It’s the Christmas season: a time to bake cookies, watch crappy Hallmark, Lifetime, or ABC Family movies, and stress over Christmas lists, hoping upon hope that I haven’t somehow forgotten someone or something. It’s a season of joy, but a hectic, bustling season, a time when days fly by and to-do lists only get longer, students only get crazier, and pants only get tighter.

Since becoming a parent, Christmas has also been a time when I attempt to steer my family away from the inevitable commercialism and make the holiday about something other than Santa Claus and presents. We try to spend time together, to think carefully about what we can do for others, and to keep the focus on the birth of Christ.

During this season, my adult Sunday school class has been engaged in a study of what Christmas meant to Mary. A couple of weeks ago we spent some time discussing whether we thought Mary really thought of her newborn child as the Son of God, the savior of all mankind. We wondered if she understood what she was signing up for, that she would have to watch her child go through a living hell and eventually die in agony. When did she come to the realization that although she brought him into this world, she could not protect him or stop his suffering?

As the one former Catholic present, the group looked to me to answer their questions about the elevated role of Mary in the Catholic Church. I’m no scholar, so all I could think to say was, “Of all the humans in the Bible- other than Jesus, obviously- she was hand-picked for the most important job there was. She had to give birth to a child and raise him knowing that in the end he wasn’t really hers.” Or something like that- I’m probably improving my wording in hindsight.

As I said it, I realized how true this statement is for all parents. Our children are not ours. Unlike possessions, they cannot be stowed away for safe-keeping, though our greatest wish is to protect them from pain. The life of a mother is a life of fear completely unlike any fear experienced prior to becoming a parent. The fear of what others think of me, the fear of failure, the fear of all the possible things that might cause me physical harm- a vicious dog, a stranger on the street at night, a reckless driver- none of these compare to the fear that at some point my children may be the ones to experience pain or hurt at the hands of another.

From the moment my oldest daughter was born I sought to control her environment and make the best possible choices for her well-being. Breast-feeding as long as possible. Organic baby food. A consistent schedule. As she grew, I struggled (and still do) to enforce discipline so that she would learn healthy boundaries and have positive social interactions. I encourage creative play, limit screen time, moved her to a new pre-school that I thought would better suit her precocious nature. I’m attempting to follow suit with her sister, though let’s be honest, the second one has it a little better than the first.

But when it comes down to it, as much as the thought terrifies me, there is only so much about my daughters’ lives that I can control. Today happens to be the anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. The mothers of those twenty little boys and girls probably had done everything in their power to bring their children up to be healthy, polite, smart. Perhaps, at this time of year two years ago, these parents were even struggling with some of the same holiday-related issues that I am having: Why does inundating my children with presents have to be what makes Christmas “magical”? How can I get them to think of others? How can I make it special for them without losing sight of what Christmas is actually celebrating?

We can agonize over every choice we make that deals with our children. We can, and should, take precautions to teach them how to keep themselves healthy and safe. But our children are not ours. In Sandy Hook, these parents’ beloved babies were senselessly ripped from them in an event that none of them could have foreseen or stopped.  Even if we get to keep our children and watch them grow into adults, we are going to see them hurt. Despite our fear and watchfulness they will fall down stairs, burn their fingers on the stove, have choking scares with food that we could have sworn we cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Other kids will be mean to them. At some point they will feel that they aren’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough. They will get their hearts broken. They will move away from home and call us when their car breaks down or their purse gets stolen or they didn’t get the job they really really wanted.

The lesson I need to learn from all of this is that while I make dozens of parenting decisions each day, the most important questions are these: Was I present for my children today?  When I go to bed tonight, can I at least say “I did my best”? If an unthinkable tragedy were to befall our family tomorrow, could I find peace in the thought that my children knew I loved them, not from the foods I put in their lunch or what time I put them to bed, but from my words and actions?

Christmas is no doubt a time of miracles, when angels speak to the lowliest among us and the world’s greatest king comes in the form of a baby boy. But for me there is also the miracle of time spent with my children, my greatest gifts, and that is a miracle that I will try to treasure fully, without letting fear or worry get in the way.

Photo Credit: http://www.newsweek.com/dont-forget-children-massacred-sandy-hook-290250

To My Daughters:

In a few days it will be Thanksgiving. In school, daycare, and church you have been reading stories about turkeys, crafting cornucopias, and making lists of all the things you are grateful for. On the wall in one of your classrooms is a brainstorm chart that reads: my bed, my room, the food I eat, my mommy, my daddy, my teachers. You are told to think of all the people you love and things you are lucky to have. I’m doing the same thing.

What am I thankful for? Obviously I’m thankful for both of you, and the brother or sister that you’ll get to meet in the spring. But it’s not enough to stop there, because being your mom has made me more grateful than any other experience possibly could. It has amplified my appreciation of everything. Let me try to explain what I mean:

I was thankful the minute I knew about you. It was so hard to believe that I could have been granted such a gift that I often found myself anxious without knowing why, counting the days until the next doctor’s appointment just to prove that you were still there. When I heard your little heartbeats I could breathe easier for a while. Sometimes when the worry set in I would prop my feet up and eat gummy worms, just to wake you up and feel you kicking.

I was thankful when you were born and you were just fine, much better than fine, the images of perfection. I was thankful to bundle you into your carseat for the very first time and introduce you ceremoniously into our home and family, making you officially ours.

I have been so thankful to watch you grow and learn, from first smiles and laughs to first steps, first words, even first tantrums. Every day, in some way, you bring joy into my life. You make me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times without knowing what you said that was so funny. You are amazing. You are awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. I am awed by your beauty and brilliance. I have been since day one, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

I am thankful for you because I get to watch my husband be your dad. I watch him pick you up and make you squeal. I listen to him read to you, sing to you, and try to coax you into your pajamas. I hear your delighted cries of “Daddy, daddy, daddy!” and I couldn’t be more thankful that you get to grow up with a dad as proud and loving as he is.

I am thankful that you have each other. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the two of you playing together. I love to sneak up and spy on you as you hide behind the crib and “read” each other books, or chase the dog, or try to do somersaults.
I am so grateful that you will always have one another.

I am thankful for every single person involved in raising you, every person who loves you or has helped me when I needed help taking care of you. The list is long. I am thankful because I want to be with you all the time and when I can’t be, I know that you are in good hands, and my mind is at ease.

I am thankful for all that you have taught me. As your mom, I have learned how to be patient, creative, efficient with my time. You have taught me that splashing in puddles during a rainstorm really is more fun than sitting inside by the TV. I have had to sort through and reexamine my beliefs and priorities as I’ve realized that everything I say or do, every decision I make, may impact who you both become. Consequently, I know more about myself now than I did before I was your mom.

I thank you for giving me the experience of motherhood, for helping me join a community of wise, brave, exhausted women with whom I can connect and empathize. Because admit it, darlings, you can be rough on your mama, and sometimes I just need someone to tell me that they get it and you will inevitably grow out of whatever stage is driving me bananas.

Honestly, I am an ooey-gooey, rain-boot-worthy puddle of gratitude. You made me that way, and even though a couple of hours ago you were both screaming your heads off for a reason that only you know (or perhaps you don’t), I wouldn’t want to be any other way.

This past Friday was declared the 2nd Annual You Day at the school where I work. On this day, students and faculty are asked to bring in props and dress in clothing that represents who they are, then have their picture taken for the yearbook. Last year, for the inaugural You Day, I was totally game. I strapped on a Baby Bjorn, stuck a baby doll in the front, and with a shrug showcased a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in one hand and a copy of A Tale of Two Cities in the other. There I was: a disheveled but happy mom making things work with the consumption of caffeine and even making time to cultivate my love of literature.

This year, the task of choosing how to stage my picture was much more difficult. I haven’t changed in any major way since this time last year, and as a chronic over-thinker I couldn’t bring myself to just replicate what I did the first time around. I racked my brain: What are my hobbies and interests? What do I do for fun? To relax?

Here’s what I came up with: Well, I used to write. I blog maybe once every few months. Does that still count? But do I want to have to explain to students what type of writing I do? What if they Google me? Ok, so, other hobbies… I used to be pretty into yoga. I haven’t been to a class in over four months, but once in a while I set my alarm fifteen minutes early and sit on my mat to stretch. Sometimes, when both of my kids are screaming, I take deep cleansing breaths to keep myself from joining in. Yoga is totally one of my hobbies. What else? I really love wine, but as a pregnant lady that might send the wrong message. Oh, and obviously they’re not going to publish a picture of me pretend-guzzling a bottle of Old Vine Zin next to pictures of twelve and thirteen-year-olds brandishing Minecraft swords and inexplicably wearing cat ears. Seriously though, what do I do for fun? Can I bring in a couch and get my picture taken sprawled on it with my eyes half open as I try to stay awake long enough to find out who the Bachelorette is going to eliminate next? 

In the end I opted for a Syracuse basketball Final Four shirt, a travel guide to Europe, and my passport, despite the fact that I only watch basketball during March Madness and the last time I was in Europe was ten years ago. So in a way, a day that was supposed to be about celebrating all the various talents and interests that make me who I am became something else entirely. It made me even more aware of how I should have posed for my picture: wearing a sweater streaked with toddler snot, toting a giant bag full of work to grade, and clutching my iPhone, my outlet to stay in touch with other people who have some sense of where I’m coming from when I need to vent about this wonderful, stressful, joyful, maddening life of mine.

I love my family and I love my job, but can they and will they define me entirely? Is a hobby even a possibility that will fit onto the already loaded plate I am carrying? I know parents who do manage to maintain serious extra-curriculars, but there must be some give somewhere. Maybe they can’t always sit down for dinner with their families. Maybe they’re content with getting only six hours or less of sleep every night. Maybe they don’t collapse onto the couch as soon as the kids are asleep. Or maybe they just have jobs that don’t require hours and hours of work outside of the “office”.

There are things I really want to do: learn more about photography, try out rock-climbing, take some kick-ass vacations, with and without the kids. But if I beat myself up about not having enough time or energy or willpower to pursue these interests, that’ll be just one more thing I’m beating myself up about, and what mom needs that? Maybe in ten or twenty years I’ll have some really cool past-time to show and tell, but I think next year, instead of stressing, I’ll just hold up a sign that says, “I have 123 kids: 3 at home, 120 at school. I love them all. I do my best. What more can I do?”  

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Miraculously, both of my children are taking naps. I have a good 9-inch stack of papers to grade in my school bag, lessons to plan, household tasks that keep inching their way down to the bottom of my to-do list. At twelve weeks pregnant, I could really use a nap myself. But I’ve made the decision, six-weeks-plus after my last post, to sit down and focus on this one thing among many that I’ve been meaning to do. 

How can I be thinking of the next thing when these faces are looking back at me?

 

This girl knows a thing or two about living in the moment.

I hate politics. I teach Social Studies, and I really do want my students to have interesting discussions about relevant current topics, but when seventh graders start talking politics, I’m done. It’s too depressing to hear twelve and thirteen-year-olds, who most likely lack the maturity to formulate their own political beliefs, make bold declarations, repeating with absolute conviction what they read on Facebook or heard at the dinner table. If you’re going to argue about politics, I tell them, check your sources. Make sure you have credible information. Don’t believe everything you hear.

I hate politics because it is a source of division and anger; I seek cohesion and avoid conflict. I hate politics because so many people are so fanatical about it, whereas my nature is to find the kernel of truth and reason on both sides of an issue rather than to claim categorically that my side is “right”. Most of all, I hate it because it has turned me cynical. Who can feel good about showing up at the polls to vote for what they see as the lesser of two evils? There’s something terribly wrong with the position in which the current political system has placed moderate voters like me.

But what does any of this have to do with parenting?

As a mother, I think frequently about the type of world I want my daughters to inhabit, the types of experiences I want them to have, the type of people I want them to be. Since becoming a parent, my politics have changed. What I want for my children doesn’t fit onto one side of a political T-chart.

I hope they will be compassionate and without judgment toward others who need assistance with food, shelter, or employment.  I hope that they will tread softly on our earth and seek ways to protect it. As Christians, I hope that they will show kindness and acceptance to all people. I hope that they will spend their money responsibly, never taking on debt that they will have to struggle to repay. I pray that, whoever my precious girls become, their country will continue to protect their pursuit of happiness.

I am trying my hardest to teach my children to listen more than they talk and value compromise over being “right”. I want them to know that changing their position on an issue is not a sign of weakness, provided that their change of heart is genuine and based on careful examination of different points of view. I want them to speak up in the face of injustice, even if it makes them unpopular. In short, I want them to be the kind of people who I could vote for with a little bit of idealism in my heart that maybe, just maybe, the future really is going to be brighter.

When it comes to being a mom, the loving and being there for my kids is definitely the easiest part of the deal. It’s all the other stuff, the “extracurriculars”, if you will, that make me feel like I suck.

I grew up in a generation when moms were superheroes. At least mine was. She sewed Halloween costumes and torn pants, made ridiculously good (but not at all good for you) meat loaf and apple pie. She volunteered to be class parent and leader of the Girl Scout troop. She would French braid my hair, even though I complained the entire time about how much it hurt. My mom made homemade play dough and served my friends and I Kool-Aid and popsicles as we lounged on the lawn next to our bicycles. In my house, the cookie jar was always full. Breakfast was almost always a sit-down meal, and cooked to order. She worked the evening shift at the hospital, but when my sisters and I got home after school there was almost always a note with some important detail she needed to impart to us, Love MOM.

Then there’s my husband’s mom, special ed teacher, gardener, expert quilter and scrapbooker, crafter extraordinaire, queen of the casserole, home decorator for all holidays. If I need a pair of pants hemmed I take them to her house. There is very little this woman cannot do.

And then there’s me.

Sewing skills: Maybe a button. Maybe.

Cooking skills: I can follow the recipe on the side of the Barilla lasagna box. Baking generally leaves me disappointed and close to tears. I have recently decided that making my own whipped cream is about as fancy as I will ever get, and I think I only do it to give myself a confidence boost- at least something is homemade!

Volunteering: I’ll leave that to the moms who don’t work full-time, thank you very much.

Crafting: Rare.

Hair Braiding: Every time I try, Maggie rips it out screaming, “It’s not good!” So that doesn’t help my self-esteem.

Home Decorating: My home is “decorated” with random items strewn throughout the house. Currently my bedroom is “decorated” with singing animals, bath toys, a battery-operated guitar shaped like a dog, and a handful of cotton balls.

I want to be a multi-talented, old-timey mom – and I hope the two fantastic women I’ve mentioned don’t take that term personally. It would be awesome if I could throw my daughter a birthday party that looked like it came straight out of Pinterest, or if I didn’t have to troll the picked-over aisles of every store in town for an Elsa Halloween costume, or if I could have an edible dinner on the table each evening when my husband gets home from work. I’m sure, if I could do those things, I would feel very accomplished- and probably even more exhausted and overwhelmed than I already am.

Matt and I grew up with moms that made it look effortless, which gave moms of my generation the unrealistic impression that it should be. So you know what I have to say about your mouthwatering recipes, your sewing machines, and your cute holiday decor? You can keep them… for about fifteen or twenty years, until I have enough time to become a super-woman too. Then you can send them on along my way.

I often wonder if everyone suffers from nostalgia to the same degree that I do.

I don’t know what it is about me and the past. For some reason I have a difficult time letting go of people, places, periods of my life. I don’t like to admit that certain friendships or experiences are over. “Over” just seems so final.

With every transition in my life – from my childhood in upstate New York to Trinity College in Connecticut to my post-graduate life in St. Louis, and finally to Anderson, South Carolina – I left behind people that I had at one point laughed with, confided in, leaned on. High school teammates. College roommates. Colleagues. It wasn’t necessarily anyone’s fault that we eventually lost touch, and let’s face it, who really has room in their life for EVERY person they have ever cared about? It isn’t realistic. In fact, it’s kind of insane.

The thing is, my memories, though they may be slightly rose-colored by nostalgia, are attached to people, and I hate feeling as if they lose some of their joy because the co-stars of those memories are no longer in my life. Memorizing the security code to one of the fraternity houses so we could let ourselves into their kitchen after-hours. Workshopping poems while eating apples from our professor’s orchard. Living in a communist-era dormitory in Prague and learning how to navigate the language, the city, the culture. Singing karaoke. A lot of karaoke. (Because Lord knows it’s no fun to sing “I Would Do Anything for Love” alone.) Teaching on a team in which every other member was old enough to be my parent but none too old to be my friend.

Back in 2006 I was teaching part-time at John Burroughs, an independent school in St. Louis. One of the amazing things about this school was that it included a wilderness campus in the Ozarks, used for team-building as well as for science classes. As a first-year teacher I was sent away on the 7th-grade orientation trip and assigned a small group of 7th-graders to take out on “Solo”.  Students were placed at intervals along a trail in the woods, and they would wait, by themselves (hence the name), for night to fall. After four hours or so in the freezing Ozark night a teacher would collect them and march them to the lodge to be rewarded for their bravery with hot chocolate and a fire. This was a rite of passage at Burroughs, an opportunity for the initiate class to face their fears and, hopefully, find some time to reflect and meditate.

As group leader I could choose whether I wanted to return to camp, checking on my students periodically, or conceal myself in the woods nearby, just in case anyone had a major panic attack. I chose the latter, partly because I wanted to see for myself what these kids were experiencing. I couldn’t imagine being asked to do this at the age of twelve, but as an adult I could see the value in taking on such a challenge. I, too, would go solo.

The dark was bad. The cold was worse. Every so often I checked my watch, sure that it would be time to take the kids back to the lodge, but time didn’t pass the same way in the woods as it did in civilization. So, to survive my own Solo, I made up a game. I would think about people I cared about, some of whom were currently in my life, some with whom I had already lost contact, and they would keep me warm. The friend I worked with at the pizzeria who cooked me his own creations during our shift because I needed “to put some meat on my bones.” The guy in college who I thought might be a love interest but ended up just being really, really nice. I visited him in his hometown once and we ate chicken patties with his dad while watching Jeopardy, then I drove back home without him ever trying anything. I thought about friends who would talk me through my problems until the sun came up. I thought about my sisters, who both went to Boston College and made sure, when I visited, to tell every guy we encountered how old I was: “This is my sister. She’s sixteen.”

It sounds weird, I know- fuzzy memory bubbles radiating light and heat – but I swear to God it worked. I wasn’t shivering anymore; my fingers and toes weren’t going numb. These past friends and acquaintances, many of whom would probably have never guessed they made the list, kept the cold at bay.

I would name all of them if I wasn’t a coward. It’s just that I don’t want to be that weird girl (strange that I still can’t bring myself to write “woman”) who somebody knew five, ten, fifteen years ago who randomly gets in touch and says, “You know what? You mattered to me, even if it was in some tiny, mundane way.” I don’t want to be someone who tries too hard to rekindle friendships that fizzled out long ago. I don’t want to look desperate, overcome by nostalgia, caught up in a past that no longer exists.

I guess the next best thing is to start now, to let there be no question – in my work relationships, my friendships, my family, my marriage – when somebody is making a difference in my life, making it better. Maybe if I take care of that business in the present, I’ll no longer need nostalgia.

So, on that note, if you are reading this, if you have supported this little passion of mine, thank you for being supportive. Thank you for helping me stay warm. You matter. Thank you.

Is it just me, or is being a parent eerily similar to being stalked?

Seriously, think about it. The loss of privacy is staggering: in my own home, there is no guarantee that I will be able to use the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, or sleep without some tiny person barging in and either a) interrogating me about what is taking place, b) attempting to join me, or c) inexplicably crying. There are people pulling my dirty laundry out of my hamper. Wearing my underwear around their necks. Going through my garbage. It’s enough to make a person paranoid.

I’m reminded of a conversation I had with an old friend several years ago. We were catching up on each other’s lives, and he had recently moved in with his girlfriend. “How’s that going?” I asked. “It’s okay,” he replied. Then, after a pause, he continued. “It’s just that… she’s always there, you know?” Needless to say, the relationship did not last.

Obviously breaking up with my kids is not an option, nor is reporting their repeated violations of my privacy to the authorities, but I have to admit, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I’m being held hostage in my own home by two people whose greatest weapons are their lung capacity and their superhuman ability to resist my will.  Most days I feel like I work my butt off trying to create a scenario in which I will have two minutes to myself. (Oh, and remember how I used to want to stay at home? That notion is more hilarious to me with every passing summer day.)

Here’s the other thing about having no privacy: My children are watching and learning during every second that we spend together. My three-and-a-half-year-old retains EVERYTHING. Anything I do or say may be repeated to friends, teachers, or other acquaintances, and most likely taken completely out of context. No moment of the day is off the table, from putting on my makeup in the morning (“What’s this?” “Mascara.” “Why you wear it?” “To make my eyelashes darker.” “Why?” “Because I just like them that way!”) to every ounce of food or drink I choose to ingest. I find myself sneaking candy to hide it from her rather than deal with explaining why mommy can have half a bag of gummy bears when I wouldn’t think of letting her do the same thing. And if she walks in on me during my attempt, I invariably end up giving her a couple because I look and feel so guilty.

I try to put a positive spin on it by telling myself that my kids’ omnipresence makes me more accountable as a person and a parent. I think, a day will come when they will be independent and won’t want to follow their mom around like ravenous puppy dogs, and when that day comes I’ll miss that feeling of being constantly needed, of having children hanging from my clothes and threatening to pants me every time I’m wearing a garment without a button or drawstring. Or I simply cheer myself up with the notion of waiting ten years and getting revenge, because after a decade of learning how to sneak away from them, I am going to be a boss at sneaking up and embarrassing the crap out of them.

When my daughter Maggie was only three or four months old, my husband and I decided that “sassy” was an apt adjective to describe her personality. She didn’t smile easily, viewing all grown-ups other than her parents with unconcealed suspicion. And I know it sounds strange, but even as a baby she seemed to have a sense of humor, carefully watching those around her, picking up on what we thought was funny and then performing with an almost deadpan expression to see what our reactions would be. She wasn’t sweet or cuddly; she didn’t like bows and dresses. She wanted to sit on the couch with a pile of books and take in every page, or spend an hour working on a puzzle that children two or three years older would have found difficult. She was (and is) our smart, sassy little girl.

Within weeks of Cecilia’s birth we could already distinguish differences in temperament. When Ceci woke at night she didn’t cry, but would lay cooing in her crib until I went in to feed her. “She’s such an easy baby,” I marveled. Where Maggie had glowered at or quietly observed well-meaning strangers, Ceci grinned at them. She was such an agreeable child that we soon realized we could use her mood as a tool for diagnosing illness. If Ceci wasn’t happy, off to the doctor we went to get treated for an ear infection or some other ailment. It seemed like sickness was the only thing that could wipe the angelic smile from her face, and often she smiled right through it.

These comparisons between my daughters went on for some time: one smart and sassy, one sweet and easy. I had summed up my children in just a couple of words each – how efficient!

On the eve of her first birthday, though, Ceci is refusing to stay true to the image I have created for her. There is more fussing, more complaining, more throwing of food and drink as she decides that she has preferences and a will of her own. Maggie, meanwhile, has become an open and friendly little girl. She makes friends on the playground and shows her “cowgirl boots” to everyone we pass in the grocery store. These developments remind me that as hard as I try, my children will not allow me to define them.

Let me, however, make something very clear. I do not wish to dictate who my children will one day become. There are parents out there who decide when their child is very small, “She will be a doctor,” or “He will be a football player,” but I assure you, that isn’t me. They could be rodeo clowns or spokesmodels or professional hula hoopers as long as they are happy (and making a living). No, the reason why I constantly attempt to encapsulate who they are and what they’re about is because I’m dying to know more about these incredible little humans who have been gifted to my care.

That’s it – I’m curious. I can’t wait to see if Maggie’s love of music will bring her into theater. It isn’t a stretch to imagine her singing and dancing her heart out in front of a large audience. Will her love of books lead to academic excellence, or will she be one of those readers whose head is in the clouds all day long? Will she be an athlete? A dancer? A martial artist? And at what point do I have to step in and take a role in steering her toward some of these possibilities?

(Clearly all of these questions apply for Cecilia as well, but since her interests at this point are confined to playing with Tupperware, tipping over her dog’s water bowl, and repeatedly putting on necklaces and taking them off, I don’t have as much to go on.)

Each time I learned I was pregnant, my husband and I decided not to find out the gender of the baby. “There are so few surprises in life,” was the line we used to explain our reasoning. To be honest, those two moments when the doctor announced, “It’s a girl!” are probably going to be the least surprising moments of our daughters lives. Every day I get to know them better, but I will never know everything there is to know about them. Some surprises will be welcome, others, I’m sure, less so. But as eager as I am to see what the future holds for my children, I wouldn’t get into a time machine for a glimpse of what’s to come. Not for a million dollars, though I’d be tempted. Because it’s the process that’s important, and I want to be there when it all unfolds. A lifetime of revelation- what’s not to love about that?

My girls, my mysteries. Who will these kiddos be?

Last night a pipe at the local water system plant burst, causing our household and much of Anderson to be without water for about fourteen hours.

Luckily we had plenty of bottled water and a couple of gallons of distilled water on hand, so I wasn’t terribly worried about it. The powers that be would eventually get the water running and life would return to normal. The water shortage really only affected us from the time I woke up around 7:30 until noon, when our taps finally began to work again. We remain under a boil water advisory, but that isn’t nearly as alarming as not being able to flush the toilet. However, during the course of the morning I thought multiple times about the implications of this incident.

Mainly I realized how bitchy a lot of my posts would sound to someone outside of America. I’m complaining about how my daughter only wants to wear two of the twenty-five dresses in her closet, and how I’m just not as “fun” as I used to be, and how my house is too messy. Really? When there are moms and dads out there trying to parent without running water? And probably without disposable diapers? If my children didn’t have this basic necessity my life would be a million times more inconvenient than I think it is now, and I wouldn’t mind a bit; who worries about inconvenience when they are focused on keeping their family alive?

How much I take for granted. After less than five hours of catching myself in the process of trying to wash a dish or rinse off my toothbrush (and spending a portion of those hours swimming in my full pool), I am shamed and humbled. Being a mom is hard no matter what culture you’re in, but we live in a country where, for the majority of people, the most important element of life on earth flows freely at the twist of a faucet. At least we’ve got that much covered- everything else is just details.