My oldest child is a girl, and she just recently turned seven.
Ahem. I guess what I want to say is this: What happened?
Sometimes she comes to me with issues that I have no encyclopedic (or logic, or base, or silly) answer for. Sometimes she still sobs as she climbs into my lap, the only answer when I have no answers, and sometimes as I’m stroking her hair and attempting to snuggle her ever growing frame, I think in my head, “WHO ARE YOU, SISTER?”
Here’s the thing: she doesn’t fit into my arms anymore. I can’t perch her on my hip (as I stilll can with my younger two) while I stir dinner on the stove. I can’t offer a band-aid or a gumball to soothe her; I can’t make it all better. I wonder over my abilities to mother a child larger than pint-sized, a child who’s supposed to brush their own teeth, and (if my friends are correct) should be loading the dishwasher and sorting her own laundry.
And I guess what I want to know is this: Already? We’re at this point already? And what happened?
I feel ill-fitted in this cloak of responsibility. I feel like I don’t have a motherhood-game. I feel like this, like young Zippy, in the book of the same name, when she says, “The job of parents”¦ was to watch television and step into a child’s life only when absolutely necessary, like in the event of a tornado or a potential kidnapping.” THAT is my parenting philosophy. Or was. I’m thinking I need a new strategy.
A few months ago, I arranged babysitting for my youngers and surprised my girl at school, right before lunchtime. She ran into the front office wide-eyed and asked “Do I have a dentist appointment?”
Nope.
“Do I get to go home?” (Tone very hopeful.)
Nope.
I decided we needed lunch. Just lunch. Just us two. Just 45 minutes of a regular Wednesday that started with tears and lost shoes and the wrong breakfast cereal.
Just another day, of wanting her to know how much I love her,
of sitting across the table from her,
and noticing the gleam from the sun slant in her dark hair
and the pale canvas of her face, scattered with a map of freckles.
I just wanted to talk. She didn’t. She stared out the window and looked beautiful slowly chewing a chocolate chip bagel (untoasted, plain cream cheese, her usual). It made me want to cry, the look of her. I wanted to talk but words, oh sometimes how they fail me. At least I wanted her to talk, but she didn’t. I resisted the urge to pester and pry; I shrugged and ate my bagel (everything, toasted, cream cheese, my usual).
Later she would storm into the front door, drop her backpack and busy herself with something or other. And then over bedtime reading would tell me how a couple of boys pushed her at school and she fell down and when she tried to tell on them, SHE had to run two laps around the playground.
I wiped her tears and wanted to go to recess the next day and kick the living daylights out of two skinny first-graders, but instead I told her that sometimes life isn’t fair. And that I was sorry. And that I’m glad she told the teacher, even if justice didn’t find it’s way out of the school-yard fiasco.
I told her that I was proud of her for obeying. That I loved her and thought she was such a good girl.
Should I have told her to fight back? Should I have gone to the school and demanded that this issue be resolved?
I worry over her; I worry over my ability to do what’s right as a mother. I worry over the fact that I don’t have her in any extra-cirriculars save one, that I never do her homework with her, that we haven’t studied spelling words since September, that she seems to be blossoming in spite of me.
In spite of me yes, for how else to explain the excitement on fast Sunday, when she looked at me and asked to bear her testimony. When this happens, I freak out and rather than encourage, I did that other thing, that discourage bit: “Are you sure you don’t want to practice during Family Home Evening first?”
She shook her head.
Me: “What will you say?!??”
She turned from me, walked up to the pulpit and said,
“I’d like to bear my testimony. I know the Church is true. I love my family and friends. I love Heavenly Father and I love all of you. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Well, I guess that’s what you’d say.
This time I shrugged off the compliments, over hallway conversations between Gospel Doctirne and Relief Society, from other mothers who were impressed. I took no credit and definitely neglected to mention that I didn’t even want her to do it in the first place, good gracious.
She teaches me daily. Even as she stumps me, she teaches me. I don’t always feel up to the task of raising this wunderkind, gregarious, bubbly, daring, unafraid little lovely thing, but I’m grateful for it.
She trudges the path of my learning, this one. She takes me to places I didn’t know motherhood would go. The way will be easier for her siblings that follow, because I also remember the day I brought her home from the hospital. Very pink and very new. Both of us. We regarded each other with complete adoration (okay, that was me—she just stared at me expressionless, the very blackest of eyes), but didn’t know what on earth we were doing.
It took me a few weeks. And while she cried, I cried. Soon we had our routine (as she fit in the crook of my arm, her belly against my belly, puzzled together as we nursed for ten solid months and slowly introduced ourselves to one another), but always in the back of my mind I wonder if she knows how much I’m faking it. Not the loving her part, just the knowing what I’m doing part.
This is the truth: I will always be trying to live up to her and be the mother I should be. But does this make me less of a mother?
Will I ever really feel like the mother I should be? When did you feel like you truly became a mother? Was there a precise moment? Or did it happen gradually?
I wonder if motherhood—the feeling of it—is akin to the feeling of a testimony, or at least the garnering of one. Was it a fall down, flat on your back, can’t deny the Spirit, now-I-know-everything experience? Or have you had to struggle and plead in prayer to know that you were/are in fact, a mother?
Ahem. I guess what I mean is a good mother. Are you one? And how do you know?
Great post Brooke. I think out of of all my children, the hardest one for me to watch grow up and become independent from me is my only daughter. She’s fiercely independent now, but I can still hear the whisper of the the little girl in her when she needs something and calls out, “Mommy?”
Brooke,
I get it. I look at my kids and think, “seriously? me?”
I don’t know. Maybe the good mother feeling comes with grandchildren. I feel a huge amount of inadaquecy and confusion and “seriously? Me?” moments. Of course the love is there a thousand fold. I dread the day when they the secret is out that mommy really doesn’t know. My oldest is only (almost) five but there are still those moments when I think “what do I do with this?” It’s beyond kisses, lulabyes, and candy. I cling to what I think I know, what my parents did right, and what I see those wonder moms doing. And at the end of the day when I put them to bed I just plead that I did something right despite the messes left uncleaned, the tantrums, the mere 5 verses of scriptures read, the way-too-much tv watched, and all the other things I know I didn’t do right during the last 14 hours.
Love this post Brooke. I have found that it’s okay to show my children my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities, to admit that I am wrong or that I don’t know everything.
Sometimes I watch their eyes grow large and unbelieving as they stare back at me in amazement at my fears and flaws. But at least they know I’m human, that I make mistakes, but more importantly that I keep on trying and somehow, together, we will find the answers.
I count my children as some of my choicest friends….of course my responsibility to them is greater than that of a friend. But if they can look to me and know that we can talk about anything, that together we can figure it out, then I think I’m on the brink of getting this motherhood gig.
I’m so right there with you, Brooke. Sometimes I think someday I’ll get it. Then I was at my parents house, and somebody had given them the Eyre’s copy of “Parenting Adult Children”, or something like that, and I thought, “Sheesh, I’ll still be needing parenting books when my kids are in their THIRTIES?” Yup, that parenting thing. Constantly changing, dang it.
Just wiping away tears. Wanted you to know. I’m there, too.
Beautiful post. Like ~j5t, it completely resonated with me.
Okay, Brooke, it’s late and I have to get to bed, so I don’t have enough time to fashion something insightful and well-written on mothering–plus I have way too much to say on the topic and will probably go on and on. Really what I want to say is this:
You are a fabulous writer. Really. I’m sure you’re a wonderful mom, too, but man, you’ve got a lot of talent. I love reading your posts–they’re intelligent and touching and all around lovely. So thank you.
It’s a mystery to me too Brooke. I feel like I jumped in the pool before knowing how to swim. Every single day. Sometimes (on my hopeful days) I think loving them is enough. I figure if I love them through their mistakes and mine, that we’ll come out incomplete and flawed and knowing that someone else on this planet thinks they’re someone of value. I sure hope that’s enough because some days, that’s all I’ve got.
So beautiful, and so true. All I can say is I am there, too, and thank you for this post.
My goal? I always say I’m just trying not to mess these amazing little people (with big spirits) up too much.
I most certainly know that I’m not a great mother, but I do feel more confident about it than I used to.
I really love watching my kids get older. They just get more interesting and more complex. I love having complicated discussions with them about politics or world events or anything! It’s so fascinating to watch them become critical thinkers! And I don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m doing — or if I’m doing any of it right. The one thing I do hate is having to re-learn algebra.
Ok, so I’ve been reading this blog for a little while now, and I love it. I don’t really know how to express myself in writing very well, but this entry has actually made me cry - tears of joy. My oldest baby turns 20 in a month - 20! - how did that happen?!? Did I do okay? Does she know what she needs to survive in this crazy world? Will she always be my friend? Did I mess her up too bad?
I look back now at my child rearing skills and realize I was just hanging on for dear life. I don’t know what the heck I am doing, and yet, unbelievably, somehow, my three daughters have turned into awesome young women. I have come to the realization that the most important thing I can give them is LOVE. I play with them, dance with them, TRY to teach them homemaking skills (of which I am sorely lacking), talk with them, support them and just let them know I am always there. And ALWAYS going to be there.
Sometimes I watch my parents, who are still struggling with kids (and we’re talking 30 to 40 year olds) and I feel very overwhelmed by the responsibility. I just hope I’ve given my girls some kind of good base to look back on.
So fantastic! I so get that with the guinea pig daughter. She amazes me every day. And we had a rough morning yesterday, so I surprised her with lunch, too. She also was grateful, but not as into deep meaningful conversation as I, so I had to tread lightly. I think it is so hard to be there to guide them and still let them be who they really are. Especially when that is totally different from what I am. I’m still learning. It’s tough. I am aware that I have to be conscious all the time. If I get lazy for even a week, I start to see the effects in my kids. Parenting is non-stop and hard as all heck.
I’d like to add my feelings towards this post. It’s the first post I’ve read on this blog. I’m 18 and preparing for a mission. My mother has disappointed me at times and I’ve told her, but I know how much she loves me, what she’s gone through for me, and how hard she’s tried.
Your love for your daughter is so clear in your writing (which is beautiful by the way). In the end I believe I am living proof that that is what really matters. Keep your head up.
God bless you Brooke.
Thanks, Brooke. I echo everyone’s comments about what a beautiful post this is.
I remember a BYU family science professor saying that you have to reinvent yourself with your children every 6-9 months, and I was so relieved to hear it. It seems like I “discover” some new technique that really works with one of my children (once it was hugging my son more, once it was a chart system for scripture reading–stuff like that). . . It works great, but then it seems to wear off and not work so well after awhile. I have to start all over again.
I loved how you just let your daughter sit and not talk when you took her out to lunch (which, by the way, was a totally cool mom thing to do!). One thing that I keep learning over and over is how different my children are than me. I can’t force them to talk to me if they don’t want to–some of them love to tell me a play-by-play account of each day, and some of them describe the day as “fine” or “okay” and that is it. Just because they have half my DNA does not mean they talk, think, or play like me. Not even close.
This is what I want to say: I think you are a fabulous mom not just because you love your children but because you care about being a good mother. You love them. You are trying. What more could they want? (okay, sure–they could want a lot of things. But just wait until they have kids of their own, and then they’ll think you are amazing).
My other favorite thing to say about motherhood: motherhood is a process.
I realized as I left my mission that I finally had figured out how to be a missionary, and it was time to go home. I imagine there will be some of that with raising children…that I will have honed a lot more of the skills, characteristics, etc. when I’m done. I firmly believe that is a part of the process, and part of why parenthood is so important for those of us who have that role — because it is part of our eternal growth. (Obviously, growth comes in different ways for all of us, but I do think this is part of why being parents is, in general, an important part of the plan.)
Thank you, Brooke, this was lovely.
I think that God is more merciful to us as we struggle to mother than we give him credit for. In a world where motherhood is considered a lesser calling, I believe He is grateful for women who choose to bear children. I hope he will magnify my imperfect efforts; I’m working but I am also hoping for a giant helping of grace.
My first daughter turns 9 this month. She doesn’t climb into my lap as well as my younger daughter. I am pretty tall, so I get down on my knees and hug her on her level. She has the same problem with the mean boys at school. Just this past week I waited in the school office to talk to her teacher after a hard day. We talked to the teacher, who was horrified by the situation and wasn’t about punish her for something that wasn’t tattling.
My parents aren’t good about apologizing and I wanted to make sure I could apologize to my girls, especially when they were older. So, I started…early. I started apologizing when they were toddlers and I was bothered by the noise or something they had spilled. If I overreacted, I apologized. Better sooner than later… huh? Good luck. It’s not easy being the guinea pig, whether you are a mom or kid.
I can’t tell you how much I’ve loved reading everyone’s input. It’s nice to know I’m not alone on this one.
xoxo
Brooke,
The fact that you admitted not practicing the spelling words with your daughter just makes me love and adore you more. Is that possible? And the worry over whether she’s “supposed” to have more extracurriculurs (sp?) and most importantly the anxious love of being a mother.
LCM–I agree with you about apologizing. I know I’m not perfect and I think it’s really great for my kids to hear an “I’m Sorry” when I mess things up. Not only does it tell them I love them, but it lets them know it’s OK to not be perfect.
Brooke, It sounds like you pretty much have the gist of mothering. Just remember what you learned with one child will be completely irrelevant with the next. It is sobering to find that what works in one situation just isn’t appropriate in another.
The really surprising thing is that while we think that we are teaching our children, they are really teaching us.
i don’t think i’ll be much help. as our oldest approaches his first teenage year, i constantly feel at a loss how to do this. but isn’t that a sign that i’m doing a good job? if i felt like i completely measured up and have fulfilled my role as a mother i think i would in reality be falling short. we have set a high standard for ourselves which we may not ever reach. if we lowered our standard just to make us feel like successful parents i think we would be selling ourselves short.
don’t discount the lazy days of playing army men, silent lunches or eating cookie dough out of the bowl. relish in the giggles and even the tantrums.
Brooke,
Thank you for this post. It makes me feel like I’m ok. Especially about the spelling words part. Love you.
Brooke-your writing always makes me think. I have 3 boys and struggle to understand their little brains (growing up with only one brother who was not anything like a real boy…having three sisters) Thank you for sharing your insights on life.
I completely relate to this post. The lack of spelling word practice, the mean kids (in our case, mean girls) at school, the sobbing at home and the not fitting onto my lap anymore. I appreciated this post immensely.
It’s hard to pinpoint when I feel like a good mother. I try and sometimes it’s good and sometimes it all goes south.