Because I Know You Love a Good Arden Moment

Today at (where else?) Wal-Mart, Arden was mad because I wouldn't let her buy (1) Star Magazine (2) a Dr. Pepper (3) a bleach pen (seriously. Who stocks those shelves near the check-out? Do they hate all parents, or is it just me? Are they TRYING to set my kid up for failure? Could they not fill those shelves with broccoli or cantaloupe or toilet paper?). Not recognizing Arden's bad mood, the sweet checker made the mistake of telling Arden her dress was pretty. This innocuous comment set off a string of rude remarks from AK, most of which were (thankfully) unintelligible thanks to the combination of her southern accent and inability to pronounce the letter r. I think the checker got the general idea, though, what with all the forceful finger pointing and furrowed eye brows going on.

In the car, I asked Arden why she was so rude to the checker.

"Because she said my dress was pity. It's not pity. You're pity, Mommy."

Well. What are you supposed to say to that?

Apparently, not "It doesn't matter if you think I'm pretty (which, by the way, thanks) you're still going to Time Out as soon as we get home. And you can forget about that ice cream cone you wanted."

Because, if you say that, all of a sudden you're not so pretty anymore. At least according to your three year old.

In Which I Regale You With Tales of My Awesome Parenting

At least two nights a week, Claire loses her blankie. She hasn't had it all day, has no memory of when she last saw it and is so distraught at the idea of actually sleeping without it that she can't help look for it. She must remain in bed (which is where she always is, tucked in and bedtimes stories already told, when she discovers the blankie is gone), crying and whining and lamenting the unfairness of her blankie-less existence. Jason and I begin frantically searching for the lost lovey, knowing that as soon as it's found, Claire will go to sleep and we can finally sit on the couch and watch So You Think You Can Dance.

But the other night when Claire discovered her blankie was missing, I had had enough. Instead of looking for the blankie, I began to lecture her about keeping up with her things and how it wasn't MY responsibility to find HER lost objects and if it was really THAT special to her then SHE should get out of bed and look for it HERSELF. I told her that she couldn't expect me to drop everything to look for her blankie and I may have even thrown in something about kindergarteners taking care of their own things. I gave her another kiss and told her she could help me find the blankie tomorrow. Sniffling, she agreed and said good night.

I went downstairs to watch TV, congratulating myself on teaching Claire a lesson in responsibility. Next time, I thought to myself, she'll remember to leave her blankie on her bed so it won't get lost.

An hour later, I remembered I had left wet clothes in the washing machine. As I began transferring the towels to the dryer, I noticed something pink and silky at the bottom of the machine. I reached in and pulled out Claire's beloved blankie.

Here's where I would like to tell you that I went up to Claire's room right then and there and apologized. But I didn't. I tossed the blankie in the dryer and finished watching Anderson Cooper (yeah I'm old, so?). Before I went to bed, I tiptoed into Claire's room and laid her freshly laundered blankie by her pillow.

The next morning she came downstairs, holding her blankie triumphantly over her head. "Mom! You found it!"

"Oh, yeah. I knew that thing would turn up somewhere..."

Last year, I posted my favorite quote on motherhood. I still love it, so I think it bears repeating.

"Every mother has the breathtaking privilege of sharing with God in the creation of a new life. She helps bring into existence a soul that will endure for all eternity."
--Father James Kelly

I've been thinking a lot about the awesome responsibility we have raising our kids. Not just the nurturing, the disciplining, the educating, the giggling-tickling-dancing-til-you-fall-down-ness of it, but the real gravity of helping shape another person into someone who, hopefully, is a much better version of the parents whose DNA they share. It's by far the most important thing we'll ever do. To paraphrase Jackie Kennedy, if you screw up raising your kids, nothing else you do matters very much.

Honestly, if you think about it too much, it will scare the pants off you.

When Claire was just minutes old and the nurse handed me my swaddled bundle of baby, I stared into the murky blueness of her newborn eyes and wondered how in the world a being so fresh from God was now my own. It was almost too much and I very easily could have gone into full freak out mode. But then Claire began crying and I began mothering.

And that's the way it's been for the last four years. Some days I question every parenting decision I make. Did she watch too much TV today? Was I too tough on her? Did I let her get away with too much? Did they have enough fun? I cringe when I see too much of myself in them. Other days, I marvel at the grace and goodness of a God who has given me two beautiful, lively girls who bring out the best in me. But always, I wonder: am I doing this right?

Maybe we don't have to know what we're doing all the time. Maybe that's impossible. Maybe the best we can do is hit our knees and pray that it's enough. For that moment, for that kid, that what we're doing, that our best efforts, are enough.