Mom Fail #3,477

I forgot pajama day. I picked my son up from preschool (*yes, we started preschool in January) last week and I watched, horrified, as all the children filed out of the classroom wearing PJ’s. My son came out wearing jeans with torn knees and a batman T-shirt. Now, on the scale of world catastrophe/human suffering/poverty, this ranks low, but when your full-time job is mothering, then missing PJ day at school feels like ultimate failure.

My husband dropped him off at school and neglected to mention it to me, probably because he knew I would have rushed back to school with PJ’s for my son. But instead of telling my son how terrible I felt, that I was an awful mother, and I’d make it up to him by buying him ice cream, I waited to see if he’d mention it. He didn’t. I looked at his little face, scrutinized it for sadness and saw a happy little boy with a construction paper craft dripping with glue in his hand. Phew, deep emotional scars averted. I hoped.

I don’t know if it’s because I used to feel capable and reliable—in my pre-kid days, I mailed notes to friends, called my nieces and nephews on their birthdays, sent out Christmas cards, and brought meals to new moms. But something about having three children has made me the worst friend, housekeeper, wife, neighbor, cook, and Christian person. And it’s not even making me the best mom. I win at nothing. Guilt strangles me at every turn.

I took the kids on a walk in the afternoon, pushing my one year old in the stroller as the other two kids rode far ahead on the sidewalk. I didn’t even feel nervous that they were out of sight because the roads in our city have such wide shoulders.

Moving from Chicago with her narrow lanes, Colorado’s wide roads used to feel strange and unnatural to me, but now I’m thankful for the extra space. As I thought about this, something hit me.

Mothers are gifted with wider roads. We are given the largest margins possible that allow us to veer off the sidewalk and not get run over because of our carelessness. God gives mothers more space.

There are times in life when we will be able to make meals for friends, send Christmas cards with hand-written notes, lead book clubs and groups at church, teach Sunday school, be the room mom, the soccer coach or the friend who watches friend’s kids on a regular basis, but these years when we have tiny kids at home are not those times.

Last year I went to an elaborate Christmas party put on by a friend.

“I wanted to do a party, too, but when I saw you were throwing one, we decided to just come to yours,” I said, embarrassed by my laziness.

She looked at me hard.

“I would have never attempted a party like this when my kids were little like yours,” she said. “I just started doing this last year when my youngest turned eight.”

It’s taken me nearly six years, but I am ready to say yes to support, self-forgiveness, and grace, and no to guilt. I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

And I’m ready to let myself off the hook, put my achievements, abilities, and education in storage for the season, and pat myself on the back for getting dinner made, children clothed, occasionally bathed, and teeth brushed (okay, so my husband mostly does the teeth).

Yes, I forgot PJ day. But if my son reads this one day, I hope he doesn’t hold on to all of my missteps and foibles, but remembers how I read him books, sang him songs, let him “help” make waffles, tickled him relentlessly, danced with him in the kitchen, told him about Jesus, took him to parks and museums, and occasionally even got down on the floor and pretended to be a wolf, tiger or octopus caught in hot lava.

If you are on the other side of this season and see one of us at the grocery store wrangling our one, two, three or more kids in the cart, will you please smile at us? And will you tell us something we really need to hear?

Can you please say, “Mama, you’re doing a GREAT job.”

At any rate, I know God sees me, holds my guilt and smooths my hair like the tender Father he is, whispering as I fall asleep, “I know, honey. I know you feel bad, but I also know you’re doing the best you can. And you know what? That is more than enough.”

***

[*Aside: For those of you thinking, “Wait, I thought they weren’t doing preschool this year” … turns out my very structured little boy didn’t appreciate my free spirited/unstructured/spontaneous ways, and afternoon preschool three days a week during the (theoretical) naptime of the other kids = a (theoretical) break for me. I still follow too many #unschooling moms on Instagram, though, wishing I were that mom … wait, this post was supposed to be about letting go of mom guilt/comparison … and I’m actually off Instagram for Lent, so that helps 😉 ]

 

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

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Mom Fail #3,477. "I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am." --Leslie Verner

When the Answer is “Not Now” {For SheLoves}

 

What about a driving school for Muslim women? My mind buzzes with the possibilities, spinning the details into a feasible plan. I just dropped our Saudi Arabian exchange student off at the international terminal and in the quiet hum of the hour-long interstate ride home, I plan, strategize and dream. Most of the Saudi international student girls I’ve met have a secret desire to learn how to drive since they are not permitted to drive in their country. Likewise, they all complain about the expensive driving schools in the U.S. or about taking private lessons where they have to be alone in a car with a man. We have a spare car, I think. And I could give private lessons and get to know the women at the same time. Perfect …

As I turn the minivan off the interstate at our exit, I hear stirring in the backseat, then arguing, then shrieking. I sigh, smoothing the bunched-up shirt over my ever-growing belly, remembering. Lost in Imaginary Land where I could chase every dream, I had forgotten my reality: two children under four and a baby on the way. I tuck the idea away in the attic of my heart, thinking, If only …

***

Several months later, scrubbing potatoes by the window at the kitchen sink, I watch my elderly neighbor shuffle around in his backyard, shoveling snow. In summer, he and his wife spend hours each day planting, watering, weeding and coaxing incredible beauty out of dry ground. It has always perplexed me, actually, because I’ve never seen anyone else in their yard. It seems like such a waste to sculpt beauty for no one to see.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I think about the notebook I carry around with me that probably has 200 titles of blog posts and ideas to write about. Some of those words will grow, blossom and die without a single other person ever reading them—just a secret thought between God and me. But some will be cut and handed out for others to enjoy (though, like freshly cut flowers, they will likely be forgotten with the next day’s round of blog posts, email newsletters and online journals).

What a waste, I think. But then I begin to wonder …

Is hidden beauty still beautiful?

Continue reading at SheLoves.

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