A MIX OF SUN AND CLOUDS

When I was a teenager – and I mean teenager in all of its eye-rolling, heavy sighing, sarcastic glory – my grandparents moved from Michigan, where my family had always lived, to Florida. This move meant the end of Christmas dinners together and the beginning of weekly Sunday morning phone calls (mind you, when we lived in the same state, the phone calls were far less frequent). During these phone calls, one topic dominated the conversation – the weather. I still remember having conversations with my grandfather that went like this.

“The Weather Channel says it’s snowing there.”

“Um, it’s not.”

“The Weather Channel says it is.”

“Well I’m looking out the window and it’s not.”

And so on.

When my husband calls his parents each Sunday (again with the Sunday phone calls), the conversation very quickly turns in a familiar direction – the weather. Temperature, the presence or absence of precipitation and what form it took, wind, the amount of sunshine, all are covered in great detail.

I tell you all of this to set the stage for my realization of the week – motherhood has a lot in common with the weather. The unpredictability, the occasional volatility, the rapid swings from cold to hot and back again. Motherhood is chock full of such moments. And many times, I feel as unable to control the weather patterns sweeping through my home as I do what mother nature herself is visiting upon the outside of my home.

But this week brought a combination of outside and inside weather that led me to a subtle shift in thinking. It is my hope that this subtle shift helps me become a more effective manager of my children's - and my own - weather patterns. J

The weather in North Carolina is prone to change quickly. As I mentioned, I spent the majority of my life in Michigan so this is not a new concept. But this week we have experienced some extremes. Sunday was purely and simply North Carolina at its best. It was warm and a little breezy with skies the perfect shade of Carolina blue – an intense, almost unreal blue that I’ve never seen anywhere else.

Then came Monday and Tuesday. Raw, rainy, miserable. The sky was low and dark gray. I don’t believe so much as a single ray of sunshine made it through the clouds either day.

Extremes of weather outside were matched inside. We had moments, hours even, of delightfulness with children getting along and playing well and even – gasp – listening the first time. Then there were the other times – arguments, yelling, and fits being thrown over minor, and often imaginary, wrongs. Those moments – like the dreary weather outside – made it more difficult for me to find the beauty.

And I think that’s okay. Not every moment – or even every day – of motherhood is going to be filled with peacefulness and obvious joy. Sometimes the days are gray and difficult to get through. But just like the sun came out today – making the memory of the past two rain-soaked, ugly days fade quickly – so, too does a smile, a cute giggle, a snuggle at just the right time work to erase the memories of those challenging moments.

And just like the rainy days serve a purpose – making us truly appreciate those cloudless, sun-filled days, the stormy moments of motherhood can do the same. So the next time I’m in the midst of a moment that threatens to make me hide in the pantry and pull out my hair, I hope I can remember that soon – probably very soon – I’ll be presented with another moment that will bring me to tears of gratitude that these three beans – these beautiful babies of mine – were given to me to love and care for.

In the meantime, I’ll make sure to always have an umbrella and an extra jacket handy – just in case.

ALL MOMS ARE SUPERMOMS

Like all six-year-old boys, Professor Bean likes superheroes. He likes to talk about them, pretend to be them, engage in long debates about which superhero’s power is cooler or more powerful than another. Where I have always been partial to Superman (I like my superheroes – and husbands - smart and bespectacled), the Professor’s loyalties rotate between Green Lantern, Batman and Ironman.

I have to admit that I’ve given some thought to what superpowers I’d most like to have. Invisible Woman sounds good for those times I don’t get a chance to take a shower before morning carpool. And a superhero with an extra set of hands is the dream of any mom who has tried to make dinner while soothing a fussy baby, or fold laundry while helping a small child wrestle an impossibly small dress onto a Polly Pocket doll.

I think superheroes and moms have a lot in common. I don’t mean in that “supermom” way that seems to indicate that whichever mom has the most hectic schedule or the longest to-do list but still manages to have well-manicured nails wins. Rather, I maintain every mom is a supermom.

In some of my conversations with Professor Bean about whether Superman can really leap tall buildings in a single bound (apparently he can) and just how Spiderman can swing from building to building (using webs he weaves himself –hmmm), I started thinking about the various superpowers we possess as mothers. The power to heal boo boos with a kiss and a snuggle, the ability to know something is wrong even when a child claims all is well, and the sixth sense that tells you when the silence upstairs makes the subtle shift from peaceful to suspicious.

Each supermom, like each superhero, has her areas of specialty. Some of us are great cooks, some are creative and crafty, others have enviable stores of patience and/or humor. I know – and have great admiration for – many such moms. I have my own areas of power that are well-balanced by those areas where I am less than powerful (I will never achieve a level of true organization and crafts make me break out in nervous sweats - every time). I believe that we are designed as mothers to have the superpowers most needed to be the “supermoms” our own little people need.

There is one superpower – more powerful than all the rest – all of us supermoms possess in abundance. The power to love our children in a way that no one else can love them. The ability to see the unique beauty of our children and – with God’s grace – to help them see that beauty.

I am a supermom. And so are you!

I’d love to hear some bragging right here on my blog – about yourself or another mom. Leave a comment and share with all of us.

SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO LOOK FOR THE ROMANCE

No girl dreams about being compared to this:

  
I have been blissfully married to someone who is truly the perfect husband for me for going on eight years. In that time, we’ve moved three times and had three babies. We’ve had some challenges and many successes. He’s the calming force to my not-so-terribly-calm nature. He steadies me when I need it and reassures me that everything will be fine. He makes me laugh. And he’s annoying right most of the time J

My husband is a planner. He’s wildly logical and analytical. His education and professional background started in the world of engineering and then moved into financial analysis. To say he’s left brained is a wee bit of an understatement.  Becoming a father has brought out a different side – a fun-loving, game playing, happy to play make-believe with little people side that I love to see.

He is not, however, prone to flowery or overly romantic speeches. He lets me know daily through word and deed how he loves and appreciates me. That works for us. The reason it works for us now is because I understand his language and can translate for myself. This was not always the case.

When we had been dating for a few weeks and were happily in that early infatuation stage (there are days I miss that phase), he went away for the weekend with some friends. He called me one night from his hotel and we talked and talked for a long time. About what I don’t know. Except for one thing – one thing that has stuck with me for more than nine years.

At one point in the conversation, he said something like, “You know what I really like about you?” I readied myself for some dreamy compliment about my ravishing beauty or sparkling personality. You know, the kind of things you want a new boyfriend to spend his time thinking about you.

That’s not what he said.

“You’re not a show horse. You’re a plow horse.”

Um, what?

He went on to say that I wasn’t flashy, I was solid. Dependable.

Oh.

When the conversation ended, I immediately called a close friend of mine. A male friend because I really needed a guy to translate. This friend dated A LOT. He happened to be unnaturally good-looking and therefore rather experienced with women.

When I told him what my new boyfriend said, he acted like it was a good thing. A romantic thing. I admitted that I was going to need a translation. My friend said it meant that I was more than a pretty face. That I had depth and substance. Staying power. Now that all sounded good, but I was still a little unconvinced. I mean really, what girl dreams of a guy calling her a plow horse? (Refer to picture above. Not flattering, is it?)

But when that new boyfriend came back from the weekend and showed up at my door with a dreamy smile on his face and an armful of flowers, I started to understand. I was going to have to alter my idea of what he should say and how he should say it. This was someone who had his own ideas of what he wanted in a relationship. He wanted someone to walk by his side, not to just hang off his arm. A partner, not a trophy.

There are times when my husband speaks my language. When he says exactly the right thing. Like on our wedding day, when I got to the altar, he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said just one word. “Wow.” Well done, darling husband, well done.

So I’m proud to be a plow horse. Proud to be someone who is capable of doing the work, of carrying the load when needed. But I also like the wows when they come my way. I think I speak for all of us women when I say we all do.

Do you find yourself having to translate in your marriage or relationship? I’d love to hear about it!

PAYING IT FORWARD - MOMMY STYLE

“You work so hard and it shows.”

These seven simple words were spoken to me nearly four weeks ago. Yet I recall them daily – sometimes as reinforcement and sometimes almost as a prayer in hopes that they are true.

The person who said these wonderful words to me is a woman I have seen at church nearly every week for a number of years. She is a grandmother several times over. She’s someone you see and immediately are drawn to. Her goodness shines through as brightly as the humor in her eyes. She’s a dear soul. There’s no other way to explain it. I’ve jokingly told my husband that I want her to adopt me – to be my grandma. I haven’t had one in nearly 20 years and I miss it. That this woman, this experienced mother and grandmother, took the time to tell me so sincerely that she sees my efforts meant the world to me. She probably doesn’t remember the remark or, if she does, she surely doesn’t know how very much it meant to me.

As moms, we work all day every day with our kids and for our kids. There’s what I call the custodial care which starts with an intense focus on eating, sleeping and changing diapers and morphs into still more eating and a never ending battle with crumbs and dirty socks. And then there’s the rest. Teaching manners, respect, independence. Teaching about sharing and kindness and what it means to be a good friend, a good sibling, a good person. There’s reading and writing and coloring, building with blocks and playing make-believe.

Some of it is fun and surely some of it isn’t, but it’s all part of the work that is motherhood. And while there is immense joy to be found in at least one – and hopefully many – moment each day, I think it’s okay to admit that being a mom is hard. Physically, mentally and emotionally hard. And certainly there are moments and even days when it feels like all that hard work isn’t getting the results you are hoping for. An inconveniently timed tantrum, uneaten – yet carefully prepared – food, ears that seem to have lost the ability to listen.   

In those moments, it can be easy to start to doubt. Doubt that I'm doing it right enough or as well as someone else. Validation can be hard to come by. And yet, one Sunday morning a dear woman took my hand in both of hers and said those words. “You work so hard and it shows.”

Although my experience as a mother pales in comparison to this wonderful woman’s, I’ve given a lot of thought to the impact of her words on me. And even more thought to how my words could have an impact on other moms. Taking the time to pay a sincere compliment – not about a child’s physical appearance (being cute is nothing more than lucky genes after all) - but about a child’s behavior or character, his or her kindness or good manners. Something that reflects all of the hard work that mom has put in.

I know my husband appreciates me – he tells me often (especially on Sunday evenings after spending the weekend in the trenches alongside me). My kids appreciate me and happily are getting old enough to tell me. That feels wonderful and fills a need. But validation from another mom – someone with firsthand knowledge of how I'm putting all I’ve got into these small people – means a great deal as well. And fills a different need.

So one of my resolutions is going to be to look for more opportunities to provide that validation to other moms. To notice and to acknowledge. I hope some of you will join me.

HERE'S TO NOT-SO-OBVIOUS CHOICES

I have always been a champion of the underdog. My loyalties invariably lay with the team with the hard luck story or with the less popular member of a duo or group.  I was never a fan of Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods. I never have and never will root for the Dallas Cowboys or the New York Yankees. They have enough fans, enough fuss, enough people telling them how wonderful they are. They don’t need me. I truly don’t know if these choices are purposeful or if that’s how I’m wired. I suspect it’s a combination.

What I do know is that when everyone else was starry-eyed over Shaun Cassidy (yes, I’m talking about the 70’s), I was hopelessly devoted to Parker Stevenson. He played the smarter of the two Hardy Boys – even then I was a sucker for the brainy ones. And during the endless 8^th grade playground conversations about just which member of Duran Duran truly was the cutest, mine was always the only vote for Roger Taylor. He was the drummer and the only one who didn’t have long hair and didn’t wear makeup. Even then I was a sucker for the clean-cut ones. Those of you who know my husband know that these tastes held true!

 That's dreamy Parker Stevenson on the right.

I believe that there’s much to be discovered when you take the time to consider the less than obvious choices in life – and in people. I’m trying to instill this in my kids, without being all lesson-y about it. It’s already clear that there are always going to be kids in every class who are magnets. Whether it’s looks, personality, athletic ability, family status, humor, there’s something that pulls the other kids into their orbit. Why I was surprised to see this in action in kindergarten – and even preschool – I don’t know. It was true when I was a kid – and I’m sure even before I was a kid – and it’s true today.

But I want my three beans to look deeper. To look beyond who everyone else thinks is the coolest or the funniest or the most popular. To take the time and make the effort to get to know the people around them well enough to make those less obvious choices. The kid who might be a little quiet when you first get to know him but who is wickedly funny or super smart. The girl who daydreams during class just might be blessed with an incredible imagination that would guarantee to take any game of make-believe to new heights.

What I want my beans to know and understand is this. I’ve found in my life that when you make less-than-obvious choices, you make discoveries that other people don’t get to make. When you take the time to really look, you’ll discover the true gems in your life. And you’ll treasure them. And they’ll treasure you right back.

 

RUN MAMA RUN

I am someone who tends to think in absolutes. My beliefs are strong and not easily swayed. This is true even when it comes to what I believe about myself. And for the first 41 ½ years of my life, I believed -- very strongly and with all of my being -- that I was not a runner.

There was plenty of evidence to support this belief.

The summer I turned nine, my mom signed my brother and I up for track through our local parks and recreation program. I still don’t know why she thought this was a good idea. My brother did well, giving it his all, as was – and still is – his way. I, on the other hand, figured out the first day that running was hard -- and sweaty. I quit.

Then there was eighth grade softball. I tried out for and made the team, which was pretty surprising to everyone involved J I played first base – not particularly well. But what I remember most – other than laughing with my friends until I could hardly stand up – was the running.  At the beginning of each practice, after doing some calisthenics, we were required to run to the end of the road and back. It was not a long road. I never ran the entire distance. While every other member of the team ran down to the corner and back, I would run down two or three houses, hang out in that person’s driveway and then join the rest of the team on their return trip.

So you can see that when I say I was not a runner, I don’t say it lightly.

When my youngest – Pinky Bean – was approaching her second birthday, I realized that the 40 extra pounds I was carrying around could no longer be termed “baby weight.” It had become just “weight.” This was no longer okay with me. I followed the Weight Watchers program to a tee and followed a daily exercise routine of cardio DVDs in the wee hours of the morning. I’m proud to say I lost 42 pounds and have kept all but a couple of them off. (Christmas cookies are yummy – and dangerous. I’m almost done working them back off. J)

It was very shortly after I’d lost the weight that I got an email from a friend. Like me, she’s a mom – of four kids, not three. Like me, she’s busy – but actually busier with that extra kid and three of her kids being in school full-time and all four playing a variety of sports. Like me, she’s involved in our church and our kids’ schools – but more so. Unlike me, she’s a natural and enthusiastic athlete. She runs marathons and I – don’t. She’s someone I enjoy and who I admire a great deal. She’s also someone who makes me laugh until my face hurts J

The gist of the email was that this friend, who would become Coach Moe, was starting a Couch to 5K running program and was seeking out participants. You didn’t have to be a runner or to have ever really thought much about running. She promised it would be low-pressure and fun. Maybe it was because I do admire Moe or maybe I’d had too much diet coke that morning, but I fired off a quick, “count me in,” response before I gave myself time to think about it. Then I did think about it. And panic set in.

The first night was a little scary. It was cold and there was a light rain falling. But there were a group of us in it together. Amid nervous laughter, we set out. I had no idea where that night would lead me. It led me to the next night and the night after that and the night after that. Soon I was running for ten minutes at a time – unheard of when we started and I would be panting and in pain after 90 seconds of running. For despite being in pretty good shape (remember all the cardio DVDs), running takes it to a whole new level.

As we progressed through the program, I discovered something that blew my mind:

I LOVE RUNNING!!

What? How could this be true? But it was. There is something that is so wonderfully calming and yet so challenging about running. It clears your mind and lets you feel what your body can do – what you can do.

I finished the Couch to 5K program and ran a race in July, 2012. Now for anyone who might be thinking of taking up running, if you live in a place like say, North Carolina, don’t run your first race in July. Also, don’t get so amped up at the starting line that you start out at a dead sprint with the professional caliber runners. Despite these errors in judgment, I did it. I ran a race. I had a time in mind to beat. And I beat it – by 13 seconds. And when I crossed the finish line, there were my hubby and my three precious beans cheering me on. BEST. FEELING. EVER.

I am still a runner. I will run faster and I will run farther. I will probably never run a marathon. But then again, never say never.

The most important thing is what I’ve learned. It’s a lesson I hold dear and one that I hope to pass on to my beans. I learned that I can do more. Coach Moe is tough. She smiles and laughs and does completely awesome things like having an 80s theme night run, but she’s tough. She lets you know that she believes in you and that she expects you to do more. She pushed me. I wanted to show her that her belief in me was well-placed. And in doing so, her belief became my belief.

I am strong. I am capable of many things. That feels even better than putting on a pair of jeans in a size I hadn’t worn since before kids.

I want my kids to feel strong. I want them to know that they are capable. That even if something seems outside of what they think they can do, it’s worth trying. I want to do for each of them what Coach Moe did for me. I’ll show them the path. I’ll run alongside them for a while if they need me to. But then I’ll let them know that they are strong enough. That they can do it.

And when they reach the finish line, I’ll be cheering louder than anyone.

MY MOTHER IS ALWAYS RIGHT

There is a truth in my life that I tried to deny for many years. It is this – my mother is ALWAYS right. There’s no use denying. She knows it. I know it. My dad and my husband both know it. She’s just always right. Her rightness is not limited to certain areas of expertise. It’s a wide-reaching “rightness” that can be both awe-inspiring and intensely irritating.

When I was pregnant – all three times – my husband and I chose not to find out the gender of our babies. Naturally, there was guessing and each time I had strong instincts. All three times I was wrong. All three times my mother was right. And all three times she was smug about her rightness. You can see how this could be irritating J

There is one thing I’m glad she was right about. It was the way she taught me not to worry about what other people have. Not to focus on the stuff of life. Not to care if someone has more than I do, because someone always will.

As my little beans are out in the world more and more and seeing for themselves that some people have more than we do and many people have less, I have been spending a lot of time thinking about how my parents taught me not to care, not to focus on the stuff. Because yes, Professor Bean has gone to a friend’s house and seen that friend has access to much “cooler” electronics than we have. Sunshine Bean has seen that a friend has a dress-up chest that is every little girl’s dream.

My children are very blessed. All of their little needs, and many of their little wants, are met. My husband and I are grateful to have the ability to meet them. However, our family’s priorities mean that there are some wants that will go unmet. Some of their friends will no doubt have those same wants and they will be met.

When I was a kid, my needs and many of my wants were met. However, several of my friends came from families whose lifestyles were more luxurious than ours. Many of my friends had more “things” than I did. And truly, I didn’t care. I was happy and secure with what I had. I still am. I still don’t care.

I know that this contentment I feel is due to my mother. Upon reflection, I realized the answer I was seeking was simple. I didn’t care because my mom didn’t care. You would never hear her talking enviously about a neighbor buying a fancy car or having designer clothes or an expensive purse. It’s not that she didn’t notice, but the “stuff” didn’t matter to her. And by her example, it didn’t mean much to me.

I am unbelievably content in my own life. There are things about myself I strive to improve upon, but my life is rich and full of love. It is my greatest hope that I can be as right as my mom was. That I can teach my three precious beans by my example how to “not care” about the stuff.