Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Children & motherhood

Henceforth, my birthday will NOT occur during finals week

And while we’re at it, I’d like to move Mother’s Day to August.

That said, I was intending to go in an entirely different direction with this post. It was all about me: how I hate that my birthday is often overlooked in our house because of finals, papers or, in the past, Army trainings/deployments; how the same is true of Mother’s Day because it also falls during finals week; how poor, poor me was in tears on my birthday and feeling unloved on Mother’s Day.

Then a delivery man brought this to my door:

(The instructions said to consume immediately. Who was I to argue? Especially concerning those chocolate-dipped apple slices.)

And I received a belated birthday card that made me smile.

And even though I’ve had a rough week, and I really did cry on my birthday and nearly told my husband off on Mother’s Day, my heart wasn’t in the post that I was writing.

It was ungrateful, selfish and truly pitiful. Even I wouldn’t have read it.

So let me tell you what I’ve learned this week:

  • Birthdays are just another day. I used to get upset at my dad for feeling this way about his birthday, but I sort of get it now. Yes, May 4 is the anniversary of the day I was born, and no, we can’t always celebrate it on that day. Does that mean my birthday has no meaning? That we can’t celebrate it at all? Nope. May 18 is the rescheduled day of my birth this year. My husband will prepare my pre-selected menu of meals that day, and I hope, have had time to buy me something nice. (Phil, if you’re reading this, you’ve gotten the hint, now get back to writing those papers!)
  • The postal service has not outlived its usefulness yet. At least, not in my book. More than 100 people posted a birthday greeting on my wall. (If you were one of them, thank you for that!) I also received a couple of e-mail greetings/cards. For me, though, there’s nothing like getting a card in the mail on your birthday. Some people see that as a waste of money, and if that’s your view, that’s fine. But let me tell you this story: my grandmother paid $18 in postage to ensure that my birthday card arrived ON my birthday. Extravagant? Perhaps. But love makes you do crazy things sometimes. I am resolved to try harder to send cards in the mail for birthdays and other special moments. I will fail, but I will try harder.
  • In the absence of family, friends and church family shine like stars in the night sky. I was overwhelmingly blessed by warm well-wishes for my birthday and Mother’s Day by people I’ve known less than 3 years but who feel like they’ve been a part of our lives forever.

When I look back on the pain I caused myself this week with too-high expectations and roller-coaster emotions, I wish I could take back the time I lost. But I can only move on, look ahead and hope that this time next year, no matter what does or does not happen in May, that I’m praising God for another year of life and motherhood.

The measuring stick

I cry over the stupidest things sometimes.

Take today, for example, when I left the Y in tears. Why I left the Y in tears requires a tiny bit of backstory.

For the last two weeks, we’ve been focusing on potty training Isabelle. We committed to putting her in underwear as often as possible and dealing with the consequences. She’s been sporadic. Some days, no accidents. Other days, too many to count. Almost always, though, she has an accident when she’s at the Y Kids Korner. She plays with other kids and forgets and Mom and Dad aren’t around to ask her every hour if she needs to sit on the potty.

I thought today was going to be a good day. She pottied before we left the house. She pottied when we got to Kids Korner. I was gone an hour, and when I got back, she had just peed in her pants, and the staff was cleaning it up. The director, very kindly and sweetly, asked if Isabelle could wear training pants when she comes. Totally valid request, right? They’ve got dozens of kids to deal with. I wouldn’t want to be cleaning up pee every day, either. I agreed, but as I changed Isabelle’s clothes, I started to cry.

I felt like I should have known better. That I’d failed at potty training her. That I was stupid because I brought my daughter to group babysitting with no protection from pee accidents. And I was annoyed because this 5-year-old kid, very curious, asked me a ton of questions: What are you getting for her? Does she have to wear Pull-Ups? Why? My brother is 3, too. All while I’m trying to gather Isabelle’s fresh clothes and search for the socks that have fallen to the bottom of the diaper bag. I wanted to say, “Shut up and leave me alone, kid,” but I didn’t think  that would help the situation.

I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. And I was so embarrassed that I knew Corban had a dirty diaper and I didn’t change it on the changing table. I waited till we were outside, in the car, to take care of it.

Driving home, I thought about my reaction. I already feel like I don’t measure up to the other Y moms. I don’t have cute little name-embroidered backpacks for the kids, or matching workout wear for myself. I envy their SUVs (for a moment) when I get into my just plain van. I overheard one mom talking about how she can’t do anything for herself, like brush her teeth in the morning, until the kids go to school. And I thought, “You get to brush your teeth in the morning?”

This is my first go-round with group daycare of any kind, excepting the nursery at church which doesn’t count in my mind, and I fear these inadequacy feelings will only get worse with preschool and school. I have this idea in my head that the other moms will be judging me and my kids every time they see us. Is that a normal feeling or am I just super paranoid?

I know I need a dose of my own medicine. Thanks for identifying with me.

Being a mom is hard. I don’t know why I make it harder by creating this “perfect mom” measuring stick to compare myself with.

On the way home, while I’m sinking into self-pity, trying to hold back the tears so I don’t make Isabelle think I’m upset with her for having an accident, I hear this sweet voice from the back say, “Guess what, Mom?”

“What?” I reply.

“I love you,” she says.

Sometimes I don’t cry when the moment might call for it. But she encouraged me with those three little words.

Later, Isabelle told me tales of another girl in the Kids Korner who was talking about puking in the bathroom.

Perhaps we’re in good company after all.