Farewell, Santa (Or as I Like to Call It: Epic Parenting Fail)

When I say that Christmas 2018 was beautiful and nearly perfect, I mean it. The weather, the food, the gifts, the spirit--everything.

Except for our drive home from Brad sister Amy's house Christmas night. And what occurred will join my list of "Worst Parenting Moments Ever." It may be close to the top of that list, to be honest.

Brad and I have been playing Santa for 28 straight Christmases. Eve is nine years old, and Brad thought that this would be a good year to play our Santa finale. We discussed letting them in on the joy of Santa and the Christmas spirit, and decided he would be the one to tell her (and Hyrum, although we were pretty sure he knew), but we never determined a time frame of when to broach the subject. This was a huge mistake, it turns out.

Unfortunately, because our Santa's workshop experience on Christmas Eve went soooooo late and soooooo long, and because Tucker had also helped with setup for a video game, the adults at the Sanatorium were less than careful in the discussions of our Christmas Eve antics. Hyrum picked up on the slips fairly quickly and would make veiled comments, seeing if we would take the bait, but we played it off for the rest of the day.

Until we were driving home from Amy's, that is.

I can't remember exactly what I said, but my comment made it impossible to cloud the origin of a Santa gift. This time, Hyrum piped up.

"What? Is Santa real?"

I didn't know how to react.

I mean, I've been protecting Santa's identity for almost three decades now, but was it time to step out of the witness protection program and fess up?

I looked at Brad, and he didn't start talking. It was getting awkward, so I finally said, "Santa isn't real."

Just like that.

Flat and cold and unfeeling.

How could I do that?

The silence.

Then, the quiet sobs from the back corner of the Suburban.

With those three words, I broke my baby daughter's heart and ruined her perfect Christmas.

It was awful.

We still had five minutes in the car, and Brad and I voiced some drivel about "Christmas Spirit" and "Santa is real, if you believe" but the hole got deeper and deeper, and Eve's shattered dreams hung over all of us like the igniting Hindenberg.

It got worse.

I don't know which of the kids started it, but someone started to laugh.

And that embarrassed Eve. Everyone but her knew the truth about Santa, and not only had she just learned he wasn't real, but they were laughing at her. In the kids' defense, I think they were laughing because of the awkward situation, but that's not what she thought.

When we got home, everyone else got out of the car, and I climbed into the back seat next to my brokenhearted baby. My baby who no longer holds any vestige of baby beliefs in magical beings who circle the globe on Christmas Eve bearing perfect gifts just for her.

In that moment, all I wished is that I could take it all back. That I could conjure the Santa magic for her again and keep it for her forever.

Instead, we snuggled in the back seat for ten minutes as I answered all her questions. Occasionally one of my responses would trigger a fresh round of tears and sobs, and I would squeeze her tight again.

"Mom, I wanted him to be real." I know, sweetheart.

"You bought me this watch?" I did.

"I'm so sad." Me too, Dolly. Me too.

"The girl next to me at school told me, 'I DON'T BELIEVE IN SANTA!' But I told her that I did!" (I had no response for that one. What could I say?)

"At least I got one last Christmas" (This was followed by a body-shaking sob, and I could barely hold back my own tears.)

Wow. I thought the birds and the bees talk had been hard with her (which, ironically, occurred earlier this week). 

My sweet, trusting, believing, happy, green-eyed blond baby--sitting next to me on the seat with tears streaming down her face. 

And I had done that to her.

How could I?

I know it was bound to happen sometime, but did I have to be the perpetrator? Shouldn't it have been some kid on the playground? Not her mom!

I was crushed, almost as deeply as she was.

This morning she showed me what she wrote in her new journal, and it salved the wound a little, but this is a parenting fail I will regret forever.

Farewell, Santa. Thank you for 28 magical Christmases at the Denton Sanatorium. We will miss you.

And I wish with all my heart we could have extended your magical visits at least one more year.

Rambling Around

My mind is bouncing today, maybe in part because much of my day yesterday was taking care of this sick little girl. Things are just off around here. What is it?

When did my baby grow up? When did she get too old to watch Daniel Tiger or Sesame Street? She asked me to change the TV from PBS to "Girl Meets World" or "Phineas and Ferb" or even watch a movie instead of the little kid shows.

I've never been out of the PBS stage . . . It's unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

She snuggled her feverish blond head into my chest as we watched Frozen on my iPad--at least she hasn't outgrown Disney princesses yet. I'll hold onto what I can.

Remember last year when I cursed the month of February for its annoying combination of perfect weather and overwhelming allergens? Well, I stayed on the drops for most of the year, and they are doing very little for me. Yesterday was the worst day yet, and I still struggle to breathe without sneezing. I think my body's fight against the pollen is bringing my mood down with it.

Or it could be all of the sick people around here. Lily made it to school half-day yesterday, but Eve is still home today, and now Brad is coughing and aching and fevering. We had to cancel our trip to Idaho this weekend to see baby Thomas get blessed. That was a hard decision, but I can't bear the thought that we could get Heidi's kids sick. This cough is a bad one, and it could hospitalize a baby, so we're keeping our contagion to ourselves, thank you.

And something else swimming around in my head today: Parenting is hard. It's hard to know when to step back and when to intervene. When to let the hammer of justice fall and when a merciful hand is necessary. When to be the parent with advice and consequences or the parent with the shoulder perfect for muffling brokenhearted sobs.

For instance--school projects. I don't do my kids' projects for them. When they are on display at school, their projects look like they did them. Sometimes they feel bad that their projects don't look as finished as some of their friends', but I hope it's teaching my kids to work for themselves. What do you think?

And I hate it when they procrastinate till the last minute. Does that teach them to do a half-baked job just so it's done? Or does it teach them that they are capable of their own work and taking care of themselves? I never know what to do and what is the right choice. What do you think?

What about negative self-talk? "I have no friends." or "I hate myself." or "So-and-so is so perfect." I never know how to respond in these situations. I know I often say the wrong thing. Is that going to affect their self-concept for the rest of their lives? How do I help them work to conquer their weaknesses without giving them a skewed view of their flaws?

One thing I will never know is this: How do parents of "perfect kids" do that? How do these kids get great grades, excel athletically, play every musical instrument, feed the homeless, win student body elections every year, and still manage to sleep nine hours a night?

I don't want perfect kids. Really, I don't. I love my quirky, crazy, loud, imperfect, sometimes lazy but always clever kids. They are the center of my world, and I wouldn't want it any other way. But some days I wish that my kids weren't so hard. Some days I wish for carefully folded sock drawers and clutter-free backpacks. Some days I wish for no fighting over whose fault it is that the floor is sticky and no disagreement over whose job it is to clean the area in front of the bathroom--is it the bathroom person's job or the hall person's job? (Yes. This happens regularly around here.)

And then I get a hug around the middle or overhear a funny conversation or find random junk glued together as "sculpture," and I head to bed with a grateful prayer in my heart.

Thank you for my life. My life full of sickness and heartache and trouble and commotion. My life full of crazy and haphazard and funny and LOUD. My life full of the people I love who make my life . . . mine.

But sometimes . . .

I told Brad yesterday that all I really want is a few days in a row of "regular life." No one sick. No one fighting. No major crisis brewing that drains me emotionally and physically. It's been a really long time since I've had a few days in a row of regular.

I don't want "normal." Just regular.

Maybe sometime soon.

Little Bag of Dreams, Part 1

I opened the forgotten but so familir bag I found hidden on the top shelf of the mudroom closet. I knew what I would find inside.

Half-filled notebooks. Broken pencils and unwrapped crayons. Two Book of Mormon picture books. A package of ancient fruit snacks, now hard and inedible. A pink princess pull-up. No-longer-wet baby wipes in a Ziploc bag. A sacrament meeting program wadded up and scribbled on, dated January 20, 2013. 

January 20, 2013 was the last Sunday I took a diaper bag to Church with me. 

January 20, 2013 was Evie's third Sunday in Primary--her third Sunday as a Sunbeam. (For a brief story on Primary and Sunbeams, click here.) I had told her that now she was a Sunbeam, she was a big girl and I didn't need to bring the diaper bag to Church any more. And I didn't. Just like that. I brought it home, returned it to its shelf in the closet, and never took it out again.

Funny how just the sight of this bag flooded me with memories and a few unexpected happy tears. Memories of the mom I used to be. A mom of tiny kids who ate snacks and drank from sippy cups in Church. A mom of tiny kids who still wore pull-ups and needed help wiping their bums.

It wasn't just a diaper bag to me. This bag needed to have lots of compartments and pockets and be washable and not be covered in pastel baby bunnies or be gender-specific. (Those requirements may seem weird today, but it was extremely difficult to find one that was neutral and not hideous way back then.) I remember looking through catalogs (in the prehistoric days before online shopping) and deciding to order a Lands' End diaper bag** because it had everything I wanted and was guaranteed to never wear out.

That was 1999.

It lasted through thirteen years of being hauled to and from church, the park, the movies, the store, Grandma's house, and it even once traveled across the ocean to Japan when Lily was tiny.

It contained juice box spills and Goldfish schools. It kept kid treasures (contraband gum or Matchbox cars) safe when I confiscated them until we got home on Sunday afternoon.

It never wore out, even though it was abused and stuffed beyond its recommended weight requirements. It bears a few stains from melted crayons and uncapped pens and a Skittle left undiscovered for who knows how long. It was thrown into the wash occasionally, and it always came out looking almost new again.

Hours and hours this bag and I fought together in the trenches. It became such a part of my Sunday attire that when Brad left it in the chapel one week, a friend of mine recognized it immediately and brought it to me, because it was the only diaper bag I owned. The only one I ever needed.

I hadn't seen it or even thought about it in years, and now that it had served with valor in harsh conditions with no recognition--I was going to simply . . . throw it away to or take it to the thrift store?

How could I do that to my unfailing partner through more than a decade of dedicated mothering?

I couldn't.

I threw it in the wash. Good as new. Just like always.

I texted Heidi to see if she needed another diaper bag--one tried and Mother-tested to withstand anything a kid could throw at it. (Or throw up in it--yes, that did happen once. Yes, it was in Church.) She politely declined, but she kindly added, "I'll take it if you want someone you love to have it." No, I didn't need to clutter up her life with my memories.

What was I going to do with "the diaper bag"?

It took me a few days, but I came up with the perfect solution . . .

**I wanted to see if this diaper bag is still available. I found this bag, which I think is the most recent model, but it doesn't look like it's currently available. Reviews from 12/14 show it was sold not too long ago. 

And Now For a Small Shot of Reality Juice

My post from yesterday--so cheery and upbeat and happy and positive.

Tonight? Yeah.  Tonight.

Brad is in Idaho with Heidi's family, so the kids were alone for the night while I went to class. I came home to a messy house, kids watching TV, nothing done, and what did I do?  Did I sit and think and purposely act like I have tried to do for the past 31 days?

You'd be wrong if you said yes.

Wow. Did I lose it. And I'm not very proud of it, either.

Thirty minutes later, now that I've had a little time to cool off and the kids are in bed, I can see how I wish I'd reacted.

The three little kids were all in jammies and in bed, just like I'd asked. Why didn't I point that out to Lily?  Ben had just gotten home from rugby practice, so how could he have done his work yet?

Why didn't I just . . . 

Sometimes, being the mom is hard.  It's hard, because you're supposed to be the one that teaches everyone else how to behave.  It's hard, because sometimes you just don't behave that way, and your kids see it.  And you hurt their feelings.

Nothing ever gets better because you're angry.  No work gets done faster because you're yelling. No one goes to bed happy and cozy because you ordered them to their rooms.

The irony of it all?

This is the quote I wrote on our chalk board just yesterday.

Sometimes you just suck at being the parent.  Sometimes.  The key is to minimize the number of times you suck at it.  Right?

I wonder what time Dunkin Donuts opens--and if their forgiveness can be bought with a few maple long johns.

I'm going to bed now. 

Lessons from a Red Tricycle on a Slow Day

This morning was one of those mornings. I didn't get out of bed with the alarm and my whole day was behind before it even started. Instead of wallowing in my failure to arise early, I decided to just roll with the day--start off with a leisurely walk with my baby girl and see where we ended up.

Evie insisted she could ride her tricycle on our walk. Normally I would insist that she ride in the wagon, but with my newly adopted "just roll with it" attitude, I humored her and she drove that squeaky red trike with the lopsided wheels as I walked along behind.

I watched her maneuver her tricycle down and then up the slopes carved for driveways and intersections, her little legs unable to pedal up the hills but fully capable of walking up the slight incline.  She asked about the shooting star in the sky--a passing jet--and stopped short to exclaim at a tree completely shorn of all its limbs.  My heart swelled with love for this little girl every time she waved at a passing driver, not caring whether they waved back or not. She got distracted for a moment, talking about how much she loves pink flowers--even poky ones like roses--and that distraction led her over the sidewalk's curb.  I caught her before she fell to the ground but not before it scared her that she might get hurt.  I assured her that if she watched where she was going, she could easily keep the tricycle on the narrow sidewalk. Even though she initially resisted me, she kept her trike on the sidewalk instead of riding it in the street. 

We turned a corner and she began to complain that her bum-bum hurt.  It had been a long ride for someone so small, and I hopped on the back of her trike, looped my arms over her head to grasp the handlebars, and pushed her down the block for a short time--until she began to complain that she could do it herself.

And much to my surprise, she made back it to our street all by herself, thank you very much. We rounded the corner and she shouted, "LOOK!  WE'RE HOME!  THAT'S MY HOUSE!"  And with that, she pedaled the last few yards down the driveway, parked her tricycle behind her brothers' green machines, and headed into the house asking for a cookie.

As we made our way through the neighborhood, I saw a different parent/child relationship--mine with my Heavenly Father.  Every day He lets us drive, even though He could do it so much faster and better.  Every day He gives us beautiful sunshine and pink flowers if we will only slow down and take the time to see them.  Every day He points us down that straight narrow path, and even though we might want to ride in the street, life is better and safer if we listen to His voice. Every day He is bursting with pride at our accomplishments, no matter how small and insignificant they seem to us. Every day He is there to catch us if we start to fall, to extend a helping hand or to give us just a little push to keep us going.  Every day He listens to us complain that life is long and hard and sometimes it hurts.  And then, at the end of our journey, He will be there waiting for us to come back, and when we see Him, we will shout for joy just like Evie, "I'm home."  He might even have a cookie waiting for us in the house.

Thank You for a slow day and a beautiful blond girl on a squeaky red tricycle.

Don't Let Them Fool You

Aren't they cute?  Yes.

Aren't they darling?  Yes.

Aren't they sweet?  Sometimes.  Rarely, but usually not.

After nearly 22 years of parenting, I'm struggling with these two kiddos at the end, and I would appreciate some advice, thank you very much.

Evie--That girl is so obstinate.  If she doesn't want to do something, there is no way to make her do it. No way to distract or threaten or love or hug or anything.  She had to be taken out of Church FIVE TIMES last Sunday.  Five times in 90 minutes.  And one time was for almost ten minutes.  Why, you ask?  Because she kept saying, quite loudly I might interject, "I don't want to be here.  I want to go home.  I DON'T WANT TO!!!!"  Every time I took her out, I would send her into an empty classroom where she stood in the corner screaming until she agreed to go back in--back in for maybe five-minute stints, mind you. People were staring and a few even commented when the meeting was over.

I've witnessed 25-minute screaming fits for small reasons--like we're out of milk or she can't have juice or she has to stay belted in her carseat.  This happens all the time--even in the middle of the movie theater.  Monday night we took the kids to the dollar movie to see Ice Age, and halfway through she decided she'd had enough. She began saying, quite loudly, "I DON'T LIKE THIS MOVIE. I want to go home."  Really?  Even a movie?  With popcorn and M&Ms and everything?

She is obstinate, and she is quite shy.  She doesn't like change of any kind, and she refuses to play with friends--or even go to birthday parties.  I think this shyness will mellow with time, but for now it's hard.  She screams when anyone tries to touch her or take her somewhere.   If anyone tries to talk to her, she will quickly turn her head and grunt, then say, "I don't like him."

Hyrum--ah, that little brown-eyed stinker.  He will argue black is white all day long, even about things that don't matter to him or that don't matter at all--for example, yesterday we had an extended argument over whether the direction I was turning was right or left.  It was left, and he insisted it was right. And of course, as his mother, it's my job to set him straight. I tried explaining how you can make an L with your left hand and you'll always know that's left, but he was having none of it. Rarely if ever do I win a battle of this sort. Yesterday ended with me telling him to just drop it, but he refused to stop arguing.  I was ready to . . . but I didn't.

Not only the arguing is a problem.  The kid hits and gets aggressive and has a temper that is difficult to control.  At Micah's soccer game on Saturday, he got mad at me when I refused to allow him to headbutt another parent.  In his anger, he threw a full water bottle at me and hit me square in the back, then he took off running full speed. What was I supposed to do to discipline him? I ended up chasing him down after a few minutes (in front of everyone) and forcing him to sit next to me for the rest of the game or he would be grounded as well. His temper is really a problem, and I've never had a kid hit me with anything or want to punch me.  I just started having him write sentences when he hits people--ten times "I won't hit" is a lot for a kindergartner. 

Maybe these parenting issues don't seem that monumental to you--if they do, it's because of my limited writing skills.  These two are hard HARD.  And believe me, I know hard.  I thought I'd paid my dues with Tucker.  Getting him to adulthood was excruciating at times, but we both made it with no lasting scars.  Most of my other kids are harder than average as well, but I was young then.  Now I'm old.  I'm old and tired but experienced, and that's why I don't get it.  Why can't I figure out ways to correct positively and lovingly?  Why can't I distract or tease or cajole or threaten or . . . something? 


I don't want you to get the wrong idea--it's a good thing that I love them both to distraction and that they are very loving themselves.  Hyrum gave me a back scratch for a few minutes tonight, and Evie will often just say, "I love you, Mommy."  So it's not like they're evil every waking moment--just most waking moments.


Any great ideas? I'd love to hear them.

A Pinch to Grow an Inch Has Apparently Been Outlawed

1:42 pm and the phone rang.  I glanced at the caller ID and I recognized the elementary school's prefix.  School would be over in 33 minutes.  Which kid needed what before the last bell?

"Hello, Mrs. Denton.  This is Ms. M., the principal.  I've had little Micah here in my office for the last little while, and I wanted you to know what's been going on."

In the few seconds before her next breath, my mind flew from one thing to the next--What could it be?  Was Micah hurt?  Had he been in a fight?  What was it? I didn't have long to wait . . .

"Micah's class was lined up at the cafeteria door, waiting to practice their play, when Micah pinched a little girl in the line."

Are you completely serious, my mind flashed.  Really?  A pinch?  That's why he had been in the office all afternoon?  A PINCH?  Rational thought trumped my initial reaction of "So what's the big deal?" and instead I replied, "Oh."  How was that for a profound response?

"Micah told me another little boy told him to pinch the little girl, so we had a talk about doing things other kids tell us to do.  He is currently writing a note of apology to the little girl.  I know that he will come home and discuss these events with you and I know you will follow up with him."

Still, all my mind could ricochet around was the single word PINCH, bouncing from "This can't be really why he's in the office," to "Isn't there a vehicle careening towards unsuspecting kindergartners  that you need to stop?" to "You have to be kidding me!" to "How am I going to parent the rest of my kiddos if I can't pinch them on occasion?" to "SERIOUSLY?"

I responded with a mild, "Okay," and hung up the phone.

Then I started seething. SEETHING.

Thirty minutes later, Micah timidly opened the back door, slunk to my side, wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and started to cry. I asked him what had happened.  His side of the story:  a little boy pinched him and told him to pinch L, a girl Micah has known every day of his life.  So Micah pinched her.  Sounds like there was some kind of "pass the pinch" game going on, nothing malicious or out of the ordinary for second graders.  Both boys were sent to the principal, but the other boy was sent back to class after ten minutes or so because he denied pinching Micah at all, and since there were no witnesses, he was allowed to leave.  Micah, on the other hand, was required to stay with the principal for 75 minutes, and he was not allowed to return to his class.

Seventy-five minutes with the principal for a PINCH? A PINCH???  Not a punch, a pinch.  A pinch that left a red mark.  Ooh.  How devastating.

What made things even worse was that Micah didn't understand what he'd done that was so wrong.  (Neither do I, for that matter.)  I agree with the principal on writing notes of apology.  I've made my own kids write them for much worse offenses (like almost getting the neighbor's dog killed), and a note was fitting for the pinching offense.  But really?  Involve the principal about a PINCH?

I called his teacher and asked her perspective.  Miss H hadn't seen the incident, but she was responsible for Micah's trip to the big house.  She's young (26 and darling and the best teacher), so maybe she jumped to a quick decision, I don't know. She said she would talk to Micah tomorrow.  She has been fantastic with Micah all year, and I know she really loves him and will try to say the right things to help him feel better.

I then called the principal and left her a voicemail stating that the punishment extended to Micah was excessive and he came home upset with no clear lesson learned from his behavior. He was confused about why his punishment was many times worse than the little boy who actually LIED his way out. I concluded my message with "I'm sure L will have forgotten completely about the pinch before she even gets home from school.  Micah, however, won't be forgetting or understanding what happened for a while."

What did the principal discuss with Micah for 75 minutes?  HE'S SEVEN YEARS OLD.  SEVEN.  The longer I think about it the madder I get.  What did he learn?  You're punished more severely when you tell the truth?  Or punishment only occurs when there are witnesses? 

I better stop there before I get sent to the principal's office for exercising too much free speech.

What's your opinion of the Great Pinch Caper of 2012?  Great way to end a school year, don't you think?

Taking Time to Smell My Roses

 

A quiet whimper slowly increased to a sleepy "Mommy." I acknowledged the monitor's sounds in my still-sleeping mind.  I glanced at the clock--just before 6 am.  Could I get her soothed and back to sleep before the 6:30 commotion?

I groggily made my way down the hall, opened her door and desperately felt for the missing pacy and silky.  She whined louder and begged for my attention, "Mommy."  Eyes wide open, all vestiges of sleep gone.  Instead of my usual reaction--get her back to sleep at all costs--I climbed onto her tiny "big-girl" bed, opened my arms and cradled my blue-eyed baby to my chest.  

Who knows where the time went, but as we sat there, quiet and satisfied, I watched the sky silently creep up the paint chip--from black through all the shades of gray, finally settling on a subtly tinged pink.  

I listened as the first bird awoke his friends with a quick call, and I counted all four garbage cans as my neighbor dragged them to the curb.

Alarms marked the end of this rare moment--first Ben's chime, then Brad's arpeggio, then Micah's insistent beep.  I knew these precious few minutes would now end.  As I planted a kiss on her clean head, a prayer was born in my heart--"Thank You for this exact moment in time.  Thank You for all these children You share with me every day.  May I never forget this frozen memory."

"Should we go get the kids and Daddy?"  "Off we toddled, pacy and silky in tow.  Hyrum shyly rounded the corner, looking for his morning snuggle.  Micah bounded in, his energy fueled by the knowledge that his cast was coming off in two hours.  Ben turned over in his messy cocoon with a kind, "Hi, DeeDee" on his lips.  As usual, Lily--my not-a-morning-person child--needed a little more encouragement to join us for scriptures.  And Dad met us at the foot of the stairs, dressed and ready for his workout.

May I never forget.

My life is good.

Questions Answered--The Venting Post

Whew. It's Sunday night, and I already have my head full of posts for the week. Why are some weeks like that? And why are some weeks completely devoid of anything interesting at all? That's a question for all of you.

How do you encourage your kids to read the scriptures on their own? What are your best tips on getting your kids ready to leave the nest?

I'm curious to hear more Heidi news. What's up with the newlyweds?

Are you totally thrilled with Tucker leaving soon on his mission or do you also have underlying melancholy about it? I was so proud of my boys when they went but I was also deeply depressed when they first left - just curious whether anyone else feels the same way, but maybe you can't answer that one yet.

I read an article from the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago that got my anger juices flowing. You can read it here.  The article summarizes the awkward social bracket encompassing twenty-something men--the changes in society and priorities that have made these men virtually unnecessary.

So many of these problems stem from today's "friend-based" parenting--parenting that's afraid to make the hard calls or to be the bad guy.  Parents can't allow their kids to fail on school projects or assignments for fear of wounding their self-esteem.  Parents can't pass judgment on friends or behaviors for fear of alienating or angering their kids.  Parents can't require hard work for fear of negatively stressing and pressuring these poor tender souls. Somehow, this parenting style has created a generation of women who are overachievers--both in the workplace and with their families, not needing men; and a generation of men that see themselves as merely an appendage to society--absorbed in video games and drunken extended adolescence.

Parents edit kids' COLLEGE papers.  Parents allow kids to move back home to save money for large homes and toys.  Parents micromanage their grown kids' decisions from where to work and where to live.  In short, parents are enabling this lazy, directionless generation.

Here is my parenting view, and it stems from my own experiences as a child and as a young adult.

I married young--two months shy of twenty.  From the second we were married, Brad and I were financially independent from our families.  NO MATTER WHAT.  We bought our first car.  We paid our own rent.  We found ways to finance two undergraduate degrees and three years of law school.  We had our first babies.  And we did it together.  We had little advice from others.  We had no assistance.  And guess what?  We made it.  And look at us now.  Yay for us. Isn't that how most of us did it, way back then?

When Heidi and Tucker each left for college, it was emotionally trying.  I felt like a piece of me was amputated.  But I purposely restrained myself from calling and texting and bugging and interfering.  Why?  Because I want them to grow up, move on, and live as adults.

We assist our kids a little financially with college, truthfully.  But we don't pay for everything.  So far, our system has worked pretty well.  Tucker calls and shares test results or hard assignments.  I offer a little advice and then tell him, "Good luck with that. Love you." I don't stress about his choices or his grades or call his professors (some parents DO that).  I don't offer to edit or read his papers.  I've been astounded to learn that some parents do that.  Really?  It's college, people.  In less than five weeks, he will be completely independent, serving his mission in New York City.  He'll be able to email once a week and call home twice a year.  I'm beginning to see a flash of how hard this will be for me.  Yet I couldn't be prouder--he's making the decisions of a man.

When Heidi got married, she and Sam WANTED to make it on their own.  They insisted that she and Sam start their own cell phone account.  They found a way to manage an apartment of single guys to lower their rent.  Sam works two jobs. Both are in school full-time at BYU-I, and their little baby girl is due in 20 days. They bought their own car, researching and making the best decision for their family.  Would I have bought their car? Would I have managed an apartment?  I don't know.  It's THEIR LIVES.  NOT MINE.  When she calls and asks for advice, I give it.  When she doesn't and she calls to talk, I just listen. I try to avoid, "You should . . . " and "Why aren't you . . . ?" They astound me, and make me so proud.  They are in the very small minority of kids today who are doing things the old-fashioned way--independently.  This way they develop their own family identity and their own preferences.  They also develop pride and achievement. Skills of adults.  Isn't that what we want?  Adults who happen to be our kids?

My kids were born pretty independent, and I fostered that as much as possible.  I assisted on projects when asked.  I did NOT orchestrate projects.  I did NOT plan projects.  And I most certainly did not complete projects "with their assistance."  Do you honestly believe that teachers can't tell the difference between a kid's state report and a parent's state report bearing a child's name?  What does this teach kids?  Mommy will always be there to not only bail them out, but to do the hard things.  I don't want to live my kids' lives.  I want to see how they will live them.

I require my kids to take music lessons.  And I required that they practice, not as much as my mom did, but they practice, and they practice on their own. I took piano lessons.  I don't need to sit at the piano every day any more.  What does music teach them?  Self-discipline and pride in achievement.

I require my kids to do chores--clean their rooms, wash the dishes, mop the floors, mow the lawns (even my girls mow lawns).  I also require them to do their own laundry when they turn eight--at eight they think it's a privilege.  Then they're stuck.  Teaching my kids to work is my least favorite aspect of parenting--it's so much easier to do it myself.  But I already know how to scrub a toilet and fold laundry and mow a lawn.  What does it teach them if they aren't required to help at home?  It teaches them that society owes them cooked food and clean clothes and transportation wherever they want to go--just because they're breathing.


I require my kids to attend Church every Sunday and attend all of our Church functions.  They know that religion is not only important in our family, it is the backbone of our family.  We read scriptures together, pray together, attend meetings and sit together.  They know there is no other option while they live under this roof.  I see them changing and growing, learning to be independent of me.--learning what they believe.

Don't get me wrong.  If they ever need a soft place to land, I'm here, willing to help however I can, but  I want them to have the tools they need to stand on their own, tall and proud.  And independent.
Guess I'm a little old-fashioned that way.

Brad and I have been watching this mother bird and her hatchling in our peach tree.  One day I peeked into the nest and found an interloper!  I told Brad that something had happened and a big ugly bird had taken up residence. It was the teenager bird--gawky, without all of its feathers yet. And almost as big as its mama.  It was strange to see.  And I thought, "It's time for you to learn to fly, little one."

I wonder if she will be sad to see her baby go or if she's already got plans on how to rearrange her nest.  Probably a little bit of both, because that's how it should be.

Everyday Miracles, Part 3

"All human beings—male and female—are created in the image of God."

"Each is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and, as such, each has a divine nature and destiny."

"The divine plan of happiness enables family relationships to be perpetuated beyond the grave.  Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally."

"Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children."

“Children are an heritage of the Lord” (Psalm 127:3).

"The family is ordained of God."

"Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities."

"Marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of God and . . . the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children."

All quotes taken from The Family: A Proclamation to the World.

Venting. Just Real Quick

We left the five smallest monkeys home this last weekend. We left them with our friend's oldest daughter and her husband, who just got married in December. I knew this young couple would be great with my kids. I knew my kids would be safe and happy and fed and clean. I only called once or twice. That's how much I trust them.

I heard through the grapevine (from my big kids, mostly) how rotten the younger kiddos were while we were gone.

I know I have hard kids.

Here's the venting part: I just don't like hearing it from other people.

I envisioned motherhood all wrong: perfect kids, clean house, neighbors in and out. The reality is that kids mess up your house, neighbors only show up when it's messy, and . . . my kids are not perfect.

I have hard kids--most of them; I must issue that qualifier up front. (I refuse to name names or isolate the guilty, so you'll just have to guess who is easy and who is hard.)

I have hard kids--not hard in the disobedient, defiant, "I'm-doing-drugs" kind of way. They are high energy. They are noisy. They are high-spirited. And they push every boundary and every button all the time, just to see if you're really serious about consequences.

I have hard kids, and they are exceptionally smart--gifted, you might say. This may sound boastful, but only after you are required to parent gifted children do you realize what this package includes. And it's not all ACT scores and thank-you notes from loving teachers. You would think a houseful of bright kids would be every mother's dream right? It's hard. Truly gifted kids are rarely the first in their class. Why? Because there is no challenge to schoolwork  The challenge comes from being the first one done. The challenge comes from being the one that answers every question but won't write all those answers down on paper. The challenge comes at home when you find something else that interests you. Gifted kids are often the kids with behavior issues, with okay but not stellar grades, with their noses in a book or eyes out the window.

I have hard kids--kids that fit this rare exception: they (some of them) are better behaved for me than they are for anyone else. They know my rules and what to expect from their misbehavior. They know that I generally follow through with consequences, they know I can be tough, and they know not to push me too often. But, being the smart little buggers they are, they have to find that limit with everyone else they interact with--teachers, friends, babysitters, even people they just meet. Because of this trait, many of my kids have a hard time fitting in with others. People often won't take the time to figure them out or befriend them or see what's underneath the crazy behavior.

I have hard kids--and it's exhausting being their mom. I sometimes wish I had the kid that gets all straight A's (of which mine are all capable but few deliver). The kid that sits quietly and kindly listens without interrupting. The kid that everyone wants to be friends with. The kid that wins student body elections or is the teacher's pet.

I don't have those kids. But I have the kids that are clever. I have the kids that you can have an interesting conversation with, even when they're small. The kids that make jokes about Greek mythology or language rules or microbial development. The kids that read and read and read and read, and because they read and read and read and read, they know stuff--random, weird, interesting stuff. I have the kids that do things with passion--either love it or hate it. I once had a teacher tell me my child would change the world one day--he just had to pick the day.  Still waiting for that day to arrive . . .

I have the kids God chose to send me, because I could be their mother. And easy or hard, I love them. Fiercely love each of them, and their individual personalities and strengths and weaknesses. I love the excitement and commotion and energy and joy and humor and laughter and challenge they bring to life.

I wouldn't trade with anyone. Not even with the mom with the perfect angels all in a row who everyone else loves.

Because they're mine.  Just don't tell me how hard they are.  I already know. I don't care. They're worth it. Every second of it.

Linking my Vent up to V with Jenny Matlock.

Parenting the Grown-Ups

We spent the last few days in Utah. The first two days, it was just me and Brad. It was such a treat. No schedules. No plans. Just whatever we wanted to do, whenever we wanted to do it.
We spent Saturday and Sunday with our three grown kids—Tucker in Provo and Heidi and Sam drove down from Rexburg. It was enjoyable—hanging with the big kids, doing grown-up stuff, not having to worry about babysitters or kids’ schedules. Brad went to the final BYU basketball home game with the boys, while Heidi and I did a little baby shopping and talking. We had adult dinners at real restaurants with uninterrupted conversations and saw PG-13 movies.

This all led me to think about parenting grown kids, and how different it is from parenting the young ones still at home.  I’m still pretty new at this "parenting adults" game, but here are a few things I’ve learned in the two short years I’ve been here:

Let them live their lives with as little interference from home as possible. I love to hear what’s going on with them. I love to listen to their funny escapades with roommates and professors. I love to see how they’re growing and changing. But I’ve come to realize that I have no control over their choices or decisions. And when I try to intervene, it’s almost always resented. So I’m laying low.

Let them make their own mistakes. I see them weathering storms—bad grades or poor time management or exhaustion or discouragement. I can’t shelter them from it. I can only be the listening ear of encouragement and support. And I love it when those calls come, asking for my advice or just wanting to vent to their mom.

Let them call home when they have time. Tucker loves to talk to all of his siblings every Sunday, hearing what’s going on at home. Heidi and Sam took Micah’s Flat Stanley on adventures in Rexburg and sent home valentines for each child. They still love "home,"  it's just a different place for them now.

Let them tell you what they expect out of you. I’ve asked Heidi this question a few times, and each time I’ve gotten the same answer—Support us in our decisions. They don’t want and don’t need micromanagement. I think this is the problem with most young adults today. The kids and parents are still too interdependent. Kids need to grow up, make their own decisions and mistakes, and learn on their own. And parents need to butt out.

Enjoy the journey. It is a fun ride when they reach adulthood, when they can successfully navigate the waters of the world alone. It’s hard, don’t get me wrong. I sometimes still wish that I was the center of their world, guiding them to make the decisions I would make, leading them by the hand as I did when they were toddlers. I still wish all my chicks were here under my wing all the time.  And that hurts sometimes.  But I see these wonderful, productive, smart, fun, interesting, independent adults they’re becoming, and I can’t help but smile.


It’s all good. So good.

Are you ready for the link tomorrow? If you missed the prompt, here it is:
If you had your choice, would you want to know the future? Would you want to know that your life will be markedly, frighteningly different than you’ve planned all along? Or would you rather have the change come quickly, like an uncontrolled locomotive, leaving disaster in its wake, with you scrambling to pick up the pieces?

And I apologize for that tiny type on Friday. I had no idea I'd done that, and Tucker was begrudging every minute I spent on the computer at his apartment!