Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

judgment

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.

Confessions of a Food Stamp mom

I purposely did not call myself a “welfare” mom because, let’s be honest, if I did you would have made some sort of judgment about me based on that word. It’s OK. I’ve done it, too. Everyone on welfare is a single mom who just keeps having kids to get more welfare benefits, right? That’s what I believed when I was growing up.

Now, I am one. And I need to confess. Because it seems that Food Stamps is becoming one of those issues, or maybe it always has been and I’m just noticing it more, that people are extremely opinionated about.

Recently, after a report that Food Stamp use is on the rise, I heard a few minutes of talk radio about the subject, and the host was appalled that people might use their food stamp benefits to buy crab legs or some such seafood luxury.

Confession No. 1: I have used Food Stamps to purchase swordfish steaks at our discount grocery store.

Confession No. 2: I also sometimes buy cake, ice cream, cookies, soda and other “luxury” treats using Food Stamps.

Also, on Facebook, you can “like” this statement: If you can afford alcohol and cigarettes, then you don’t need Foodstamps. (Their spelling; not mine.)

This bothers me. I neither smoke nor drink alcohol but I have other vices. Like shopping. And eating. And watching movies.

Confession No. 3: My family sometimes eats out. And we buy clothes or shoes when we or the kids need them. And we have a Netflix account.

We have been receiving Food Stamps for about a year and a half. My husband works two part-time jobs and goes to graduate school. I stay home with the kids and do a little bit of freelance writing when I can. We’re halfway through his graduate program. We don’t plan to be on Food Stamps forever. We look forward to the day when we can be off the program.

In the meantime, though, I’ve learned to accept this help at this stage of our lives. Even though we sometimes spend our money on other things, being on Food Stamps means that I don’t have to worry about how I’m going to feed my kids or if I have to choose between food and rent this month. It means that I know we’ll have grocery money, even if I can’t always see where the money to pay the rest of the bills is going to come from. And it means that occasionally we can do other things that families who aren’t poor get to do. Like go to the movies. Or eat at a restaurant. Or spend a day at the zoo. To say that we’re not allowed to do any of those things because we’re on Food Stamps is like saying we should be punished for being poor. To me, that’s the thought pattern behind the alcohol-and-cigarettes statement.

I know that people abuse the system. My mother-in-law worked in that sector her entire adult career and could tell stories. You can write us off as the exception, but I’m sure there are more “exceptions” out there. I’m just asking you not to judge me because I use a Food Stamp card. (Especially not if you notice the highlights in my hair or the new clothes I’m wearing. Confession No. 4: My mom paid for both for my birthday.)

If you pay taxes, then I’m grateful that some of your tax money can help feed my family for a time.

One final confession? Most of the time, I hate being on Food Stamps, but I love not having to worry about how to feed my two kids while I worry about how to pay the other bills. And, sometimes, I’m glad for the experience, if only to have walked a mile in another mom’s shoes.