Just "Kim"

Today, I am just not feeling it. The "it" that I'm not feeling is lurking like a monstrous, hideous gorilla in the room: parenting. Today is one of those days that I feel like just being Kim. I sometimes don't even remember who she is. The person she was before having children who has been long buried in piles of laundry, late night barfing, tattling, signing paperwork, coordinating the calendars of five individuals without (dear God) making one blunder, and putting the needs of everyone else before herself.

I think as a mom this is a blasphemous confession to make. A confession that will have "better" moms turning their noses up at my apparent willingness to admit that, at the end of the day, I am human, I am flawed, and sometimes I long for the simplicity that existed before I earned the title of Mom.

But you "better than me" moms, I know you secretly have these days too but are too prideful to admit that mothering is without a shred of a doubt the hardest title you have ever and will ever receive. And, it is a title that brings an endless to do list that draws on every ounce of your will to even attempt to manage every single day of your life without reprieve.

Because, you see, we can't turn this off even if we are physically away from our children. After all, how would those we left in charge even begin to function without the detailed lists and spreadsheets we leave behind? The pre-filled out forms, the pile of already stacked uniforms, the daily itinerary that keeps our family afloat, the wisdom that our oldest child will only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his lunch, our middle child only nutella, and our youngest only nutella and peanut butter? That for breakfast, our oldest likes his egg wrap with cheese and salt & pepper, our middle with egg and salt & pepper but no cheese, and our youngest with egg and salt but no pepper or cheese? Who else knows the millions of tiny details that allow us to make it through the day with only a small number of tears and the least amount of frustration? No one. No one knows this but us, and even though it allows us to know every member of our family most intimately, we are often left to wonder who knows what we like in our morning wrap? No one else but us because we are the keepers of these important pearls of wisdom. The pearls of wisdom that are simultaneously enlightened and suffocating.

Today I felt suffocated by this role.

Today, I wanted to be just Kim. I didn't want to me "Mom" or "Wife" but Kim. Kim the girl who used to climb to the tallest branch of the tree in her backyard and read books. Kim who loves to feel the sun on her skin and the sand between her toes. Kim who likes to lay in the damp grass at night and look into the vastness of the sky feeling both empowered and intimidated by the understanding of her own smallness in the big picture of God's universe. Do any of you even know these things because I sure know them about you. I hold on by the hope that one day you will understand that for so many years I willingly chose you over me because that's just what parents do.

I know that tomorrow I will wake up to a different day, a day in which I proudly grab the title of Mom and traverse its challenges with ease and peace. I know this because I have had days like this before and will no doubt have them again in the future. My sense of peace returning will begin when I walk in to check on you in bed later and stall for a minute to take in the beauty of your faces and watch how your chests slowly rise and fall as you dream. When I lay in the quiet of our dark house tonight, I will remember the immense quiet that accompanied my life before children and be thankful for the noise that you bring me, a noise that always reminds me of the beauty and dynamism of life. I will remember the tears I cried when I prayed for over two years to conceive my oldest and the subsequent tears and despair I felt when I suffered five miscarriages before my second was born. I will remember how much I ached and prayed to earn this title, and my heart will swell with pride for the family we have together, no matter how chaotic and suffocating it can sometimes make me feel. And, most of all, I will realize that I can't remember who Kim was before children because she is a ghost from my past who has morphed into the person she is today, a person that I am always thankful for and proud of.

A tall, ice cold glass of The Golden Rule

My youngest daughter asked me last weekend if she could have a lemonade stand. She was so excited to learn how to make homemade lemonade from the abundance of lemons from our tree that I couldn't resist. I let her know that I would help her set up a stand on Saturday.

Since the introduction of allowances into our family last year, it has been an interesting lesson in personalities as I have watched how my three children handle money. My oldest child and only son is the epitome of having a "hole in your pocket." The second he has any money he is dying, DYING, for me to drive him to Target, Walgreens, CVS, ANYWHERE to spend every last penny he has on some trinket. He feels the pain of wanting something two days later but having no money to his name, begging and pleading for a loan or an advance that I have never and will never grant. Regardless, the pattern continues every week. My middle child and oldest daughter is, much like her personality, the model of moderation. She will save her money if there is nothing that she has been longing for and spend it intermittently when a strong enough desire grasps her mind. Her piggy bank is always half full, either able to allow her to indulge on some small treasure or save in little time for something more impressive.

Now my youngest (and the entrepreneur behind this weekend's lemonade stand) is much like her mommy: she hangs onto money as if it is a rare gift from God not to be trifled with. The first time I allowed the children to take their own money to Target to buy a toy, she cried in the car after she realized that she had sacrificed one of her blessed twenty dollar bills for the two My Little Pony Girls that had been added to her arsenal of misfit toys. I calmly explained to her through her tears and snot that things cost money and that there was no need to cry if she was able to get something that was important to her. Since then, she has hoarded her dollars and change as if she will never see another, passing up trips to Target to select new treasures for her toy box.

In her defense of the events that unfolded this weekend: the lemonade stand was her idea. She did all of the prep work. She spent an extended period of time picking the ripest lemons from our tree. She learned how to make simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar she repeated astutely). She helped me squeeze lemons with only her two hands and a fork (why did I agree to this since we don't have a juicer?). She made a sign with leftover poster paper from one of Maia's recent projects. She helped me move the table to just the right place in the yard, arrange cups, gather a bucket of ice, and determine the best jar to store her earnings. She sat out in the warm sun that only January in Florida provides for over an hour until her first customer arrived. She struggled to stay patient as I explained that hundreds of people would not majestically appear from the air the second that she was ready to receive customers. She stayed committed to her stand for three hours, talking through her shyness to people from the neighborhood that were strangers to her, making change, pouring glasses of lemonade, and hiding from the intense rays of the sun. She worked hard for her earnings and learned that making money doesn't happen without effort.

However, somewhere along the process her older brother and friend from across the street joined her in her endeavor. They kept her company and assisted in the drudge work that accompanies any job. Even though they poured glasses on occasion, it was the fraternity that allowed her to last so long out there in the sun. Yes, they abandoned the project the second I announced that we were closing up shop and did not stay around for all of the clean up that was included, but they offered her support for a decent amount of time.

After clean up commenced, the fun part started: the counting of her loot. She excitedly spread out her treasure on the dining room table, her eyes growing wide as she continued counting and counting and counting. For a few hours in the sun (and mommy's contribution of the cups and the labor), she did pretty well in her first dabble in the world of business.

As she was excitedly shoving bills into her piggy bank I stopped her.

"Don't you think Hunter and Fisher deserve a reward for helping you?"

The look she shot me could have frozen Hell over three times.

From under narrowed eyes and uncompromising fortitude she said, "But it was MY lemonade stand."

I stayed calm sensing the fork in the road. I was walking on thin ice. I didn't want to crush her spirit, but there was an important lesson to be learned.

"Yes," I responded calmly, "it was your lemonade stand. But don't you think you should reward the boys for helping you?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting around the room for help. They landed on a large bag of markers resting on the kitchen table.

"Yes! Of course they deserve a reward. I will give them markers. I have lots of those."

I met eyes with my husband from across the room, and we shared the silent communication that only parents can. We nodded in agreement. This point couldn't be dropped. We have been talking a lot about the Golden Rule in our family over the last year, and we finally had a different REAL example to use to reinforce our point.

I asked her directly how she would feel if she had helped the boys as much as they had helped her and been given only a few used markers. She locked eyes with me--all knowing--and began her concession.

"OK. I will give them each a dollar."

Our stare down continued as I refused to look away from her challenging stare.

"Do you think that is fair? Do you really think that is the best answer? Do you remember what The Golden Rule says??"

Another awkward shift, the slight welling of tears in the back of her eyes as she looked back and forth between me and the stack of dollar bills on the table. And then she sighed and let it go.

"$5. I think $5 dollars would be best."

Mark and I shared smiles as we praised her for thinking about someone more than herself. She didn't even cry or complain as she skipped away to give each of the boys their $5 reward.

I doubt that at seven years old she ever expected that day to serve up more than ice cold glasses of homemade lemonade, but most importantly she served up two ice cold glasses of The Golden Rule. I know it isn't an easy lesson, and I don't want my children to think that they should always expect a reward for helping out a friend or doing the right thing, but I also do want them to learn that they should not only be doing things to benefit themselves. I want them to learn that sometimes, just sometimes, the richest reward is the unexpected act of kindness that they can extend to someone else.