (X) a new place.

But one letter out of the 26 teased us.  We simply couldn't think of something to do for J.  Everything we brainstormed seemed anticlimactic (Jumping rope?  Eating jelly beans?  Jenga, anyone?), or age inappropriate (joy riding), or illegal (jimmying locked doors.) 

We skipped ahead to the next letters and finished the rest of our list before starting the J brainstorming anew, still unable to settle on an activity.

My husband walked to the cabinet, pulled out the phone book, and flipped to the J's.  He noted that there was an ice cream shop called Jackson's Frosty Freeze in the next town, a scenic 20-minute drive away.  Good enough.  I wrote it down and hung the list on the refrigerator.

After dinner last night, for whatever reason -- the World Cup loss to Belgium, the sudden late afternoon thunderstorm, the new book that made me blink up from its pages at my real life, unsure which reality felt more vivid -- but all five members of our family seemed out of sorts.

I walked to the refrigerator and ran my index finger down the list, stopping on J.  My simple question "Who wants to get ice cream at Jackson's Frosty Freeze?" served as a rallying cry, urging the kids to move more quickly to the car than they'd moved all day.

Twenty minutes later we reached our destination and noticed a slight problem.  They seem to be renovating.

Well then.  Scratch that idea, unless you happen to know a synonym for demolition that starts with J.

6

Traveling With Kids? This Tip Saved Our Sanity.

A few months ago, my husband and I surprised our three young daughters by picking them up from school, the minivan packed to the brim, and taking a family trip to Florida.  Of course, any trip involves the actual travel portion -- the getting there and back again. I haven't studied the etymology of the word travel, but on the surface it seems uncannily similar to travail.  Sometimes there's a degree of pain and suffering involved, especially if you're traveling with kids.

At the very least, impatience tends to be involved -- both theirs and yours.  Not to mention a tendency for children to be hungry (a ravenously I've-never-eaten-before-in-my-entire-life type of hungry) for lunch by 9:45 in the morning even if they just ate breakfast at 7:30.

What saved our journey was a tip that a student shared with me when I explained my Spring Break plans to my classes.  "When we used to take long road trips," she said, "my parents would pay my brother and me one dollar for every hour that we behaved.  If we fought or complained, we didn't earn our dollar that hour."

Honestly, I doubted the strategy.  First, it seemed like it was merely bribing kids to do the good behavior that they already ought to be doing.  Second, would it really work?  Would one dollar per hour be enough incentive to motivate a child, equal parts tiredness and eagerness, not to whine or complain while stuck in a car seat for hours?

But we tried it.  And here's the kicker: it worked.

It worked beautifully, magically, miraculously.  It prompted our eight-year-old to gently warn our three-year-old: "Hang in there.  Don't yell or fuss.  Don't lose your dollar.  You can buy yourself a treat or a prize if you earn your dollars!"  It kept our five-year-old coloring and humming to herself.  It saved my husband and me headaches and excessive consumption of Tylenol.

We only did this during the drive from Pennsylvania to Orlando (not back home), which amounted to 16 hours.  The sum payoff was $47 between our three kids.  (For those of you quick with math, you'll calculate that only one kid lost one dollar the entire time.  Impressive.)

Moreover, we would have bought the girls a souvenir during the trip anyway, but this way, the girls "earned" their own spending money for the week and rationed it carefully when considering what to purchase.  It was truly ninja parenting: they earned what we naturally would have given, and we watched them demonstrate self-control both when obtaining and then spending the money.

That's a travel victory, indeed.

Road trip, anyone?
_______________________________________________________
Every traveling experience is better with a great book! 
Enjoy the humor and encouragement in Then I Became a Mother. 
Available in both Kindle and paperback editions.

6

Looking for a Birthday Party Game for Girls?

Hypothetically speaking, I'm not against parties with themes.  It just so happens that in my nine years of parenting, I've never once pulled off a themed birthday party for my kids.  Not once.  Not even close. 

I've baked boxed cakes.  I've ordered pizzas.  I've supervised as kids have made their own mini-pizzas.  I've blown up balloons.  I've ushered kids who were hyped up on sugar outside to burn off some energy.  I've remembered to assemble the obligatory thanks-for-coming bags that you hand to each guest during parent pick-up.

But I have not ever systematically developed a party around a theme.

For those of you who love themes, I sense that your inner dialogue already has started.  You're thinking that I'm an anti-themite, just like that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer accuses Jerry of being a rabid anti-dentite.

If so, I can handle the label, especially because despite my un-thematic tendencies, I recently introduced a party game that my daughter and her fellow nine-year-old friends loved.  We can call it Revolving Manicures, or perhaps even Spin the (Nail Polish) Bottle.

The procedure is simple:

1) Collect all the nail polishes you own and arrange them in a circle.
2) Use one nail polish (tightly closed) as the spinner.
3) Let each player take a turn spinning the bottle.
4) Paint each subsequent finger with the polish that the spinner points toward.
5) Continue around the circle until all manicures are complete.

The girls enjoyed the pampering.  I enjoyed the built-in dry time as I worked my manicuring magic from girl to girl.  (If you're wondering, yes, I did paint my own nails.)

See?  I'm not entirely an anti-themite.  My theme is just randomized color.   That's adaptable parenting right there -- adhering to a theme so loose it can be applied to anything.

Enjoy humor, hope, and encouragement for moms: Then I Became a Mother. Available in both Kindle and paperback editions!

8