Category: Family Life

The drive home was a blur. I tried to review all that the doctor had said. He had weaved together so magically the variables of what I was to come to embrace over the coming years.

I took the handheld phone and went into the garage. I had to call her father. It wasn’t a discussion I ever imagined I’d be having, let alone talking about our five year old. The last one we shared. The one I wanted to give to and to share with. At the time I had no idea how much I’d receive. I just new that my emotions were raw.

My husband could not waylay my concerns. I felt vulnerable. Out of control. Helpless. I did not, however, feel hopeless. It was clear to me that I would have to resolve any unknowns as I traversed the unknown landscape. At the very least, I knew I was a bit cantankerous and a bit stubborn. These skills will now (finally) come in handy!

I dialed the number. It was always an unknown if he’d even answer. He picked up.

“Hello…” he cheerily answered.

“Hi. I’m calling about X. We took her to the doctor today. The appointment I talked to you about?”

“Uh huh….” he happily responded.

And at that point the tears welled in my eyes. I could barely stammer out the details of the appointment.

After a pause, he responded. “Well, it’s not the end of the world,” he posited. “She’s smart,” he said hopefully. His voice betrayed his true feelings. It was so much to take in.

That night the specialist gave us a call. He wanted to check in with mom (me) to make sure I was “okay” with the diagnosis. I lied. I said I was fine. I thought I was being tough.

I was soup.

That was seven years ago. It was a long time ago, now. And after all this time, I feel more settled into our routines, our goals, and our hopes and dreams. I pray every night that my daughter’s body would come into alignment with God’s word and that as she grows she’ll become all that she was created to be. She sits right at a good place in the lineup of children, which provides and has provided support and models that has had a profound effect on her…on us.

After all, when you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.

Boy, I have really invested so much time into holiday celebrations. I can’t say that I’m upset by it. I can say it’s probably due to the fact that I have such fond memories from holiday get togethers across the span of my childhood. I don’t doubt that, in small measure, I have felt compelled to celebrate because I placed so much value on those times. Much of my childhood and even into my adulthood is characterized by the mundane in life. Anyone relate? In that measure, it’s a little easier to understand that, for me, holidays meant an alteration to the day-to-day, an abrupt change to what is expected, and the excitement of different activities and food.

Food, of course, is the foundation of most holiday get togethers. This may be a uniquely American thing, or maybe a uniquely Christian thing-either could be false-but I would like to say that as I’ve observed it, food is part of every culture :).

When a holiday approaches I begin with considering the menu. What will I put out? What will I make? I often have a standard of offerings for any holiday, and have worked at attempting to avoid cross pollinating. For example, I don’t want to serve the same meat each holiday. I used to do that. However, a Christmas ham and an Easter ham seemed boring and predictable. This last year, I changed to a roast beast for Christmas, as in Prime Rib, and even I was blown away. I did ask my husband to help me prepare it. I will admit: I got the recipe from a certain online person with a blog and cooking show. Does that matter, though? Anyone can ruin a recipe. We didn’t. It was delicious! So now I feel the freedom to have a ham for Easter. But then, I don’t want to have mashed potatoes. They come next with Thanksgiving, and again, the repetitive thing. Plus, I always found it strange that we would have a beef gravy over a pork meat. Is that just me? No? Well, I’m no purist and certainly no chef, but I had to change it up.

Most places I’ve lived does have moderate to H-O-T weather on Easter, depending on day. This year, Easter is later than usual. I don’t want too many hot dishes. Shoot, even the ham comes precooked-I’m guessing they don’t want to be responsible for thousands of people getting sick or worse for undercooking a ham. So, whether I heat it through and through, or simply warm it up, we won’t die. But also, it dawned on me that the sizes of some of these pigs must be enormous! Those hammocks. Lord….I can’t get away with too many cold things, either. For example, my kids don’t like salads of most sorts: potato, lettuce, jello…..so, those are out. Why, jello, though? The floating fruit is a scientific mystery and who doesn’t like Cool Whip?

I’ve decided to remain current and trendy and have a charcuterie board, plus deviled eggs. My crowd is still all about dips with veggies or chips. I’m skipping chips, but will include veggies and then…la piece de resistance…..deviled eggs. Am I right? The irony of deviling something on Christ’s resurrection is not lost on me. Plus, they are delicious.

Still going to have the ham-with a sugar, coke, Dr Pepper, or no, glaze. Hmmm…decisions. I will add two small sides and a bread of some sort. For dessert I will have out the chocolate candy tower-we traditionally order chocolates from one company-and I decided since I can’t find this fanciful recipe I used a few years ago, I will make a different cake I saw just this past week. It’s called an “icebox” cake, and it uses fresh fruit, is old school, and simple. I like pie, but most of my crowd is mixed about the culinary treasure, and they are getting sugary treats anyway…dessert is just a necessity for a three course montage.

One thing that I find so annoying is when the older kids ask, “Who is coming over?” Look, they huff when I do invite people, they are disappointed when it’s, “just us,” and frankly I can’t take the pressure of attempting to satisfy their need for a crowd on a holiday. It’s not my fault kids grow up and move far, far away. It’s also not my fault that adult children have other lives and may not want to come over. It’s not my fault that people we know from church or in the neighborhood have their own families and traditions and activities. Frankly, I had always dreamed of having a growing crowd, envisioning all these kids coming with their spouses and kids…..sigh….some day, hopefully. And perhaps this entire dream stems from how I felt growing up, with the large crowd, the busyness, the good eats….

The thing that was always missing from my memory was the work. Why? Well, I didn’t have to do any of it! First, I was a child. When I grew up, and had a baby, I had a baby, and was poo poo’d from attempting to try and help…tend to the baby, they’d say. When I moved away at an older age, and I suddenly became the oldest person, oh wow….it was then my job to manage all the work. I miss just attending and enjoying the event. And despite their double-mindedness about visitors and people, I know my kids will grow up with a memory of how I tried to make -all holiday gatherings- special, or at a least memorable, and hopefully in a good way. I know people who have memories of drunken fights, loud music, angry conversations……I didn’t want that for my kids. And, sadly, I had a bad outcome once. I guess we all get a mulligan. But never again. Promise.

I don’t mind the work, and in the past decade have really fine tuned the less is more focus, along with using techniques to help me feel like I can prepare and work WHILE participating in the day. The kids are almost out of the egg hunt age, so that will have to rest until children attend, if there are any, again. I’m not against having an older person’s hunt….lol….that honestly sounds like a hoot! And, because of the diversity of ages, we had instituted a new tradition for holidays of Nerf gun fights. We had to miss Christmas last year due to rain and mud, but unless it rains (please, Lord, hear our prayer), we will have the blessed Nerf war, to the delight of my youngest, now 8. It’s the glorious battle de jour. He can’t wait!

Ever have any? Some of those transitions can be sudden, and painful. There are those that seem taboo: the death of a child, a divorce, an affair. Those events transition a person into a new phase of life with certainty. Finality.

Then there are those which, though we know are coming, we don’t actually face until they come. Perhaps when a child begins to talk, moves into high school, moves on to college, gets married; maybe it’s when an aging parent dies…or a couple decides that they really should downsize to a small place, for just the two of them.

Sometimes we begin planning for them way in advance, so that we can mentally prepare for the inevitable. Or, maybe we simply carve out space in our mind’s eye so that when we do face that circumstance, it’s not a sudden shock to our system.

It kind of takes away from the excitement of more welcomed transitions, doesn’t it? The one to add another family member, to move to a larger house, to afford to take the kids on a “huge” vacation, and so on.

This transition, though, is different. This one. The one.

I definitely had a backwards transition to the first child leaving home. It was I, and not they, who left. I knew I was making a good decision. I can’t say it was the best or had some profound reason, other than I remarried and they were a burgeoning 18 year old. How could I rip them away from their “next”? I couldn’t. So, dad and I had an agreement. They would stay and finish high school, so close to the end that they were, and live with dad. I would move with the others.

I can’t say it wasn’t hard on my eldest. I am certain there is some residual pain there, but it’s not discussed. I love that child more than anything. I wish they could know this. Perhaps they do. Or, perhaps they distanced themselves from it since there was so much activity after I left, things I may not have allowed. A party at the house, for example. It’s okay. They survived as did the house. But me? I would cry myself to sleep out of missing them. My new husband tried to console me. I wasn’t having any part of it. It was more painful than I could have imagined. Though, it was also a good thing for that child. There was more room to come into their own. Though they faced some trials and some hurdles-nothing too terrible-they did do okay. Finished college. It was good.

I know that I saved that one some frustration because now I have the second eldest post-high school. Everything is not as they had hoped. It’s still my house, still my rules. There’s no partying until 3 a.m., or spending the night at people’s houses. There’s no freedom to explore whatever, whenever, however. There are reasons for that, of course. Trust is one. Fear of outcome is another. Mental illness still another. No one likes to address taboos, though.

Second eldest was cajoled, perhaps manipulated, encouraged, to move with dad. It’s not moving “out.” It’s only moving. Dad has some concerns as well. We can’t discuss those. They are also, taboo. Second is an empath. So, they will know they have done something when rewarded with accolades for being brave, and given positive emotions. What happens when that frivolity wears off? What happens when they can’t make the other happy enough? That’s the taboo. Don’t discuss underlying aspects.

I don’t blame second necessarily. Every visit is so fun! Trips to experience things, all paid for by someone else. Excursion here, event there. Life here is very mundane. It has to be. There are many here, with many schedules. Excitement is planned way out. It can be expensive.

Why not take a chance to live as the youngest….have a room. Well, they had a room here. Have a car…oh, they had a car here. Be required to pay for car insurance…oh, they had to pay half here….be doted on and allowed to get as many tattoos as they want, skip church, and talk a big game…….there it is. “Hope.” Apparently hope is in a constant face off with reality here. Hope should have direction, expectation, and guidance….otherwise, while it is mesmerizing, it’s not functional nor tangible.

So, this is what raw is like. While opportunity could continue to exist to be a guide as all parents can be, it may not. There is both another parent and their new spouse, parent to one child, to say things…and who knows what values they will convey….let alone based on no knowledge of second’s current needs, strengths, and weaknesses. Raw is helpless. Raw is emotional. Raw is tender. Raw is like a divorce-having had one, I know the feeling. Raw is raw. It is exploding with love and the need to protect and care….and raw leaves one feigning strength and resolve, which takes all the courage I can muster. I can’t let this show a weakness in me, just in case the strength is needed later on.

I had thought that being a woman and having a home would someday lead to a family. I also believed that the idyllic I imagined would be my experience. Ah, the virtues of youth.

I spent endless hours cleaning my parent’s home, imagining I was cleaning my OWN counter, or washing my OWN laundry. I thought I would be able to realize this LHOTP lifestyle, with equality and happiness.

Some of that I later learned would never happen. Other aspects of daily life as I envisioned could happen, provided I was willing to put in my efforts. Say, be positive, or look at some chores not as work but a benefit to the greater good…perhaps my family’s happiness or cleanliness for everyone. That kind of thing. It turns out that my family got sick less often than others, and I 100% attribute that to my cleaning habits, which had always included using antiviral wipes on handles and knobs. The pandemic only increased the likelihood of credit where it is due, or not. The sicknesses could have easily stayed at bay with good medical care or a quality diet…

I had not quite figured out if I should use a spray and wipe method or continue with the disposables. Does it take more water to wash rags, or fill too many landfills to use throw away? Oh the way the viral climate chatter has infected our thought process.

I did believe that my carbon footprint should avoid becoming a carbon mansion, so I tried to cloth diaper. I had read once that every day people (around the world? in my country?) used enough disposable diapers to fill a 5 story building. That’s so gross. I hope I only showed my toes for that time period, not the entire foot.

When I finally did begin living the ole married life, I innately continued with the behaviors that seemed successful in my home of origin. Though, how happy, content, or effective is a daily cleaning regimen? In fact, it took years, YEARS, maybe decades, to get past the programming. I did replace some of it with other rote behaviors that I am proud of, like meal planning. I’m thankful I didn’t completely ditch the depth of cleaning, either, because I counted it as a badge of honor that my kids have said ours is the cleanest house they know.

Doubtful that it’s a complement; perhaps it’s an insult.

Why is that a bad thing, anyway? Is that an embarrassment? Really?

So, I had to learn to modify expectations just some so I wouldn’t be a workhorse. It’s still a work in progress.

Still, ideally we desire cleanliness, but it’s okay if there are some messes.

I had required and still maintain that making one’s bed daily has benefits. While we make it a priority-which can take as little as 90 seconds- and ensure the younger ones follow suit, I’ve noted that a newly minted adult has made it the opposite habit. No bed making.

Occasionally I become infuriated by the insolence and make it for them. It’s probably not on purpose. They have attention issues. I’m overreacting. I know it makes them feel guilty on occasion as well; occasions not being equal as sometimes they say nothing, while other times stating that they do feel the guilt, maybe even some shame, at not making their bed when they know I expect it.

Younger eyes can’t see intentions or guilt or feelings. It’s either made or not. I need to ensure all ages follow suit. Expectations, after all.

My ideal home has no clutter, no dust, no grime, definitely clean toilets, upkept laundry, nice smelling air, fluffed pillows, lintless floors, clean dishes and sink, and made beds.

Most of those are taken care of, but I’m one person.

I’ve had to rethink some of these things, too. I’m not getting any younger. I’m clearly the ONLY person that actually cares these things get done. The others comply out of obligation and fear of retribution. I don’t retribute, just lament loudly with great vim and vigor.

My husband complies because he wants me happy (or to stop, but that likely won’t happen). I think I don’t smile after completion enough. He thinks I’m unhappy. I’m moderately annoyed most often, and squarely satisfied more than that.

He also believes my “I don’t give a care” monitor is broken. It is. We both know it.

I care too much.

It has nothing to do with what others may think. I truly believe it’s something I had sewn into the fabric of who I am: a patchwork of complexity with some odd colors, an old, historical aire, some keen gifts, and penchant for control. Who doesn’t like to know what to expect? Ami right?

Alas, I’ve had to throw ideal out the window. I cannot expect others to expect in the same way I expect, and since I cannot, I cannot expect to feel accomplished by expecting more than what others can contribute and believe they would expect happiness from that expectation.

The ideal has changed, but it’s not completely gone. I still daydream of somedays and hopefullies, only now there is more realism included.

I want for my children to dream of their own homes with their own families and wonder about their days and their daily happiness and work and life…..but maybe without so much focus and attention on ideals. They rarely function as expected….

I was 21 when I was working a temp job at a medical support company. They happened be across the parking lot from the HMO we were using. At the time, I would come back from lunch, and dream of going into the never-used-ever board room and taking a nap. I would come home from work and lay down and not get up for hours, purely exhausted. One day I decided to schedule a pregnancy test. The nurse was kind enough to stay just a few minutes extra so I could walk over; she got off at 5 just like I did. I took the test, and her response was, “That is the most pregnant pregnancy test I’ve ever seen!” I was 9 weeks pregnant. I guess so!

From that moment forward I felt so good about what was to come. Never mind that our salary was under $40K a year, or that we didn’t have much to support us let alone another human being. It was a magical moment because I say it was one :). I had been married just three years, and was ready to be pregnant.

Telling family did happen, though I don’t recall much about that. I do remember bits and pieces of that time, though. I remember getting big, the first stretch marks-I thought they looked “cute” but shouldn’t have, as they turned ugly and multiplied real fast- and wearing maternity clothes. I remember getting hand me down maternity clothes from someone; they were quickly too small for me. I also got some from my sister-in-law. They were better. And my parents bought me two dresses. I rotated between the two weekly for church.

Generally it seemed both families were happy for us, and we received just about everything we needed or wanted for the bundle of joy. We also had a shower at church and that was fun.

I had decided I wanted a “theme” for my baby’s nursery and so I also decided to make some crib bumpers and a crib quilt, and even though we were renting and shouldn’t: a wallpaper border around the room. It was all the rage at that time.

Our baby was supposed to be born January 26. The bouncing bundle was sleepy or stubborn or just not ready. On February 2 after a NST I was sent across town to the hospital to be induced. Apparently the baby had drank all the amniotic fluid and there was very little left. It was about 24 hours before I entered the surgery suite….

Thinking I could feel them cutting on me, I saw the mask lower to my face and from there I aroused to a very cranky nurse who “had” to answer my query, “What did I have?” As if every mother everywhere found out the gender ahead of time…..sigh. My little inebriated guy was safely tucked into the hospital nursery awaiting me.

And the chicken I had put out for dinner that night rested safely inside my home oven to defrost, leaving a lovely stench for dad and sister in law to hunt down. LOL.

A mere 2 weeks before ou fourth anniversary, this little angel became a wonderful Valentine’s gift to us and changed our lives forever.

Does anyone ever think long and hard about children? Of course they do! I am especially familiar with this through my time at the reproductive endocrinology clinic. Some of the clients are so desperate for a child, and it’s heartbreaking the process that is undertaken for this privilege. More on that in another post.

Because I was married so young, I really didn’t think “long and hard” or maybe not even “hard.” I just thought as a child that I would have children. I imagined I’d have a dozen! Upon telling that to my father, he laughed. He sat down and asked, with a smirk he was holding back,”Don’t you think that a dozen children is a bit much?” Gee, I hadn’t thought about it like that. Frankly, I was a dozen steps removed from reality at that point. I hadn’t even had a dozen dollies at once!

Nonetheless I was undeterred. So, I went down by degrees. “Ten” I’d say, and he’s chuckle. “Okay, 8.” Boy, I really needed to learn to count by 1’s. Again, a chuckle. “Fine, 6.” He’d retort to that until I finally lamented with a firm, “I will have 4 children. Period.” He could only ask one question.

“Are you sure?”

Yes, I thought. Yes, I’m sure. Now, Upon marrying, I didn’t think children would happen right away, but I wasn’t doing anything to stop it. After a few months, I thought that there might be something wrong, but wasn’t confident enough to be adamant or even worried. I was simply concerned.

I made an appointment with the medical group’s reproductive specialist. When I met with him, he started me at square one. He, too, chuckled, and said that there probably wasn’t anything to worry about. However, I came to him so he gave me the standard protocol. Keep a record for three months, then come back. Man, what a drag!

What a reflection of my youth, right? I wanted an instant result, with a quick discovery of anything that could hinder getting pregnant. Some things in life can take a very lengthy stroll, methodically choosing to take the scenic route before arrival. This was true in my case. However, I guess I was given two reprieves. Perhaps it was during a turn out for a photo opportunity.

I didn’t even have time to really discuss becoming parents with my spouse, or thoughts on parenting, or even if it was a good time. Nothing was discussed. I guess this should have been a sign of things to come, or of character, or a flaw…but how do people who are barely adults even know to consider those things? (Hint: with proper guidance, that’s how…).

In some respects I know I’ve tried to share some life lessons with my children. However, now that I’m experiencing the rebuff of youth, I realize that there is a high likelihood that if anyone was trying to counsel me against having children right away at such a young age, I didn’t even acknowledge it; and if they weren’t, I probably wouldn’t have accepted the advice.

In fact, one hallmark of my youth was that I knew better for me than anyone else did, even if that meant I was wrong. Because as I already mentioned in my last post, others can know us from a perspective of wisdom and experience in ways that we don’t yet know ourselves. And so, this was the beginning of my journey toward motherhood.

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.