Motherhood and the Art of Celebration

“You have in store an outpouring of one of God’s greatest blessings on Earth–the joys of the gift of a child.”

My mother wrote that prediction in a book she gave me for my first Mother’s Day as a mother. I was blessed enough to be able to spend the holiday this year with both my mother and my children. And, as it so often happens, the day played out with Mama spending most of it serving me. Mothers are remarkable creatures, indeed. As you may have surmised from last week’s posts, that first Mother’s Day holiday for me came just a few days after Little Drummer Boy was born. I was still reeling from the sheer joy and wonder of actually being able to see and touch him. Mama was right. Being a mother to LDB, Squiggle and Baby Girl has been the most soul-changing, incredible, challenging, rewarding, frustrating, amazing, exhausting and joyful experience of my life. All at the same time. I’m sure most mothers would say the same thing. It’s the nature of the job. When Little Drummer Boy was born, I remember feeling so unprepared, but I sort of fell into the role led by my love for this incredible little human before me. And my mother helped.

Mama stayed with me for several weeks after Little Drummer Boy was born, as she did with each of my gifts. She was on-hand to offer support and to help with the requisite diaper-changing, bathing, answering of questions, sleeplessness and general cooking and cleaning. That practical service was much needed, of course, but she helped me in ways she probably never realized. And, it started long before Little Drummer Boy’s birth.

As a child, I remember my mother talking to me. I remember her reading books like Are You My Mother? and admonishing me to put my own book away at bedtime as I grew older. I remember her asking me every afternoon about what I did that day and listening to the answers. I remember her giving me time. I remember her baking cookies and decorating them. I remember her putting money in a small envelope in the cabinet for our vacation. I remember her planting violets and marigolds and looking at wallpaper and sewing patterns. I remember creamed tuna on toast with English peas. I don’t ever remember sharing a negative word about Mama with anyone else, not even during those teenage years. There was just something wrong about it, something of a betrayal of her endless effort on my behalf that kept me from falling into that all-too-common mindset of growing up. Perhaps it was because I grew up as an only child. As such, I spent a lot of time around grown-ups, mainly my mother and father. The enjoyment, conversation, togetherness and anticipation of family time was ingrained in me at a very young age. Somehow Mama instilled in me a love of spending time together.

In all these mundane and daily experiences, I remember Mama’s ability to elevate the commonplace to the level of celebration. I’m not sure that was really her conscious and well-conceived intention, but I’ve always felt that the art of celebration was–and is–her gift. I grew up and came of age knowing that paying attention to the joy of life’s daily experience was important to her. Knowing that celebration itself is important. Knowing that it can be a way of life, if you’re just willing to make it so. Beyond her cooking ability, her penchant for gardening, her prowess as a seamstress, and all the other womanly and motherly traits she possesses, that skill of celebration–that discipline–is the one that rises to the surface this Mother’s Day. It has colored a thousand other experiences for me. It is the chief lesson I have sought to incorporate into my own home. It is the mother I want to be.

Far from being a formula, as I think about those memories of childhood and the approach my mother took to homekeeping and mothering and celebration, some themes emerge–lessons I’ve noticed that characterize her way of living, her way of raising me and even her way of being a grandmother now. It’s these lessons my Mama taught me about being a mom, about keeping a home and living a life that I strive to put into practice, just as she did.

Effort is worth making.
It is. I grew up knowing that if something needed to be done, my Mama could do it. And, she would do it. She wouldn’t let anything get in her way. No setback, no empty jar of something or another, no shortage of fabric or icing or whatever requirement for the latest task would deter her from making a project be what we wanted it to be. At age 40 with my own mothering experiences, I now understand that in all actuality, Mama couldn’t do everything. But, there remains a common sense of ingenuity and creativity that was fueled by her insistence that something be special. It was her necessity. Something she wasn’t willing to give up. And she made it happen. Through her own demonstration, Mama taught me that common experiences are worth the extra effort. I don’t mean that things were always perfect or that our home was an issue of Martha Stewart Living. No, we lived a real life. But, Mama put equal effort into making both Beef Wellington and Cheesy Dogs seem special. It was a gift to the people around the table, whether they recognized it or not. Whether it meant staying up late until the turkey was done, chasing down red hots for snowman cookie eyes and buttons, or taking the seam out three times to be sure it would lie flat, I grew up knowing my mother would put in whatever effort was required. I want my babies to know that too.

Little things are important.
They are. My parents were both public school educators. Mama taught third grade. With those professions in Mississippi (or anywhere, really) I’m sure their budgets were on the meager side of adequate. But, I never wanted for anything. Anything. I’m sure there were things and experiences that I missed out on, but I never knew it. I never knew of a time when I didn’t have an abundance. I attribute that overflow to my mother’s ability to make little things important. I didn’t need big things. The small details were given greater significance because of Mama’s attention to them. And because we experienced them together, while giggling and talking and sharing. I came to appreciate the unfinished doll house at Christmas rather than the fully-outfitted one–because I had the fun of Mama helping me choose our own wallpaper for the tiny rooms, sewing the tiny curtains for the plastic windows and painting the front door before hanging the tiny wreath on it. I came to appreciate that we rarely had a meal without placemats–because they just changed creamed tuna on toast and cheesy dogs somehow. I came to appreciate the extra ruffle sewn on a pillow case or the seat cushion covered in coordinating fabric or the bow added to the standard lampshade. These were the little things that made a house a home, and a home our home. I hope I can give my babies that same abundance.

Memories matter.
They do. Mama kept things. Whether small trinket gifts from her third-grade students, the churn top that belonged to her grandmother, the last remaining (albeit chipped) cup and saucer from her wedding “everyday” tableware or some framed “artwork” I made in preschool, these artifacts adorned our home in some fashion or another. One thing I learned from my mom through her tendency toward not throwing “stuff” away is that things are things, but they also often hold the memories and impressions of experiences. They are tangible evidence of joy and struggle and the full gamut of the life we partake. The value of “things” doesn’t necessarily rest merely in their shape or the material of which they are constructed, but in the memories they hold of significant times and places and people. Through Mama’s celebration bent, I learned that traditions and keepsakes are how we bring experiences forward to the next ones. They are how we string experiences together. Telling stories, keeping reminders, and displaying the artifacts of our experiences can teach us the context from which we come and offer a framework for the places we’re going. I hope I can move those memories forward with my children.

Above all the lessons in the art of celebration imparted by my mother, perhaps the one most poignantly seen even today is that motherhood is serving. And, it’s a lifelong endeavor. Mama never fails to fold laundry while at my home or to read a book to a grandchild. She has taught me as much in my adult life as any other time that mothering is giving. Time, money, energy, effort, wisdom. Motherhood is giving–even when it hurts. Giving when it’s frustrating, when it’s painful. Giving. When it’s hard. And as I watch her example and strive to put that particular lesson into practice, I’m finding that motherhood has a unique ability to pull from a deep well of love-fueled resources. It finds the ability to give when it seems there is nothing to give.

For me, these are profound lessons for motherhood gleaned from my life’s best demonstration. And, oddly enough, they happen to be pretty good lessons for life beyond motherhood as well.

Thank you, Mama.

First Fruits

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday. You can all share a collective sigh of amazement with me, and possibly pass the tissues. He’s my firstborn. And he’s five years old. It’s taking some getting used to. In August he will start “big school” and launch a whole new trajectory of independence. As with every stage, he’s forging the way Bug and Baby Girl will follow all too quickly.

Whether we like it or not, firstborns seem to prime the pump by virtue of their very newness. They are the first fruit of anything (or anyone) else to come. LDB set the scene for pregnancy, childbirth, infancy, and all the developmental stages beyond. He christened me in all those areas. I was wide-eyed in wonder most of the time and hyper-sensitive to each nuance. He formed the assumptions upon which those same experiences with his siblings to follow were based. While I’ve resisted the urge to compare and contrast, it happens. His has been the benchmark by which all their stages have been measured — not in terms of good or bad, but in the way of expectations and the anticipation of growth or change. His has been the benchmark of change in myself, the transformation of woman to mother and all the complicated soul-immersion that title entails.

I named him Little Drummer Boy in this venue because during his toddler years, he always seemed to follow the beat in his own head, and he pressed anything and everything around him into the service of articulating that syncopation. As he’s grown, he’s become less enamored with the perpetual and all-encompassing trap set, and more involved with the typical car chases, fire emergencies and train adventures in which boys are usually found. However, I still notice his beat. It’s the one heard in his plethora of very distinctive sound effects. It’s the one found in his unending toy sagas where rockets and dinosaurs seem to thicken the plot every time. As I wrote in his introduction to the cyber world, I have yet to find it in my heart to call him anything shortened for blog-aging purposes. This particular Drummer is and will always be MY Little and Boy as well.

He was born four weeks early, to the day. Little Drummer Boy’s unexpected birth on May 2 came after some minor concerns during the last part of my pregnancy. My doctors’ good care and cautious natures recognized that the risks possible with LDB were minimal, but insisted on consistent sonograms and stress tests to confirm their suspicions. Therefore, I saw lots of pictures of Little Drummer Boy before he was born. Those sonograms were difficult emotionally. The fear in waiting for results each time was inescapable, even though I knew there was likely no need for concern. They were difficult because they made LDB so real. Yes, I knew he was real. I had felt his early movements. But, in seeing his tiny and newly formed body, I fell in love with him. Completely. It changed me. It changed so much about how I saw things. How I saw Little Drummer Boy, how I saw myself and my life, and how I saw the rest of the world. I think I’m only just now getting past that gripping fear of knowing my whole world was wrapped up in this other new person.

Little Drummer Boy offered first glimpses of that wonder of having another human being formed inside me. The most amazing thing I remember about being pregnant with LDB was feeling him move. I so vividly remember that feeling of having him touching me from the inside. It was strange and amazing all at the same time. And, while I wasn’t overly romantic or existential about this unique womanly experience, it was unforgettable. I can also clearly remember that moment when he was out of my belly. There was such a void there. I was empty, but relieved all at the same time. It brought so much joy to hear him cry and see him and hold him in my arms the first time. I remember those feelings with each of my children, but I suppose they were most poignant with Little Drummer Boy. My experiences with Bug and Baby Girl were certainly no less precious or significant, but their births simply had the reality of not being first. The wonder was still incredibly wonderful, only not the wonder of a first “weaving.”

Little Drummer Boy offered me first fruits… The first fruits of watching my very heart sitting outside my body. The first fruits of love that is unquenchable–by the dirtiest of diapers or the loudest shout of “no” or the most frustratingly tearful bedtime. First fruits of wishing I could control the entire world, but knowing I’ll never be able to do that. First fruits of being sure I’ll never know any greater joy than this moment, only to have the next moment surpass it. He offered the first fruits of realizing this other person, this other tiny soul, is totally dependent on me. The first fruits of dreading that day when he’ll be disappointed. First fruits of knowing, as impossible as it seemed during those beginning years, that he would live to make a wrong choice at some point because that’s what humans do. Firstborn sadness of seeing that wrong choice and knowing I’d give him ten thousand other chances to get it right, plus one more. Firstborn fruit is sweet. And bitter. And utterly defying of description, although I’m desperately trying.

When I think about how small Little Drummer Boy was when he was born and how he just covers me now when he sits in my lap, I can’t believe it. I find myself thanking God he still wants to sit in my lap. LDB is a gentle and curious spirit. He has a big vocabulary, loves books, and loves stories–mainly telling them. He always has a story line going on in his head. It incorporates everything he’s interested in at a given moment, so his story is a precious picture of his heart and mind I want to discipline myself to hear with undivided attention. My Little Drummer is very inquisitive, but also very cautious. He is my child who always contemplates before making a move. He doesn’t always do new things very quickly, but he’s a very thoughtful child. He is quick to say “I love you,” perhaps because I tell him so often myself out of sheer necessity in my soul. He says it without being prompted. He often says it first. First fruits from my firstborn. He changed my life.

Little Drummer Boy, my firstborn, turned five yesterday.

Oh Happy Day 031910: Collaboration

It’s Friday, and I’ve decided to resurrect my long-overdue Oh Happy Day! Gratitude Project. It was waaay back on (look at that!) November 13th that I last posted my own version of EyeJunkie “thank God it’s Friday” fare. This little project was fueled many moons ago by something I read that encouraged me to right my attitude daily by writing down five things for which I am grateful. I have SERIOUSLY fallen short of that admonition lately (read ignored), but I notice more and more every day just how important a thankful heart and attitude are in the daily consumption of a joyful life. You can read the whole story on the humble beginnings of the Oh Happy Day! project, or you can just trust me and pick up the trail here…

It’s been a crazy week of ups and downs (like most weeks), and the downs often present a challenge to my joy quotient–and sometimes my energy quotient. It’s helpful to skew that process back in the right direction by paying attention to the things or people or circumstances for which I’m thankful. It’s funny how an attitude of gratitude can sometimes mysteriously turn the downs back to the upside. Recognizing the blessings in my life, especially those in unexpected or hard-revealed places, helps me gain new perspective.

THIS WEEK I’ve been very grateful for the lost art of collaboration. If you read much around the internet on the subject of innovation or creativity or business development or even urban development (as I, in my nerd-like qualities do), you’ve probably seen the term “silos” as it relates to storing up ideas rather than grain. Despite the preschool tenets of sharing and taking turns that are burned into our brains and sensibilities, we sometimes grow up determined to build silos or isolated pockets of information, influence or resources. We often see a fear in sharing which makes us hold our thoughts and gifts with a closed fist. Collaboration becomes threatening somehow. But, it’s a happy day! This week I’ve seen collaboration in action in a couple of (three) ways. And, I’m so grateful for its impact on my life, work and parenting. Here’s what I’ve noticed.

Collaboration encites courage.
Through a few specific conversations and phone calls recently, I’ve noticed that two are so much better than one when it comes to handling frustrating, challenging or simply new situations. Sharing our own thoughts and feelings is often the type of collaboration we are most resistant to. However, articulating my thinking with a trusted confidante actually makes those thoughts and concerns so much more manageable. I can more easily take ownership of what’s frustrating me with the encouragement of someone who’s listened. It gives me courage to tackle the difficult circumstances with my eyes open, spunk in my step and perhaps a little bit more perspective or wisdom in my pocket. And, THAT courage makes me want to be available to someone else who needs that same collaboration.

Collaboration enables creativity.
I mentioned this week’s collaboration with my friend, Jennifer Wyatt, owner of Her Executive Coach. Our experiment with Facebook has been a joyful experience that reminded me of how much more creative and innovative I can be when I’m in conversation or collaboration. Creativity feeds off itself. Creative people spur me on to be more creative. Collaboration enables that synergy that makes new ideas more apparent. It makes the new ideas seem more possible. Creativity can be diminished in a vacuum. So, whether it’s in writing adventures, child-rearing, marketing my day job or just figuring out what’s for dinner, my creative endeavors can benefit from interactions, from exposure to new ideas and methods, and from the types of collaborations Jennifer was willing to give.

Collaboration encourages harmony.
Little Drummer Boy and Bug offered some much-sought-after examples of this principle this week. They are at the ages when we are swinging between the my-brother-is-my-best-friend and the my-brother-is-my-mortal-enemy camps on a whim. I just never know from one moment to the next where I’m going to land. We try our best to encourage, beg, scold and bribe the boys into doing and saying kind things to one another. Several times this week, I found myself wide-eyed at spontaneous collaboration going on between my sweet gifts. LDB offered advice on using the “big potty.” He gave instructions on how to write letters in the alphabet–instructions Bug was eager to follow. Bug requested input on various car chases and dinosaur stories. They determined the rules of their own hallway (read Montgomery speedway) games. It was amazing. I’m actually inclined to say miraculous, a description I’m sure other preschool Mommies out there will be happy to validate. I’m starting to catch on to something here. Maybe working TOGETHER on something is a lot more fun that arguing. Lovely food for parenting thought.

Thank you, collaboration.
Oh Happy Day!

The Perfect Cookie

A couple of weeks ago, I spent the evening making cookies for Little Drummer Boy’s preschool “tailgate party,” one of the perks of living in a college town. This particular Mississippi State Bulldog affair warranted some sweet combination of maroon and football. I decided round cookies would suffice since we don’t have dog bones or footballs in our cookie cutter collection. (I can’t believe those have escaped us somehow.) So, on Wednesday night, I baked the cookies without much fanfare. Yes, I used a cookie mix for my dry ingredients and the cutter-less prep meant that I could just drop them on the cookie sheet rather than rolling them out. Baking was accomplished in short order, and I saved the icing for the next night.

Faced with relatively round cookies and the need for some Bulldog spirit, I decided the best route was to ice them in maroon and pipe little football shapes on top. Ok. So, Thursday night was icing night. This time Little Drummer Boy was enthused to help every step of the way. He planted himself on his little chair right next to me with a “what are you doing now?” with each new activity. Icing footballs had won out over Miss Piggy, Lightning McQueen and even a few tractors and firetrucks. That’s tough competition for a half-homemade cookie.

He called it brown. It looked like the 80s favorite “dusty rose” to me–most definitely not maroon. They were not even close to the perfectly round, perfectly smooth, Bulldog-topped numbers you see at Kroger around these parts this time of year. The football shapes, piped with one of the only two remaining screw-on tips I could find, prompted a “what’s that” from LDB, and the gray “laces” were a little spider web-like. (To my credit, the gray was spot-on. I didn’t go to art school for nothing.) But, with my little enthusiast contributing, every explanation was met with a “those are cool” as he was pasted to my side during the whole process. The experience warranted more than one “these are for MY party” with all the joy of knowing Mommy was making something just for him. Fueled by a four-year-old’s staunch belief that Mommy can do anything, we pressed on. Two and a half dozen cookies later, Little Drummer Boy’s encouragement through the process was undaunted regarding what could very charitably be described as pink cookies with spider web-covered ovals on top. And then, the lure of helping to take out the garbage pulled him away.  We were done. Perfection in all its flawed glory.

The naysayer in me said “just go pick yourself up a clear plastic container from the nearly-fresh bakery section.” But, you know, my mother never bought decorated cookies. You couldn’t buy decorated cookies in those days — at least not at the Kwik Shop where we grocery shopped. I remember Mama’s cookies as being perfect. I’m sure in reality they were far from it, but the illusion in my mind isn’t tarnished with age–only more wisdom from my own motherhood. You see, even then, the perfection was in the moment, not the cookie. It was in how fun my Mom made it to get down the plastic cookie cutters, to add food coloring to the ready made icing. To toss the sprinkles or red hots or whatever confection she thought would give them that special touch. Even to do something else while I knew Mama was making cookies for my party was fun. The painstaking yellow triangular Jack-o-lantern eyes, the snowmen’s colorful scarves. The process created a perfectly sugared up, worn out, flour dusted, counter cluttered moment–and some pretty good cookies, too.

Perfection of the kind that produces NCAA regulation football shapes is highly over-rated. And more and more these days, I’m finding satisfaction in letting perfection slide. I want to spend my energy building the perfect moment, not the perfect product or the perfect person. The perfect moments of standing with Mommy at the counter, stirring the bowl, licking the spoon, proudly presenting the blue plastic platter filled with cookies to the class–the moments will be remembered far longer than the mauve-colored icing that should have been maroon. Perfection is in the process and the joy of effort, the imperfect outcome of moments spent on what matters. Yum.

Sowing Gratitude

November is here, and yesterday I pulled down our Fisher Price Little People “First Thanksgiving” set from the top shelf to much fanfare with Little Drummer Boy and Bug. It’s become a tradition that gets the boys excited–so much so that Bug took the horse and cart along with Boy Pilgrim to bed with him for nap time. This was after Little Drummer Boy sat at the kitchen table and acted out his own version of the First Thanksgiving celebration slash car chase and Transformer storyline–all in an attempt to avoid Baby Girl stealing the show, literally. Her first interaction with the set came later when her greatest joy was to toss the First Thanksgiving basket and all its contents around the living room, which I’m sure gave Girl Indian Native American a whopping headache. It will be the first of many times this year that I fetch the prize pumpkin and turkey platter from under the couch.

In this day of instant and almost constant excess, it is a continual challenge to know how to instill gratitude in the hearts of my sweet gifts. Unfortunately it’s sometimes a continual challenge to know how to instill gratitude in the heart of their Mommy and Daddy as well. Still, carved in between “trunk or treating” with the Montgomery volunteer fire department/scarecrow contingent and the much anticipated Christmas season, I like to give Thanksgiving its due. So, on November 1st, we get down the Little People set and the few Thanksgiving books we have to savor for the next month. Little Drummer Boy and I read The Pilgrim’s First Thanksgiving and Over the River and Through the Woods last night for what may become a nightly occurrence during this month, and we’ve even found a few library books to keep us in the mood. Of course, I’m sure Charlie Brown will make an appearance at some point as well.

This year, we’re starting something new. I saw a blog post a few weeks back about an interesting way to get the whole family involved in giving thanks–a Thanksgiving Tree. [Through much kicking myself as I've searched my browser history, I've yet to find the link again, or I would gladly post it here. If this is your idea or your blog post, please let me know, and I'll be glad to offer credit where it's due!] The Thanksgiving Tree I saw was a lovely collection of tree branches gathered as a display. Each day family members said one thing they were thankful for, no matter how silly or serious,and wrote it on a paper tag to hang on the tree–ornaments of gratitude to inspire more thankful hearts. I loved the idea the moment I saw it, and the rest of the Montgomery clan concurred.

When we spent a weekend on “the farm” a few weeks ago, one of our missions was to find THE Thanksgiving Tree for us. Bug was convinced we should be looking for a Christmas tree, but was easily persuaded once he realized sticks were involved. Boys. Sticks. No-brainer. From that point forward during our long walk / wagon-pull from the farmhouse to the usually cabled road we call the “back back” all eyes were peeled for the best branches for our tabletop–at least when they weren’t peeled to cows, rocks, flowers, bugs and each other. When we were nearing the barn on the return trip, we settled on a tiny little deciduous version, no leaves attached, that we all determined was perfect. It came apart in two pieces when Quiver pulled it from the ground, but we were undaunted. This was our first Thanksgiving Tree.

Yesterday was the day to install it on our table. I had a pumpkin basket (whose top also doubles as a great hat) that was the perfect container. We decided that the giant collection of “flint rocks” my three boys (two little, one big) have collected in hopes of a future fish tank could be pressed into service to hold the branches in place. Please don’t ask me what “flint rocks” are. It’s been explained to me, and folks of the boy variety in my house can easily recognize them. Though, honestly, it still escapes me, but back to the show… After some great help from Little Drummer Boy to get the turkey table runner just right and get the rocks dropped in one handful at a time, the Montgomery Thanksgiving Tree took its rightful place. Memories. We’ve talked with the boys several times about how we will each be able to hang something on the tree at supper time each night until Thanksgiving. I knew this idea had tons of joy-potential when the first thing Bug said upon walking into the dining room this morning was “our Thanksgiving Tree!”

And, so it begins. Our month-long quest for Thanksgiving. In 2008, I wrote my first 12 Days of Thanksgiving series in the days leading up to Thanksgiving Day, which I’ll be writing again this year beginning November 15. And, some other thankful posts will probably pop up along the way as well as reports from the decorating of the Thanksgiving Tree. I’d be delighted for you to peek through the window at our attempt at sowing the seeds of gratitude in all our hearts. We’ll see where they blossom.

I’m convinced that gratitude is an antidote to worry and complaint, and it’s the catalyst for kindness and generosity. In times of joy, in times of hardship, I need it. We need it.

“In everything give thanks…”