Celebrating 16 Years of MotherService

Today, my boychild who politely and indirectly asked me not to name or tag him in any social media-type arena, has reached the coveted milestone of officially turning 16. High school is well underway, college is an attainable and not so far away target, specialized sports and skills have risen and claimed a place in his heart, and of course, driving is now within reach. My first born, is indeed, 16.

Some days that means, “My little baby is 16,” as in, “Where has the time gone?” While other days, it’s more like, “My eldest is 16,” and, “Thank, God! That means I only have to deal with his shenanigans for two more years!” Knowing both emotions are completely acceptable and also knowing he said not to name or tag him - and that he didn’t say anything about blogging - are what 16 years of Motherhood have taught me.

This kid has always been a teacher to me and I have truly been in his service. In utero, I learned that music would always be part of his life as I had to crank classic jazz while driving in the car so he wouldn’t dent the steering wheel with his “indoor” soccer kicks. The wide-eyed, inquisitive, “Hello, world!” look given to us in the delivery room were a clear harbinger of the ball of energy that would be happiest with any type of ball to play with as soon as he realized they were more fun to grasp than an adult’s finger. Sleep? “Your kid sleeps through the night?” “Your kid eats what?” “Your kid…???” Not my spitfire who got into trouble in his first daycare for dancing on the table in the playroom or gave himself a black eye by launching himself off a recliner for rocking in a little too animated of a manner. My kid, who learned to scale his crib using his TOES and learned those same TOES could help him climb to the top of the door jam! My kid who rode a two wheeler without training wheels at 3, jumped said bike off the curb at four and participated in the X-Games by jumping his plastic trike OFF MY BED!

This kid has never been the best student, has never sat still long enough to enjoy a book no matter how many voices his mama made. This kid had to learn spelling words while bouncing a ball or riding a scooter around the house (yes, inside and around the house).

Mothering this type of kid has taught me motherhood, done right and in service of the little spirit entrusted temporarily in your care, needs to be handled on a case by case basis. Mothering this type of kid takes more patience, imagination and stock in Band-Aids. Being in service to this kid, means really focusing on what he is on this earth to accomplish, not what momma wants, not what society wants. Daily, I must ask myself to seek out his light and help it illuminate his little part of the world. Though I do believe, his will be a monster slice of our world. I pray for more patience, more understanding, more creativity, and more gear to help him reach his destination.

Somewhere along the way, amongst the gazillion mother-to-be books I once used to covet, I saw a theory that our little one’s actually choose us as their vessel in which to enter the world. That would mean, this boy-human chose me. 16 years as this kid’s mother have made me better and I am truly a Motherservant to humanity. I am an improved being for all that he has taught me. And I am grateful that HE CHOSE ME! Happy 16th, kid.

Mothering the Mamma

Why is it that we think it’s ok to degrade, berate and criticize ourselves in a way that we would kill someone over if they were to speak to our children that way? Why do we call ourselves fat and ugly and say we will never have those things or people in our lives we dream of? Why is the “not-good-enough” soundtrack on autoplay? Who said that was ok? The sad thing is that this often extends beyond ourselves and we trash other women for their looks, their personalities and god-forbid, their mothering skills. In criticizing them, we are externalizing the criticism we’ve bombarded ourselves with. Sadly, sometimes, it is our own mother’s voices we hear as those words from childhood, “There’s always room for improvement,” “Honey, are you really going to wear that,” and, “You need to do something with your hair,” after you’ve worked on it a solid 30 minutes and just mustered up enough strength to walk out of your room.

In resolving not to make unrealistic New Year’s goals, but rather to focus on how I want to FEEL in 2014, I’ve decided to mother myself in that Fairy Godmother voice of unwavering faith and kindness that is the antithesis of the recordings that have been playing in my head longer than they haven’t been. Lots of “Sweethearts,” “Loves,” “That’s ok baby’s,” and “Good jobs.” Lots of, “Stop thinking that right nows,” and more, “You got this, girl. You’re fierce, now fight ons,” coming from that inner voice that has turned from evil stepmother to Glenda the Good Witch (Lena Horne from the Wiz).

If we don’t speak to ourselves in kind and loving ways, how can we expect anyone else to?

You deserve that fiercely protective, always supportive, honest, life-giving, hugging force and you must start from within you. Breathe kind, wholeness into your spirit so you can be and do what you were put on the planet to do.

For me, that’s changing the soundtrack, being comforted by my own company and being my own biggest cheerleader. I’m searching for my red, sparkly ruby slippers that I can click three times to not go home, but go to a place of kindness, comfort and love.

Mommy Wars 2.0

Those of us that have been blessed with children that we birthed, adopted, inherited or found on the corner, will be able to relate.

Remember when the kids were little? Maybe you still have little energizer bunny, diaper needing, scraped knee, band-aid requesting types. None-the-less, the elephant in the proverbial room or playground as it often was for me, revolved around that crazy, mostly unspoken competition among mothers. I’m not talking about the work-outside-of-the home vs. stay-at-home mom superweight fight,  I’m talking about the, “My kid can do xxx” so, “What’s wrong with you because your kid can’t,” type of bout. The kind that allowed the more insecure moms a place to gloat or hide over their child’s ability (or lack thereof) to successfully use the potty, tie shoes, or read Brown Bear, Brown Bear on their own even though everyone knew that little angel couldn't read it, but had been forced to hear it so many times they simply memorized it.

Now that I am the mother of two teens, one approaching college entrance age at rapid speed, I realize there is a Mommy Wars 2.0. This time it’s not about scoring a goal on the pee-wee field or knowing their times tables, it’s about GPA’s, Travel Teams, SAT Scores and AP classes. It’s about seeing someone you haven’t seen in almost a year telling you, quite loudly for maximum hearing within the unsolicited crowd, that their child is in line for Valedictorian, has 25 AP courses with a gazillion point 0 grade point average before even asking how you’ve been. Their point is not to share that their child is a happy, hard working, goal setting, good friend; but that their child, is indeed, smarter, more athletic, better at instruments, more industrious...read BETTER than yours.

Just like when the kids were little, I make a conscious effort not to smack the bragger, though I may do all sorts of wicked things to them in my mind behind the wicked smile plastered on my face. Let this be an official announcement: I refuse to play your game and am the first to admit my children are not “perfect!”

But...I will say, my children have a mother that prays I can help them be what they were put on this planet to do, not what I have groomed, paid for, dragged them to, set them up for a stroke at 20 or tiger mom’d them into.

As mom’s, no matter the method, we all want the best for our children and do what we think is right. What we MUST not do, is judge others who do it differently. My children have strengths recognized in the academic world, but also in the real world they will have to survive in without me one day. So...go brag somewhere else, because one day, I just might tell you the truth about yourself and that your children, no matter how perfect, will sever the cord one day and make it on their own. Have you equipped them for that?

Gambling Lessons from Mama to Son!

I took boy-child (and others)  to the horse races (sorry animal advocates) to celebrate a milestone birthday for his father. Boy-child was a willing participant to the day’s events, though he didn't know what to expect. Because he cares deeply for his father and wanted to help ensure the celebratory tone of the day continued, he walked onto the fairgrounds and racetrack with a sense of positivity and awe. To his surprise, the intensity of those studying stats and amateurs picking horses by name, energized him to the point of wanting to get involved.I remembered my own father giving me the race lists and having me pick horses I “felt” were winners with such fondness, that I welcomed his enthusiasm.

I let him pick the horse that “moved him” and had him walk up to the betting counter with me. As I bet on his horse to, “win, place or show,” with a whopping $4, he smiled, paced and had the racing heart of a seasoned gambler. I chuckled, smiled and explained where to look to see if, in fact, his horse would “come in.”

As we watched the horses cross the finish line, his horse in first, I told him that winning wasn't the norm.. As I placed the $10 winnings in his hand, he vibrated with energy and floated back to our inner track picnic area to celebrate with our friends.

I took this moment to talk about the winners high and loser’s, “just one more bet.” He didn't “get it” until we bet $4 of his winnings on another race and he lost. He literally laid prostrate on the ground as if in a silent temper tantrum. I took this moment to discuss gambling addicts and their need for, “just one more time.”

After reconciling with the loss, he announced to the group, “I gotta go one more time so I can win my money back,” (I reminded him it was “my” money to begin with!)  After a whisper filled convo over the race bulletin and paper, he picked a horse, yet entrusted me with the type of bet as he almost regretfully handed me $4.

His horse came in, he won his money back and announced proudly, “I’m, DONE.” He didn't want to bet the rest of the day, though he cheered his mother on as I placed a few more bets including a winner in the 10th

As I watched my quickly approaching adulthood child, I smiled at his sensibility. I realized his hard-hardheadedness hadn't kept him from hearing the little gems of wisdom that I’d slipped his way here and there. Maybe he was listening underneath that, "OMG, I don't need to hear this," posturing. What other times had he absorbed things I'd said when I swore I was talking just to hear myself? SO MANY TIMES, THEY HEAR US. So, keep talking. He made me laugh, smile and realize, that in the end, he just might be OK and have a little fun along the way. Something his mother should remember, too!