I guess having nine children has made me just a little bit more relaxed when it comes to spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes. When I was a new mother, I dusted everyday, vacuumed everyday, and did every piece of laundry everyday. But as our family grew, I began to realize that I needed to decide what was worth yelling about,what was worth my time and effort, and what was a teachable moment for my children. As we added children to our little nest it became apparent to me that if I wanted anything precious, it would have to be hidden. If I wanted less mess, the glasses should be half full. And if I wanted nice clothes, I should never dress my kids. I guess what I'm trying to say is that when it is all said and done, and your children are all grown, is it worth your energy and breath to nag them to death about things that are just things and don't matter anyway?
I think of all of the memories of spilt milk, broken vases, and ruined clothes...
Everyday, every single meal, Lacey would spill her milk. She'd sit straight up in her chair, eat her meal perfectly, never getting anything on herself or the table, but inevitably, she would bump that milk cup over. We could put it far away, we could move it side to side, we could even put just a few drops in it, but I tell you that kid spilt that milk. It almost became a game between my husband and I to watch and see just when it was going to happen...maybe that is why she always spilt it, just too many eyes watching the poor little tyke. There we would all be, watching her holding our breaths, and sometimes, just sometimes, she'd almost make it and go to leave the table and "BAM", down the milk would go. This would inevitably lead to peels of laughter and milk shooting out people's noses! Whoops, a memory made again, not a memory of a Momma yelling at her child, but a memory of a family laughing together. I never yelled at her. I never chastised her. Because to me when a child makes a simple mistake like spilling milk, getting upset with them will only promote their need to be perfect, and perfection is a hard rule to live up to, believe me I know.
I am a person who attaches a memory to every object in my home. I do not care if it costs much, I only keep things in my home that have a personal meaning to myself or my family. So when something does get broke, it usually means something dear to me. Once when I was dusting, a task I abhor, I reached up to dust off a musical statue that my mother had left for me after she passed away. I just put my hand upon it, when The head plopped off and hit the floor. "What in the world..." I began to say. I looked over to see two little eyes staring at me.
"Momma, wook what you did! You breaked you favrit tatue! You gonna get in twouble, huh Momma?" Timara's little face all crumpled up and serious. "Youu shouldn't a breaked dat cause dat was you favrit, right Momma?" She stared at me so intentently that I was starting to believe I actually "breaked dat tatue" myself.
"Timara, I am pretty sure that I didn't break that staue. I barely even touched it and the head just fell off. I wonder if you knw who brake it. Do you?" I looked into her little brown eyes to see if there was a bit of guilt laying in them.
She put her hands on her hips, clenched her fists (a sure sign she was about to lie) , and stated, "Now momma, I sawled you breaked dat. I came into the room and you just knocked it wight off dat shelf..."
I put my hands on my own hips and sternly replied, "Now Timara, Momma did not break this. This staue was given to me by my Momma who lives in heaven. The person who broke this has hurt Momma by not telling me the truth..."
"Oh, Momma, I breaked dat tatue when I was dustin up there by myself. I was ascared you would be mad at me...." and she through herself in my arms. "I so sorry!" I held my little girl and right then and there I made a choice. I chose to love her more than I loved that statue. I chose to give her a lecture about lying and telling when you did something wrong. But I never, ever, made her feel less important than that object that lay on the floor. Later in the quiet of my room, their were some tears shed, but no one knew, especially not Timara that that statue was a gift that my mother cherished. No one needed to know that a prized possession could mean that much. All my kids ever knew was that we didn't tell lies in our house, especially when something got broke.
Because we do have so many children, clothes and laundry and "Shout It Out" are a constant in our home. I remember many days when I did ten loads of laundry a day. I was very thankful back then for the hot New Mexican breeze and a sturdy clothes line.
One day, Tim and I and the kids were visiting friends who lived high up on a mountain. It was just an old dirt road that twisted and turned and wound around a few scattered homes high in the mountains. But to my kids, it was an awesome, huge driveway. It had a huge hill, to play on and run down. Enter- James. James is my daredevil. he will do whatever he can to get a thrill. Bodily harm means nothing to this child, neither did thinking things through.
As Tim and I sat and chatted with the parents outside, we heard a blood curdling scream, "MOM! MOM! James wiped out on a bike down the driveway. He's hurt real bad Mom...you and Dad need to come..." Josh yelled breathlessly running back out the door. We immediately got up and raced to follow him, only to realize that down the driveway was more than a half mile down the road. Turning around, I got the car and caught up with Tim and the kids and threw them in. Finally, we came to James. His head was bleeding, he was a torn up mess, he was crying, and he looked like "Wile E. Coyote" after being thrown off that ledge.
Tim jumped out of the car and began to assess the damage."We gotta take him to the hospital. Think he's got a concussion." Tim turned to Jeff and said, "Good work son, putting this shirt on his head to stop the bleeding...pretty sure the shirts toast though."
I looked over at Jeff and I could see the pride, but I also noticed his face look a little sad as he held his brothers head wit the shirt. I watched him as we locked eyes. He knew, that I knew, that that was his all time favorite shirt. It was expensive and he gave up getting two shirts just for that one. I tried not to cry both for James and Jeff, "I'm really proud of you son, really proud." Jeff wiped away his tears, sucked up his loss, and nodded.
Another memory. Another time that love won over an object. Sometimes as parents, we don't always have the luxury of thinking things through. We don't always have the forethought to just relax and study the situation before we open our mouths. Sometimes, we do yell, we do make mistakes. But the times that we do it right, are the times that mean the most to those people who call us "Momma" and we must always, always be mindful of that. That milk will get spilt, those objects will get broken, and those clothes will get ruined...but the memories will last a lifetime and perhaps, just perhaps, we will take them with us when our babies are all grown up and gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment