It's hard being a mom. Hard to know when to seize those teachable moments and when to let them slip through your fingers, or to toss them aside and just do what's fun rather than educational or character-building.
(1) Spontaneous Generosity
Our daughter brought to church a few weeks ago the little pink purse inherited from a much older, much cooler fourth-grader down the block. Inside, she had tucked the Barbie wallet, also pink, given her by her Gramma S. for Christmas, and inside THAT was a five-dollar bill, as well as two of the quarters she'd earned by keeping her (yes, you guessed it) pink undies clean prior to using the bathroom.
As we sat waiting for the service to start, our girl fiddled with the envelopes intended for those in the pews who didn't have their own. Our kids, like all kids, like to write their names or, better yet, nonsense ones like "Gladnos" on the line and fill in ridiculous numbers next to the dollar sign. (I figure our donation easily covers the cost of the wasted paper each week, the wasting of which greatly aids my spiritual development, mostly by preventing me from going insane trying to keep kids quiet until the children's sermon.)
On this Sunday, the little dear was not messing around. She was serious about the envelope, carefully printing her full name and placing the two quarters she'd toted inside.
I thought all was said and done after I'd helped her seal the envelope, but I looked over a minute later to find her opening it again. "I want to put this in, too," she said, cracking her wallet and pulling out the fiver.
My first instinct was to talk her out of it. Five bucks from Gramma? That was for toys, or candy, or another set of markers, not for the church! I leaned in to explain this to her...and then I stopped. Tell her NOT to give money to the church? So she could buy MORE stuff she didn't need? How was I going to make that one make sense?
We crossed out the 50 cents and penciled in $5.50 instead. And she put it in the collection and hasn't missed it since.
(2) I'm Good and I Know It
Our boy is student of the week at school right now. That has meant special privileges, a visit by his mom and sis to read a Winnie-the-Pooh story to the class, and a bulletin board devoted solely to him.
On that bulletin board, his teachers have displayed the answers he provided to a questionnaire sent home last Thursday. It included queries both simple and profound: What is your favorite food? What do you like best at school? Whom do you admire? And my favorite, What are you good at?
Each question appeared in a small word balloon with two short lines beneath it for the answer. And for all of the questions preceding the "good at" one, our boy had supplied the requisite one to five words needed to fill the lines. It wasn't until line after line of things he was good at billowed out of their associated balloon that I took note of what he was up to.
'Is that too much?' I thought. When the other students of the week were written up in the newsletter, only one thing they were good at was mentioned. Had the teachers edited their lists? Was my kid particularly vain?
I considered stopping him, telling him it might seem boastful. But I stopped myself instead. Why make him think he shouldn't be proud of all he can do? Wouldn't that also lead him to believe I wasn't proud of him?
As I bit my tongue, he added one more thing to the "good at" list: Loving my family! Just like that, with an exclamation point at the end. Thank God I kept my big, helpful, lesson-teaching Mommy mouth shut.
(3) Absolutely Fabulous
We have a narrow expanse of hardwood floor between the front door and the stairs leading to the second story of our house that has served many a purpose in the life of our family. Early on, it was a long, smooth surface for walking practice. Later, it became a boundless tableau for huge games of dominoes. More recently, it has morphed into an indoor soccer field. And this fall, it made its debut as fashion runway.
After a day of consignment shopping with my mom, I came home with bags of finds—a top here, a skirt there, a jacket yet elsewhere—that I, like a hunter home with his kill, was dying to show off. Not so much because I'm showy, but because I was excited about the several fresh outfits I had put together after spending little more than $50.
My beloved asked, "When's the style show?" So I went to my boudoir to don my first ensemble and then sashayed down the stairs, across the runway, and back, with the expected pauses, turns, and head tosses for dramatic effect.
The kids were mesmerized. They had never seen this Mommy before.
There have been several spins on the catwalk since then—"slide shows," our girl calls them—and I do not feel the doubt I originally did about whether they glamorize materialism. Not everything has to be taken seriously. I don't have to spend so much time wagging my finger or cocking my head at the kids in an undying effort to instill in them Important Values. Sometimes I can just have fun, lest I forget that that's an important value, too.
