The Kid in Mom

One afternoon after a hot day at school and a sweaty ride home on scorching black leather Volvo seats, the kids ran directly into the pool with their clothes on. I saw them from the kitchen as I was searching for snacks. I ran outside screaming, “KIDS! What were you thinking? You know better than to go in the water with your clothes…on…” I picked up speed and punctuated my rant midair with a cannonball, into the pool with my clothes on. They still talk about that one. (As well as the time I Heimlich-maneuvered the dog to save the hamster…true story, for another time.) They sometimes say, eyes sparkling, nodding collectively with somber, respectful voices, “Yep, sometimes the kid in mom has to come out,” as though my exuberance is the equivalent of a Sprite burp, which everyone knows is as inappropriate as it is inevitable.

I can be the straight laced-clock watching-errand running- homework whip cracking-activity driving-meal making mama. I’m pretty good at it, in fact. So good at it that sometimes I misplace my joy. I can feel it when I’m close to cracking…my patience is thin, I eye the clock for a glass of red, I’m in such a rush to get to next that I don’t savor, even notice, the chaotic beauty of right now.

I wonder what my kids think of this. How they feel when they are shuffled from one thing to the next, propelled from school into sports, homework, mealtime, shower, prayers, bed. Repeat. Likely I build trust, in terms of reliability, that I will be “on time.” But I am not certain that this type of parenting builds the kind of trust I’m after; trust that goes beyond being there and has more to do with being present and being real.

If something were to happen to me, God forbid, and my kids had to sit through my eulogy, I have to be honest and tell you that there would be some stories. Likely some doozies, especially if my college friends show. I don’t want my kids sitting there, not only sad, but confused. Huh? My mother? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve got the wrong lady. She said that? She did WHAT?

That’s not acceptable to me. I want my kids to know me, really know me, all sides of me. I want them to know that I love God with all my heart. Then that I love them each separately, specifically, wildly, unconditionally, and forever; that everything I am and have is theirs. I want them to see my moods, my wild side, my tears, my sarcasm, my sense of adventure, my resilience, and my snarky sense of humor. I want them to be fine with my anger, sadness, or disappointment and never take it personally or feel the need to “fix it.” I want them to share the moments when I’m laughing so hard that I can’t move and no sound comes out; especially when they are the source of my amusement and delight. I want to dance with them and sing so loudly in the car that they demand I turn my voice down and the music up. I want them to see me mess up and watch how I go about honoring my second chance. I want them to see me blow it; ask for and accept forgiveness, especially with them, and then forgive and release myself. I want them to see me let other people off the hook on a regular basis so they understand the gift of grace. I want to celebrate what they have to offer; even if their try does not yield the result I had in mind. And I want them to see me try – both succeed and be humble, as well as fail and be okay. I want them to know that courage and success don’t always go together.

I don’t want to reserve one side of me for my friends and colleagues, and give my kids a watered down version of the woman who is their mother. Better for them to know my weirdest quirks, loftiest dreams, and deepest passions directly from me, rather than discover it in my writing years from now and wonder why they never understood me. They need to know what I would stand tall and fight for, as well as the sacrifices I would make even if it required me to lay it all down.

My allotted time with Luke, Grace, and Isabelle as children is picking up speed, just as every old lady in the grocery store warned me it would. The kid in mom has to come out and play with them, often, while they still want to play with me. We have to cannonball, camp out, read with flashlights, go out to breakfast in pajamas, play tag, ride roller coasters, build forts, collect fireflies, braid hair, hunt for treasures on the beach, train puppies, go on adventures, pretend the bed is a raft, eat popcorn for dinner, trade back tickles, and leave school early on Fridays.

After all, if I don’t let my hair down regularly, I may as well cut it off.