Author: admin

I did note in an earlier post that I wanted to begin sharing my journey as a parent. The challenge is to consider what I was thinking along the journey, as well as how I view the experience today, these many years on. Remember, I am “midlife” so much of my parenting is now on adult children. It’s a little opaque, too, because I don’t want to reveal too much about each individual. Whether children like it or not: They will always be referred to as their parent’s “children,” and parents often know a child-even as an adult-in ways that may surprise them! Having said that, and in reflection of one of my own parents, I can also confess that there are things I may perceive, and my perception about my own children may be wrong. And that’s okay. Truly.

One thing that children may not consider is that there will be two (or more) perspectives on their lives! TRUE, they must be responsible for their own life. This responsibility is also a gray area, as many things influence how one person may experience life. So, for example, even if a person is thin as an adult, if they often were called cutsie names by their family, even in jest, such as: tubby, bouncy ball, squishy, marshmallow, overweight, fat, and so forth, they may subconsciously be functioning out of a response to those names. Maybe they knew they were in jest; maybe they laughed. Maybe they did the same to others. And maybe the reality is that it caused them to look at themselves through a lens of being on the edge of overweight, even if that’s wrong. Substitute literally any characteristic or character trait for “fat” and generally the idea is the same; even if it’s not true, it leaves a mark.

I’m not a psychologist.

How does this translate to living an adult life? Well, in the previous example the person may forever be exercising, trying fad diets, wanting to lose ” a few extra pounds,” and even as parents, may purpose to ensure that the child is “healthy.” Suddenly this puts a tremendous amount of pressure on that child. The person may not even realize they are doing it, they just….do. And isn’t that part of life?

My grandparents lived through the Great Depression. I mean they LIVED it. So, even as adults they had boxes of loose coins tied up in their garage; they had shelves of canned foods at the ready; they had extra blankets, towels, and even an extra toilet. They kept tons of fabric on hand long after grandma stopped sewing some clothes (she sewed homemade clothes, even a bathing suit, for me, too!). Then, as parents, they conveyed this idea that eating all on the plate was good-maybe even because it reflected they had money for food. They spent time talking about being resourceful, reusing things, and so on. How many remember grandma having tons of used tubs of cool whip in their stores to use as food storage?

It’s that type of thing I’m talking about.

As a child, I was not immune from my grandparent’s ideology. And I can’t say that it bothered me that much. Still, it was because of that experience, and the idea that history repeats itself, that I was infused with some of that belief system. I can’t say with certainty that my parents really held each value set themselves, or that I did. However, it is BECAUSE of that exposure that I feel confident (and have been trained in) some skills that can benefit me should I face some tough times. Canning is one of them.

So, I was influenced by both my grandparents and my parents. Those people can also reflect on my life and see my development through their own lens. I may not always agree or like it, but it’s a thing nonetheless.

As I use this platform as a cathartic opportunity to share parenting, I want my children to understand that not everything I say will sound “correct” or “accurate” to them. However, from my vantage point, it will be. So, I’m sharing my experience as a parent and that will naturally involve each of them in turn (and collectively). I apologize ahead of time if my memory is fading some, or if I share something that is through the lens of today, when it didn’t happen that way yesterday. Consider that I put my shirt on inside out today and it took over 2 hours to notice, and perhaps some grace will be shown.

Either way, I do, in fact, love my children. If only they could see the depths of that love.

It’s a terrifying thought that the annuls of time has erased some of the most profound parenting fails and successes from the parent’s memory. Oh, some are still there, either haunting and mocking or reminding and comforting. I say comforting because, like so many relationships, both participants are in a constant state of change-or should be-and therefore can have seasons of tension…..even distance.

Perspective is another element of time that can reward or punish. I know that my perspective on my own parent’s history and experiences has vastly changed my perspective. Like anyone, I first viewed my childhood through the lens of my experience, and even though I’ve aged, some of those initial feelings can still exist. For example, I was five or six when I found myself precariously sitting on a tree limb, terrified to come down. I had gotten myself up there, yes, but I had to call out to mother to come rescue me. I actually do not remember her response, whether annoyed or frightened or amused, but I DO recall feeling terrible fear-the kind that keeps you in stop motion, paralyzed. Another time, I recall my mother having to quickly pull over and yank me out of my backseat haven, sans seatbelt in those days, because I had choked on a Lifesaver. Wanna make a bet my panicked mother never gave me one again while we were driving together. Still, I don’t really have HER perspective, nor even the perspective of my OWN experiences because unlike a select few, I have glimpses of my life experiences, not pieces of every one of them. And even if I’ve heard a story from my childhood, I wouldn’t be able to trust my OWN perspective on that experience, because it will most likely be tainted by the viewpoint of a second or third party. Therefore, as I’ve aged, I’ve been able to view my own parents from the perspective of time, experience, understanding. Heck, I’ve even heard more details about my parent’s upbringing, as well as my own family history, that have highlighted some aspects for me. It actually helped me to better appreciate some nuances and details. Even some of my hardened ideas and feelings have changed and softened over time because of this shift in perspective.

I’m no psychologist, so I don’t have that training. I would prefer not to hear from couch psychologists, nor the meta narrative from that perspective. I’m going somewhere here.

When it comes to my own children, I have always had this duality that exists. I have the reality, the one we are both simultaneously participating in and the one in which I am also watching-but from my aged vantage point. I have my own perspective: my responses or thoughts of interpretations of what my kids are thinking of feeling-which can be learned because, as many parents know, they can have an idea on how their children might respond to various stimulus, under certain conditions. Then there is my child’s perspective, which is most likely limited in their experiences and knowledge, and largely guided by emotions (remember how the baby would cry to eat when it was hungry, but as they age they don’t cry any more….). Later, as they, too, age, they might likewise change their perspective as well.

So, laying the foundation, I’ve decided I might need to write something to each of my children and it may be in multiple posts, depending on their age I suppose. I had thought one post might suffice, but then realized that there may be questions, and then questions about those questions. And, since they most likely won’t see my posts until much later on, I wanted to get at least some of my thoughts toward them written down somewhere that can’t die in a dumpster fire somewhere. So, unless the cloud dissipates, I would hope that one day they could read one part of one perspective about their life, and perhaps grow in their own perspective in the process.

Children can really be a call to action in people’s lives. From the moment one discovers they are expecting, they begin planning, preparing, fantasizing, and praying. They put hopes and dreams on a person well before they are ever born. They claim with their mouth that they only want what God has in store, or that they hope and pray that they are “just healthy,” or even determine that they will give their child so much that they, themselves, did without. All those things seem nice, but are they platitudes?

Unless an early sonogram is done, people aren’t always aware of life-altering changes to their perfected ideal of parenthood. This person-with-no-name already has so much pressure on them to perform. Perhaps the first performance is to be cute.

Have you seen a baby right after the trauma of birth?

Definitely not cute.

Things that aren’t as evident are those things that are internal: a gluten allergy, an epipen emergency, scaly skin, constant allergies, autism, cancer cells. Do we plan and prepare for those eventualities? Nope.

Still, we parent those personalities that were meant to be in our care. We definitely do not get the luxury of determining outcome. One curiosity is how the child tends to change our trajectory. With each revealed nuance of the child’s personality, the parent may shift the aim. If we have the skill of perception, we may be able to observe the child’s skill set, their strengths, and their weaknesses. In times of frustration, elation, desperation, or confusion we may, while praying over our children, ask the Lord for insight…what can I DO here!? We may receive an action item, an idea, or a response.

Implementing said item, we hope to continue onward with our efforts in raising a person. I often tell my kids that my aim is not to make them function for today, but to prepare them for the reality of tomorrow. That reality is, of course, their own life…where they instinctively not only come into their own, but often attempt to shimmy out of the familial body suit in light of something they believe is their own creation, their own design.

Only, that’s not true. They are influenced by their own thoughts, beliefs, behaviors, and community. I would say that well before I took charge of my own trajectory, I was influenced by those who were each, independent of one another, making small adjustments to the trajectory of my life. Maybe I felt compelled toward college, or even marriage, or even having children-I wanted 10 when I was six-or becoming an executive, or quiet, or the best representation of my family name that I could be. Wait…..what was it I dreamed about again?

No one had conversations with me about things that were of interest to me. What were my passions? And, for that matter, did I have any passions? Yet another conversation not had.

When my dad passed away I spoke at his funeral. I began my portion of the eulogy be saying that, when someone dies, a million question marks hang in the air of questions and conversations never had. So true, is it not?

No one told me how costly having children would be, or how many choices adults are faced with. I had zero insight on what I needed to do, let alone be, and so figuring out the deciding factor between what is and is not important or part of a daily existence in the adult realm was foreign to me. Still, I had some goals.

When I was about seven, I recall using my old Bible, bound with faux leather, words of Jesus in red, the margins of most New Testament pages colored in with red pen for flare-I thought it needed it-as my prop. Holding it open, to the New Testament of course, staring at Jesus’ red words, I began to preach to myself in the mirror with all the fervor I could muster, mimicking all the men I had seen preaching. No one told me women couldn’t preach. I remember all the church solos and singing opportunities and competitions I participated in, and how lackluster and mediocre I felt, but with all the arrogance I could muster was determined to be the de facto singer extraordinaire for churches everywhere. I remember my friend Liz and I writing about what we wanted to do when we grew up, and in Freshmen Honors Biology I pledged to be a nurse to her as doctor. I didn’t think as grand as her because no one introduced me to the “reach” career vision. For that matter, I didn’t realize how many and what type of nurses there were. For true, I thought I’d be the traveling-worshipping-nurse-pastor’s wife, but only to a good looking pastor. And, the only person who was considering pastorship who gave me a glance was a smarmy skinny pale kid at church whose name I didn’t know. I dropped the PW role rather quickly.

As my life unfolded I took a path I had not prepared for, nor considered, and felt like I was fighting, to some degree, my parent’s untold expectations of me as compared to some ghostly competition standard they held. It was a harsh dozen years.

Married at 18, college took almost a decade, and singing in church with a small lead role later. I also became a teacher.

My children have been “raised in church.” I also spent time praying with them, pointing out things to them as they came up, and taking them to so many church services. I sent them to camps and pushed them begrudgingly toward activities I thought would help move their trajectory, ever so slightly, in a good direction. I even made one of my adult choices to pay to send my kids to Christian school. Over time, their attention to the Lord wained, and they attended church because I said so. They gave in ever so slowly to the influences in their lives. Their stories aren’t over; my intercession for them is my job.

So, it’s somewhat disappointing when your own progeny decide to make personal choices. These choices don’t align with my believes, or tenets of my faith. Still, my trajectory is changing once again as I realize that, without fail, and I mustn’t fail, I need to somehow telegraph love and support, while still being a standard bearer. Of all the confusion that those first years of adulthood can hold, what can I do to ensure they feel loved while they make choices?

Their choices.

Their accountability.

Therein lies the rub, doesn’t it? We do not want to relinquish our responsibility over our children. We bought their underwear, bandaged wounds, threw birthday parties, paid for expensive item they couldn’t live without, encouraged authenticity and independence….we are invested in ways linked all the way back to our hopes, dreams, and expectations of parenthood. While they grew, we were watching other parents and how they parent and influence their children; we had books about parenting; we prayed; we presented our own ideals in high definition; ensured we did the best that our sphere of influence projected was going to work and be good, like a hologram in the sky we follow for doing-good points.

Reasoning minds being involved, there is no way to develop hope in another’s existence apart from the Lord’s direction. All that independence and authenticity we pushed on our kids like peanut butter with a happy puppy actually took root, and we, our own independent selves, must divest ourselves of that pesky responsibility we took on so long before.

It’s raw.

Swirling emotions can overtake, even with the most resolute mind.

We must remain stalwart.

Now that some of my children are grown, I have so much more clarity. It’s never a good idea to project any outcome for another. In fact, most of the hope we hold is through intense, sometimes painful, and often intense prayer to the Father who can, in his sovereignty, move a person’s trajectory to any aim he desires.

Goals, then, for those precious souls I so desperately love, narrow down to one: a conscience decision to follow Christ’s direction, with a happy heart, and everything submitted. And I, in my irrelevance to their independent life, can be a standard bearer and remain stalwart, planning, preparing, fantasizing, and praying, in my perfected ideal of parenthood, following my passions, having conversations, and continuing to write my story.

Traveling down memory lane while trying to maintain focus, not on the review mirror, nor through the windshield to the road ahead, but simply to experience the present moment is challenging. As children age they begin to either explore their family’s history, or need to be told some family history. As one child lamented, why does my life have so much complication?

Why, indeed.

The truth is, though, that it’s not a unique set of circumstances. In some parts of the country, there is nary a nod toward the untoward elements of a person’s past, or by proxy, their family’s. In the south, the family unit becomes an amalgam of histories, so that, should there be divorces and remarriages, all of those people, to the exclusion of none save those who are most vile, most wicked, are embraced, included, or spoken about. But even then, the minutia of the details is left to the imagination, as even then, people have their pride, don’t they? There is no sharing of lies, deceit, name-calling, behaviors, actions, or outcomes that might make self look any less upstanding.

Denying one’s family history can have detrimental effects. By ignoring the past, it can backfire and make a generation seem deceitful by omission. By sharing only key positive points, it’s neglecting the painful transition from life, to turmoil, to life once more and by so doing blocking the familial resurrection that must take place in each generation.

Then there are those who share it all, placing all the goring details, as if investing into the depth of it all, brings value to a conversation or generational experience that is akin to placing ones dirty underwear inside out in the front yard. Eww.

And some details do feel gross, don’t they? They are too revealing, or too painful. And even in those moments we don’t stop to think about what effect they had on those who were involved, as if being a related bystander gives us liberty to judge a situation we had no part of, nor consequence of…because whatever we inherited from bygone generations cannot be fixed in the past, but must be dealt with on a linear plane, one-dimensional with the present.

Yet, when we’re removed from those experiences, while we can be judgmental (and boy we have grown accustomed to feeling vindicated in being so, valuing judgement over mercy), we can also be untouched by the pain of it all. This does help, as, when we share our family’s past, we talk like reading pages in a novel, or speak like it’s not about us, but about another, someone unknown. Because the reality is, we haven’t really lived in their shoes, don’t know their heart, or even change of heart, and can’t fathom the reality of their daily existence.

It might be good to stand in awe that our lineage has made it thus far, by God. After all, some of the heinous outcomes we’ve learned, and some of the instantaneous decision that were made by our predecessors should define how courageous they were, how determined they were, and how nature preserves even some of the less delicate and more grotesque elements of humanity to remind us that, on some level, we aren’t in charge here.

Some are more prone to feeling victimized by a past failing. This is a peculiarity of humanity. It cannot be overlooked that one’s ancestry can leave an indelible mark. Still, do we not somehow choose how that heritage is embraced?

True some family pasts are boring, like the white of the egg, and that doesn’t mean it’s not worthy of remembering. But I doubt that we have any honesty in relationship with others if we say we like to hear about generational blessings from one group, while not also acknowledging the stalwart determination, despite it all, in another.

And for those who have a pristine lineage, why the pride? Why does it sound morally superior, and more virtuous, to be from a family of givers or of faith, while those who are challenged by criminals or alcoholics, give rise to the rectitudinous masses…who also more than likely have skeletons in their proverbial closet. Tsk tsk.

I for one acknowledge that alcoholism has plagued at least one, if not two, generations of my family. It’s not that I can adjudicate the cause nor the effect, only that it left a residue of shame upon subsequent generations. Frankly, I have not idea if it went further back still…because the oral tradition of passing down family stories often only include the most entertaining. And really, what is entertaining about yet another relative passing out in front of the fire of the dirt floor shanty?

I say herald the chieftains and lift the celebratory tuba to announce the victory over slavery! Hoorah for overcoming the enticement of imbibing libations.

Never conclude that one could not also fall into a similar subjugation, being yoked with some bondage to a sin, or some casual trap toward a more robust downfall.

Being a young 20 something and not having much money was a struggle. I didn’t like it one bit. I wish I could say it wasn’t a big deal, but it was. I worked, I was in college, I had a marriage, and I had a little kid. The worst of it was not being able to do the things that made life fun. We didn’t have a Christmas tree one year. We didn’t go out to eat. I had this familial obligation, or so I thought-healing and growth happen so much throughout life-to buy presents, something, anything, for extended family, so while we didn’t buy anything for each other, I was out buying some small thing for extended family, and we had to wrap the gifts in newspaper. It was depressing. We did buy presents for our little kiddo, but that was also a struggle, because I wanted to do more. Of course, what parent doesn’t want that? The young are always so oblivious to the struggles to get magical presents in the home, only that they are there. Am I right?

I had a decent exposure to living a decent life in a decent environment during my formative years. I saw very little of the tough stuff: few fights, few drugs, few theft, few fear inducing things. In fact, the only fear we had was through stories, admonishments, and the 4 o’clock hour on television.

Dad grew up in a two bedroom two room house. His dad was proud to have bought it. A bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms was all that little house contained. Dad had to share a room with his sibling. I didn’t have to do that. I have no context. I also don’t have context for living in a small house, of having clothes given to me from others, of going to a food pantry, of living with a chronically ill and crippled parent. Dad remembers going out to eat twice his entire childhood. Fast food wasn’t even a thing back then.

I do recall having to go to an overflow store for clothes, where they didn’t fit well and weren’t in style. I was embarrassed, but I guess the clothes were new. We did have yellow label cans in our home, but I should have been grateful that we had food and we could buy it. I wasn’t, I suppose. Instead, I was embarrassed because it wasn’t name brand.

And as a result of my dad’s upbringing, we did a few things halfway to make up for what my dad didn’t experience, and halfway to take advantage of new discoveries, such as fast food-quick and easy, or the god-forsaken t.v. tray worthy frozen meals. We didn’t get the new experience of cable television, but we did go to quite a few movies, mostly because dad didn’t get to see many growing up, if any. I don’t quite know because he held many childhood disappointments close and quiet.

Today my children have things in abundance that used to be luxuries. I’m not quite sure they comprehend what it is they have that is so amazing. My brain still gets frazzled when monies trickle out of my fingers to the fast food building for the liverstomachcolon destroying tongue enjoyment we call food. I must admit it’s the ease and frankly the peace of no kitchen clean up. However, some have transitioned to being more healthy and less death defying, so I try to comfort myself with bonus points when we eat there, then deduct points for the higher cost.

I struggle with how to teach them to appreciate what they have versus what they would have had. I try and share the family history like some tribal ritual of oral story telling, hoping to pass down the family history so they, too, can retain the history, be mindful, thankful, grateful, and maybe a tad repentant for any excesses they haven’t actually earned. We give, we model giving in secret, too, because we don’t need attention for being helpful and adding hope to someone else’s life.

If I could put them in my life all those years ago, would I? Would my dad have put me into his 4 room house all those decades ago? Would I have appreciated it? Would my children have any appreciation for my childhood? Perspective is shaped by experiences, but even then, putting them into another’s shoes doesn’t provide perspective UNLESS…unless they understand the impact of that experience, because experiences mold a person in a way that simply hearing about it never will. Listening to stories is trite, in a way, because they can feign compassion or emotion, but until they have some level of understanding that experience it simply exists in a vortex of time. Still, I do not fault them for that. I cannot hold them accountable for my experiences, and certainly not for my father’s experiences. How could they even begin to imagine his life, or his poverty? How could they live through his firsts as an adult the way I did while I was a teen? They can’t, and they won’t.

As irrelevant to what really matters in life it is, the only first my kids may live with me is an experience I’ve not yet had: a live band concert. I don’t mean sitting and listening to a three piece orchestra or a cantata or a church musical or anything of that sort. No. I mean putting on a band t-shirt, grabbing some ear plugs, sitting in traffic, walking with the masses, paying exorbitant amounts, and sitting with screaming fans who wreak of cologne and body odor, who are young and old, who are well dressed and in faded and ripped clothes, who congregate to listen to some group of mediocre or well appointed musicians assisted or not by technological enhancement, fog, and gear, and enough strobing to give one a seizure. It may or may not happen, but that is the only thing I may culturally experience with my children that I’ve not experienced. Otherwise, the collective stories of memories are shared before they fade into nothingness, with all the hope and expectancy that the stories and emphasis on determination, grit, and fortitude will enlighten the next generation and encourage them to focus on what really matters in life more than getting ahead or up or in, it’s getting through. And, when we can do that with joy, and be at peace, regardless of having it all or having nothing at all, then that means we have attained what each one of my family had finally figured out in the end. The property is poverty, while family is freedom.