The parable of the slide

So... a while ago... I posted a series of my thoughts on parenting...  Need a refresher?

Part I:  Losing It
Part II:  Loving It
Part III:  Evolving

Today, I'm finally finishing with:

Part IV:  Letting Go - The Parable of the Slide

I had this thought back in 2009, but never wrote about it.  I was reminded of it when Trevan started Kindergarten, maybe because I was having to let go of my baby to send him to school...

In April of 2009, we were at my brother and sister in laws house watching General Conference.  During one of the breaks, I was out on their back porch watching Mallary play on this little slide.
 

There was a significant distance from the bottom of the slide to the floor which made Mallary bump her bum at the end of  the slide, so I held on to her to make her land on the ground softer.  At first she didn't notice I was holding on the the back of her shirt, but when she realized it, she didn't like it at all.  She wanted to go all by herself!

She has realized I was holding her shirt in these pictures, and did not like it...

John came out after a while and joined us.  After a few minutes he asked, "Why don't you just let her go down by herself?"

I thought it silly to have to reply to such a questions, "She might fall."

I think John thought my response was just as silly as I thought his question was, "Then we'll help her up."

So, the next time she went down, I let her go by herself, and her bum bumped on the floor hard.

It didn't really bother her, but it bothered me. 

I saw some water shoes (we used to call them Aquasox) over in the corner, and I placed them at the bottom of the slide to help cushion her fall. 

That seemed to help - making the drop to the floor less harsh. 

Then, it hit me. This slide was a parable for parenting. 

I would love to hold my daughters hand forever - hold her hand down the slide of life, try and keep her from dropping off the edge, protect her from the bumps that will surely come some time in life; heartbreak, loneliness, sadness. I would love to shelter her from any and all bad things. 

But, I can't hold her hand forever to keep her from falling, I eventually have to let go to let her build her confidence, to let her learn and grow from her falls.

But, I can teach her, educate her, help her learn about making good choices, and how to cope with the heartbreak, loneliness, and sadness that will surely come at some time.  I want to make sure she has some cushion there for when she has to take those bumps.

I can give her her Aquasoxs to help her when she does fall.

And, I'll always be there to help her back up. 

But, I have to let go and let her make the choices, and let her take the falls.

Just as I stood by the slide not wanting to let her go down without me holding onto her. I'll have to stand by in her life and let her make decisions on her own. How hard is that going to be????  Watching and knowing that she is headed down a path that will lead to some kind of hurt, but it will be her choice, and she'll have to take the consequences of her choice.  Hopefully, I've taught her well enough that her cushion at the end of the fall will give her the strength she needs to bounce back up and try again. 

I'll always be standing there waiting to help her up when she hits the ground.

Don't think I'm just going to abandon my child to watch her make bad decisions and not help her along the way... but sometimes I'm going to have to stand there and watch her make bad decisions.  I'm just going to start preparing myself for that day...  I'm also not going to walk away from the slide because I think she's going down it wrong.  I'll be there standing by the slide just in case she wants to reach out and grab my hand because she's scared, or wants help. 

She'll know that.  She'll know I want to let her to choose, and that I want her to make good choices, but she'll also know that I'll be there even if she makes a bad one.  Or if someone pushes her off her slide, she'll know I'll be right there to help her back on, if she wants it. 

We can't hold their hands forever. We are here to teach them, and hope they make good decisions using the knowledge we've shared. But, they won't always. Have you? I haven't. 

As much as I don't want to see my kids get hurt, it's part of life to let them go, so they can choose, and live and learn. 

I have to thank my parents.  They taught me, which helped cushioned my many falls.  They let me choose, even when they knew those choices weren't in my best interest.  But, they were there to help me back up.  And, I think the key is, when they were helping me back up, they weren't telling me "I told you so," or "You should have done it this way instead."  They simply loved me, held my hand, and helped me get back on the slide.  I hope to be the same.

As a mom, it's hard to think about, the letting go part of parenting...

Always, in the back of my head I hear me on that day, "What if she falls?"

Then I hear John's voice, "We'll help her back up."

Tending Roses - Blogging Book Club

I'm selecting books from my summer reading in no paticular order.  The first book is, Tending Roses by Lisa Wingate.

This is a book that my sister lent me to read.  It was a good read, not amazing, or the best book I've ever read, but it was good.  I could identify with parts of the story making it a better read for me. 

The general idea of the story is a young woman and her husband, who have a new baby, go and live with her aging grandmother for a short time.  In that time, she ends up learning more from her grandmother than she expected.  Her grandmother starts leaving a journal of sorts lying around with short stories/excerpts of her life for her granddaughter to read. 

I'm going to share one of the excerpts with you.  It has stuck with me since I read it at the beginning of the summer, and I didn't want to return this book to my sister without writing it down first, so I'm going to do it now!  It is a little long, but read it - especially if you are a mom. 

I'll introduce it for you, the granddaughter finds a book that her Grandmother left on a table (for her to find) with a story written in her grandma's handwriting...

"Time For Tending Roses,"  I whispered and thought of the beautifual rose garden that bloomed on the lawn in summertime.  It had been there for as long as I could remember, carefully manicured, every bloom perfect - just as perfect and neat as everything else in Grandma's household.

I read the title again, then dove into the story with a strange hunger for the words.

When I was a young woman, I seldom owned anything of which to be proud.  When I was old enough to work in a shop in St. louis and live on my own, most of my wage was sent home to provide for my younger bothers and sisters, for my parents had not even their health by this time.  When I was married, I came to my husband's farm with all that I owned packed in a single crate.  Everything I saw, or tasted or touched around me belonged to my husband.  I felt like the air in that big house, needed and used, but not seen. 

God sent an answer to me in worship that spring, when an old woman told me she wanted the gardens cleaned around her house, and if I would do the work, I might have flower bubs and starts of roses as my pay.   My husband pretended to think the idea rather foolish, as I was needed on the farm, but he was patient with me as I worked through the early spring, cleaning gardens and moving starts to a newly tilled bed by our famhouse.  He was older than I, and I think he understood that I needed something of my own. 

Those roses were the finest things  I had been given in my life, and I tended them carefully all spring.  As the days lengthened, the roses grew well and blossomed in the summer heat, as did I.  Coming in and out of the house, I would look at them - something that belonged to me, growing in soil that belonged to him. 

Even passing folk admired my roses, for my work made the blooms large and full.  Once a poor hired lady came with a bouquet of roses and wildflowers clasped in her hands.  She told me that her children had sneaked into my garden and picked them for her, and that they would be punished.  I bade her not to scold the children, for I was proud to give them this gift.  She smiled, and thanked me, and told me that with so many children, she had no time for tending roses. 

I did not understand her words until my own children were born.  When the first was a babe, I took her outside and let her play in an empty wash barrel so I could have time for tending my roses.  I was often cross with her cries while I was at my work.  As she grew, and as my second child was born, I understood what the hired lady had told me - that motherhood leaves no time for selfish pleasures.  Only time for tending others. 

My roses grew wild and died as I busied myself with feeding and diapering, nursery rhymes and sickbeds.  I missed those bright blooms that had been mine and felt it unfair that I must leave my hard work there to die.  But I did not think of it overmuch.  My mind and heart were occupied with the sorrows and joys of motherhood. 

The day came, it seemed in no time, when my children were grown and gone, and I again found time to tend the roses.  I could labor over them from dawn until dusk with no children to feed, no husband needing meals, and few passersby on the old road.  My flowers have come thick and full and beautiful again.  From time to time, I see neighbor children come to pick them when I am silent in my house.  I close my eyes and listen to their laughter, and think that the best times of my life, the times that passed by me the most quickly, were the times when the roses grew wild."

I loved everything about that story.  Totally relatable to my life.  I have a lot of "roses" in my life, and this was a good reminder that one day, I'll have plenty of time for them, but right now I need to enjoy my kids, and let the roses grow wild.  Honestly, I still try to "pick the weeds around my roses", but I'm just not as concerned about them as I used to be, and as I catch up on my blogging there will be posts that explain how I finally came to peace with that feeling. 

Blog Therapy

I know I have mentioned before the plethora of psychology and human development classes I had to take in college due to changed majors and attending four different colleges. Well, in a lot of those classes I had to learn about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's stages of grief. For tests, I always remembered them by remembering the word, 'DABDA;' Death, Anger, Bargaining, Denial, and Acceptance. I can say that with the passing of my mom I experienced all of those stages. Though, I think the acceptance part came in stages for me. I eventually accepted her death, but still grieved and mourned. I don't know how accepting of the situation I really was. Within the definition of grieving and mourning is the word sorrow - and I felt a lot of that. I'm not really sure when I stopped feeling it, but I did, and I just realized it recently.

You know how they say sometimes a girl doesn't need to see a therapist, she just needs a good group of girlfriends? Well, I just realized the same thing of a blog.

I have experienced nothing more heartbreaking in my life than watching my mom die, hearing her moan in pain, witness her body transform, and see the hollow look in her eyes. I remember standing in the hospital looking at her frail little body lying in her hospital bed and thinking, "It's not right for a child to have to witness their mother dying."

When we moved from Maryland, and before moving here, I lived with my parents for about five months. There were times when my mom would all of a sudden get an infection inducing a fever, which combined with medication she was taking, and among other reasons made her so lethargic she wouldn't be able to communicate, she would sleep for long periods of time, even fall asleep on the toilet. Holding back tears (and usually being unsuccessful) while trying to get her to take a Tylenol, drink or eat something, or to get her dressed to go to the hospital in those situations were really sad times. Usually, after helping her into the car for my dad to take her to the hospital, I would go back into the house and cry. Those nights I usually cried myself to sleep.

In quiet moments in the days and months after my mom passed away I often thought of her in those conditions; her lying in the hospital bed, her lethargic days, what her eyes looked like, her poor, tiny, frail body, how family and nurses had to take care of her basic needs. I honestly thought I would never forget any of those things, and that they would stay fresh in my memory forever.

But, they haven't.

I'm not quite sure when those thoughts stopped coming, but I think I know what triggered it.

Recently, I realized I couldn't even remember the last time I thought of any of those things, and the images in my head aren't even vivid anymore. They say time eases pain, but I also realized that when I started this blog I started focusing on the good things, and the wonderful things about my mom. Focusing on the wonderful person she was, and all the good things must have turned off those haunting thoughts for me. But, that's how she would want me to remember her; full of life, smiling, serving. She wouldn't want me to remember her when she felt she looked like "the wicked witch of the west." (her words, not mine) She would want me to remember her shaking her booty in the kitchen. Okay, maybe not necessarily that, but she would want me to remember her fun times - not the times when she was ill, and weak.

I just don't feel that sorrow anymore. I feel like I have accepted her death and moved on with my life accordingly. Do I still miss her? Of course! I don't think that ever goes away. A girl would always love to have her mother, right? My Grandmommy (my mom's mom) passed away about ten years ago, and my mom always missed her. Was she depressed over it? No, but you knew she missed her. There are times, seemingly random times, that I miss my mom, and wish she could be here, or that I could talk to her, but, it's not something I dwell on or that I mourn for anymore.

Even after her death, my mom continues to influence my life. Isn't that how it's supposed to be? I would have never started this blog if it weren't for me hearing her voice in my head (while I was reading some stupid blogs) repeating a phrase she often said, "There's too much harshness in the world..."

I'll always miss my mom; but, don't confuse that with me mourning or grieving for her. I've crossed that bridge, and I think focusing on her goodness on this blog has helped me get there.

Table for one

When I was living in Utah working for the American Cancer Society I usually went out to eat for lunch. If I didn't meet someone, I usually got lunch and bought it back to the office to eat. One day, I didn't feel like doing that. I didn't want to have to answer the phone while I was eating, help someone that came in, or talk to anyone. I was just going to order to go and eat in my car. I remember thinking, "You know what? I'm just going to go inside and sit down to relax and eat my lunch."

I had never eaten out by myself at a restaurant, and I was honestly a little nervous, maybe not nervous, but feeling like people were staring at me. "I wonder why she is eating by herself? Is she waiting on someone?" etc. I wanted to have a book to read or something to make it seem less sad? I don't know.

That experience was pretty empowering for me. Whats the big deal eating by myself? I don't need to have someone to eat with me. But, if I'm being honest, once I became pregnant with Trevan, I never thought twice about eating alone again. Obviously people could look at me and know I wasn't alone, that I had a friend, or at least a lover. Then, after I had Trevan I never went anywhere alone again, or thought twice about going somewhere by "myself." Then, I had two kids, and was never alone.

For mother's day, when Mallary was about 8 months old, John surprised me with a trip to Utah to visit one of my old college roommates, who's husband had also surprised her with a plane ticket to Utah. A trip with no kids.

Sitting in the airport that day, I had an epiphany of sorts.

I was sitting there, people watching; business man with laptop there, mother of three over there, someone texting someone over there, husband and wife over there, sisters sitting there, boyfriend and girlfriend in front of me, etc.

All of a sudden, I felt naked. I needed my kids. I was alone, people are going to think I'm just alone...

Then I mentally hit myself over the head.

Are you serious? You really need your kids to make you feel important? To show people that you have a place in this world?

I honestly could not believe I thought that. Like my kids were an accessory to help me be somebody, to have something to show for myself. Like, I was afraid to stand alone.

"So pathetic..." I thought. I honestly had some sort of awakening.

Did I only feel important if people knew I was a mother, or that someone else loved me? Oh my. My children do not define me. My husband does not define me. My friends do not define me. I mean, I guess you could argue, that in a way they do define me. They enrich my life. Mother, wife, friend, those are all roles I carry. But to let my children be what gives me confidence, what makes me feel important or part of something? No. I define me. My talents, my strengths; I can stand on my own two feet, not behind their four little ones.

Silly me.

I'm so glad my husband sent me on that trip, if not just to have that little epiphany. I hadn't realized I might have subconsciously been wearing my children like an expensive purse. I matter, and I'm important. My children matter, and they're important. Even though they are dependent on me to let them know that they matter and are important, doesn't mean I have to be dependent on them to show others that I matter and I'm important.

I didn't listen

I've been in bed awake for over an hour, and finally decided to get up and do something semi-productive. I kept thinking of random experiences, and thought I would blog about them.


It was Thanksgiving morning and I was at WalMart. I turned the corner to walk down the flour/sugar/spice aisle and I saw a skinny older man with only a few things in his cart inspecting the spices. I do have a soft spot for older people. I can't honk at them when they are being bad drivers, because I picture my grandparents, and I know Grandma drives slow, and I don't want someone honking at her.

Anyway.

About five seconds after seeing this man, glancing at him, glancing at his cart, a thought popped in my head, "You should invite him to dinner."

I'm pretty sure I stopped in my tracks.

Some people talk of your inner voice, or your soul's voice, but I refer to it as the spirit, and it was speaking to me.

"What?!?!"

I turned around to face the flour as if it required much studying to figure out what brand to buy, and carried on an internal debate.

"I don't even know him."

The thought came again, "You should invite him to dinner."

My heart started thumping, and I may have started to get sweaty palms, I don't remember, but my body was reacting.

"I don't even know him. That is weird. Asking a complete stranger if he wants to come over for dinner? He'll think I'm crazy. I think it's crazy. What???"

"You should invite him to dinner."

"He could be a sex offender for all I know!" (Okay if you could have seen this man, you would laugh at me for thinking this, because he had the sweetest countenance about him, or you might say aura, but I really did think that.)

He turned down another aisle, and my heart was still racing, my mind still debating.

I went to go down the next aisle, passing him, still having the same thoughts, and still feeling like I should ask him to dinner.

The debate won. "That is just too weird," I thought and moved down another aisle, not seeing him again in the store.

I continued my shopping feeling... bad, and confused. What would make me want to invite a total stranger to eat with us? That is sooo not me.

I didn't really think about it again after I left WalMart.

About a month later, I was sitting in church waiting for it to start when my attention was drawn to a woman with obvious health issues being escorted down the aisle in the chapel. When I saw her escort, her husband I assumed, my heart might have stopped for a second. It was him, the sweet looking man shopping in WalMart.

I had never seen them at church before, or never noticed, (I hadn't been living here that long, okay over a year...) and had not recognized him at WalMart.

I can't describe how disappointed I was in myself, or the pit in my stomach I felt. I mean, he may not have accepted had I invited him anyway, because let's face it, it would be a little crazy to have a stranger approach you in WalMart and invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. But, maybe he just needed to hear someone ask him something nice? Whatever the reason, I didn't listen, and I know it. Whenever I see him in church, I'm reminded of the clear instruction I received, and the internal debate I had that followed.

If there is one thing I hope to help my children learn in this life, it is to recognize those promptings, and respond accordingly.