Tag: being present

Resolutions

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The tradition of making New Year’s resolutions is almost as interesting as the tradition of breaking them a few weeks down the road. Somehow, we think that just because the calendar turns to a new month that ends in a new number, we should somehow change. We believe if we make significant changes in our behavior that our lives and our year will be different and better.

On New Years Day, we take on the challenge to change our lives all at once. We decide to lose weight, to work out, to eat healthier, and to live happier by reaching out to the less fortunate and changing our attitude. Really? And we wonder why we give up a week (or two… or four…) in.

Life change is an on-going process. It’s called growth, and growth is something that is constant and continuing until the day we die, regardless of our contribution to the process. While we have the option to make choices to help steer our growth in a positive direction, it is never advisable to make changes in all aspects of life at once. Unless we want to fail. If one truly wants to lose weight or get in shape or be more altruistic, one would do so regardless of whether the calendar changed.

In 2014, my greatest growth came not from changes I made, but from my choice to grow from the situations in which I found myself. Through these situations, I experienced one of the most important epiphanies of my life as a single parent, and consequently, I was able to release one of the long-standing stresses I have had. This growth is not something I could have predicted on January 1st, but will change my approach to similar situations in the future.

My resolution for 2015 is one that was originally made 17 years ago, and is one that I am still working on. Before my son was born, I resolved to be the best mom I could be, and I am forever working on this resolution as I define and redefine what it means to be “the best mom I can be.” My definition is different for teenagers than it was for toddlers, and what they need from me also transforms and evolves. My life as a single mom poses challenges that are neither constant nor predictable. But by striving to be the best that I can be in the situations that arise, I am making a promise—to myself and to my children—that I will be a presence that they can rely on and a role model that they might choose to follow.

And so I continue to work toward my goal on my journey as a parent. But I know I must do so one day at a time. January 1 represents a new day, 24 hours in which I can work on my goal to be the best I can be.

Carhops

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“I want to eat French fried mushrooms from A&W,” I announced, responding to a sudden craving I had. I was driving with my two younger children to complete some last minute holiday errands. The food item was one I experienced in my childhood, and one that I sometimes crave simply because it is no longer available.

“A&W… isn’t that beer?” my daughter asked.

“It’s root beer,” my youngest corrected from the back seat.

“And yummy root beer, at that,” I said. “You can still get the root beer, but sadly, the A&W is closed.” I allowed my mind to wander for a minute, reminiscing on the taste of fried mushrooms delivered on a tray to the car window on a warm summer night. “We would pull in and park, and they would come take our order and serve us right at the car.”

“So it was a drive-thru?” my daughter asked.

“Not a drive-thru like today. It was a drive-in restaurant. I don’t think many exist any more. We would go there and park and stay in our car. The waitress would come to the car window to take our order, and they would bring the food on a tray with hooks on it. Grampa would roll down his window most of the way, and they would hook the tray to the car window.”

“Is it still there?” my daughter asked.

“The A&W? The building is still there, but now it’s a pizzeria. No more carhops or window trays. I suppose you could eat in your car if you really wanted, but it wouldn’t be the same.” I remembered many summer nights when we would go to the A&W; I thought of the foil coated burger wrappers and the times we ended up eating next to a family we knew. When we were really young, my mother would spread a striped sheet on the seat of the car so that my sister and I wouldn’t spill our food and stain the seat.

When we returned home from our errands, I googled “car hop.” I came across pictures of the trays with the rubber-coated hooks and feet. There was even a frosty mug of A&W root beer on a tray that was hooked on a car window. You can even purchase one of these trays on eBay! Yes, it would be fun to share this experience with my children, but drive-in restaurants are a thing of the past. Our summers are too short for such a business to succeed these days. And drive-thru restaurants are quicker and more convenient than drive-in restaurants.

I sometimes think about the many experiences I had in my childhood that my children are not likely to have. I wonder what we are currently experiencing that my grandchildren will not. And I wonder what they will experience that we have not dreamt of yet. I hope their experiences will be fun and positive and worth remembering, experiences of their own “simpler times” when people gathered together to be present and to enjoy the company of friends and family.

Joseph

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Christmas is over, but my reflection on Christmas is not. This year, I have been drawn to a particular song and the story it tells; the song, “A strange way to save the world” by the group 4-Him, is told from the point of view of Joseph as he finds himself in the unlikely position of being in the stable in Bethlehem, staring into the face of Jesus. He wonders how he ended up here, and why God is using a mere baby to save the world.

We don’t often think about Joseph when we think about the Christmas story. He was not directly involved in the miracle of Christmas… or was he? He certainly had an opportunity to say no. He could have told Mary that because she was pregnant, he was no longer interested. Or he might have said he didn’t particularly want to raise someone else’s child, Son of God or not. He could have walked away and been free of the responsibility that God was asking him to take on.

But he didn’t.

First, he accepted that the child Mary was carrying was the Son of God, acceptance that was a miracle in itself (though the angels may have helped to sway him). Second, he agreed to raise this child as his own, to provide for the boy to the best of his ability. Third, he accepted the challenges that would arise in raising the Son of God. (“Jesus, you have got to stop walking on the lake! Bobby nearly drown yesterday because he can’t swim. His parents are furious…!”) Most importantly, he accepted that he would take a backseat to the child and to Mary, who figured prominently in our historical accounts of Jesus’s life. Joseph was a behind-the-scenes figure in this story.

When God said, “Joseph, will you…,” Joseph stepped up. And then he stepped into the background. The shepherds came and went. The Wise Men brought gifts and disappeared. Joseph remained constant, but we hear little about him.

No doubt, this situation was not what Joseph was expecting for his life. He was expecting to get married to the woman he loved. He was expecting to lead a quiet life with no fanfare and little drama; yet suddenly, he found himself with the heavy burden of supporting a child, raising the Son of God. What faith he demonstrated in accepting this challenge!

As we move through life, we should strive to be more like Joseph. We should strive to have the faith to accept the challenges that God throws our way. Joseph did not say, “I’m sorry, that doesn’t fit into my plan.” He didn’t reject the inconvenience of having a bride and a baby that wasn’t his. He realized that since God had chosen him, God would provide the tools to help him complete the job. He accepted God’s plan with all of its uncertainties and inconveniences, and he stepped out of the way to let God work through him.

Snowmen

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Each year at this time, an army of snowman cookies arrives at my house. Uh, wait… let me start over.

Each year at this time, through a great deal of effort on my part, an army of snowmen arrives at my house. This year, I tried to gain support for the cause. On Sunday morning, I looked at W sitting on the couch surfing the Internet on the iPad. “Hey W,” I watched him intently. He looked up. “Do you like to make little balls out of clay?” I asked with a tone that implied I had something exciting in store for him.

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow before he sighed with a hint of disgust. “Do you want help with your snowmen?” Yep, he was on to me. Every year, I try the same tactic.

I nodded too fast, like an excited puppy. “Yeah! You wanna help?”

“Not really,” he replied as he returned to the iPad. I went to the kitchen, hauled out the bowl full of dough, and began to roll it into balls. Tiny balls. Actually, three different sizes per snowman. These cookies are labor intensive, but they are the local favorite—in my house, in my neighborhood, and among my family. The fact that they have been a favorite is why I have continued to make them. Every year. For seventeen years.

It wasn’t long before I had an army of little snowmen on my kitchen table. And taste-testers hovering. My daughter had her first bite. “I think we should keep them all this year. We give away too many.” This thought was one that would never fly with my neighbor who believes I make these cookies specifically for her and then withhold all but a small number.

I turned to Facebook with this thought. To my neighbor I posted, “My taste-tester just tried a snowman and says we need to keep them all this year.” The reply: a resounding “NO!” and the annual “war of the snowmen” had begun.

At least daily, I receive a text, Facebook message, phone call, or an in-person assault. “Where are my snowmen?!” And daily, I have to deliver the difficult news that they are still naked, they have to stick together for their “army” training, or they have not yet said good-bye to their friends. (Really, I’m stalling while I make other cookies to “fluff up” the plate). Soon, my neighbor on the other side adds her two cents in anticipation of receipt of her yummy snowmen.

These little snowmen have evolved over the years. Initially, they were simply a part of my cookie tradition. But through the annual battle, these cookies have taken on a life of their own. They add extra fun to the holidays in my neighborhood, and they bring us together each year. I imagine I will continue to make them for another seventeen years. And I wonder how the tradition will evolve from here.

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Mornings

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It was crazy in our house this morning. On a Monday, waking up does not happen quickly, so I do what I can to fuel the flow of energy. This morning, as I made sandwiches and packed lunches, I made up a song about cheese. Yes, cheese. I dubbed it The single most boring song on the planet because all of the “rhyming” words were the same word—cheese. The cat didn’t seem to mind the song, but my younger son did his best to ignore me in our cramped kitchen. The other two children sleepily stumbled downstairs, my oldest stared blankly into the open refrigerator as teenagers so often do.

“I know!” I said, in an effort to spark conversation (or shock the Monday morning right out of them). “I think we should live a musical! From now on, we should sing everything!”

“Yeah,” C replied dismissively, shutting the fridge. “I’m not coming home anymore.”

“Well…. I’ll come home,” my daughter piped up. “But I’m not participating.”

“Oh….” I drew the word out long and slow. “You’ll participate.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t, Mom,” she said as she popped two pieces of cinnamon bread into the toaster.

“I’m pretty sure you will,” I retorted.

“Whatever.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” I continued on my train of thought, daring someone to derail it. “We would just break out into song whenever we had something to say!” I broke out into song here in demonstration.

“Ugh!” I heard from the vicinity of the kitchen table. I put a sandwich in a lunch box and zipped up the top. I turned back to the sink to put spaghetti into a thermos.

C came walking through the kitchen with his backpack, whistling loudly. “Stop!” my daughter commanded. “That’s loud and piercing.”

C stopped in his tracks, feigning a look of shocked innocence. “What? I thought we were in a musical!”

I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself—his timing was perfect! If we had been keeping score, he would have been declared the winner, though my daughter would not have admitted it. But we were not keeping score. In fact, we all won. We all left the house wide awake, a little happier, and perhaps just a little sillier.

Layers

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My daughter sits across the table, playing a cutthroat game of Connect 4 with my boyfriend. The competition between them is (playfully) fierce, and she is adamant that I not give him hints. Doing so would somehow constitute cheating, despite the fact that I am not a player in this particular game.

She arranges and rearranges the game pieces, jokingly scolding me when I even so much as look like I am going to help him with his next move. She knows that I am perceptive, and that somehow, most likely because I am her mother, I am able to anticipate her next move.

I find myself watching her with fascination. Her interaction has an ease and comfort to it. She laughs. She tries to trick him, and he laughs. She manipulates the pieces, looks up as though she is hiding something, and in the next moment, she is deep in thought. She is complicated and multi-dimensional, and watching her (and her brothers) grow throughout her life has given me insight into people—and their layers—that I might not have otherwise gotten. I know that she has grown this way by piling experience on top of interaction on top of practice and more experience. It is not a simple thing to create such a complex individual.

Recently, she and I took an art class in fused glass. We chose brightly colored pieces of glass, piled them on top of each other in a way that looked appealing, and sent them off to the kiln. The pieces came back smooth and beautiful, the layers had melted together and become inextricably combined. This process is much like what has occurred in my children as the incidents and experiences, both good and bad, have combined to make them who they are. Each of my children is multi-layered in his or her own way. The ways in which they navigate the world, the relationships, the simple moments of every day life make me marvel at all of the things each of them has learned. Even when they were little, I would watch—from across the table or across the room—as they worked on a craft project, a game, homework, etc.

I watch my daughter now, and in my mind, I trace the lines of her face, comparing the lines and expressions to what they were a decade ago… a year ago… yesterday. I memorize these same lines and expressions for tomorrow. This face, this moment, is fleeting, and I want to hold it in my head, a snapshot for the future. This is today, right now, and I want to be present in this moment.