Freedom from Full-Tilt Parenting

We were in our late 20s the first time we parented these ages– younger, more idealistic, maybe just a bit more capable of doing it all and looking somewhat pulled together in the process. Now we’re in our early 40s, and some days …

Some days, I won’t lie, I think of my fellow 40-something moms and their freedom to knit the afternoon away without untangling the sticky fingers of a baby from their skein, and I find myself wondering which one of us sleeps better at night.

When I was younger, I did more of the extras with my kids. We rolled apples in nut butters and birdseed and hung them from tree branches. We cut construction paper frames and filled them with ripped crepe paper stained glass. We made our snacks into butterflies and cars and whatever else we found in the pages of Family Fun. We made our own butter, or ice cream, or whatever else I had discovered, in little glass jars just before digging in. I did sticker charts. I made a game out of cleaning up, sang songs during tooth brushing, and almost never said no to fingerpainting in underwear on the back deck.

I’m going to be honest: I don’t do Full-Tilt Parenting anymore. Not on a daily basis.

I don’t have the time, I don’t have the inclination, and to be honest, I was never all that in love with dying cooked spaghetti noodles and hiding little plastic toys in it in the name of “sensory play” anyhow. Yes, it was fun and novel and filled my days with a kind of directed purpose that I could point to and say, “See what we did!”

But you want to know the truth?

My older kids barely remember it. Any of it.

At 17, 14, and 12, I can ask my older kids what it is that they remember of their early childhood, and more often than not, I am humbled and blessed by the answers.

They remember me reading The Hobbit over two weeks’ worth of lunches.
They remember matching socks in the living room while singing Veggie Tales songs, one after another, out of key and laughing until we cried.
They remember me serving snack under the table, in the laundry room, on the front porch … just to shake things up.
They remember me saying yes to one more Otter Pop on a hot day.
They remember staying in their pjs all day.
They remember hot chocolate in front of the fire.
They remember the time.

The time that cost me nothing, that took no preparation, that was usually a random, “hey, how about …” freebie that brought joy to everyone’s day.

This truth– that the most memorable, most recalled, most precious snippets of our history together were not something I worked at– has set me free in parenting. For a long time, I swung from forcing myself to drag out the craft supplies every day and half-heartedly slog through oceans of Elmer glue and faux feathers to not doing it … but feeling terribly, awfully, devastatingly guilty. Like the worst little kid mom in the world. Like a quitter.

Hearing from the mouths of my own children that the crafts were great ways to fill an hour, that the clean up song was actually kind of annoying, that popcorn thrown in a big metal mixing bowl was every bit as thrilling as a ladybug themed lunch complete with chocolate antennae curls on apple slices …

I can put away the expectations and bag the guilt.

I still do the things that I know will matter the most with my younger children. Turns out, even at 40, I’ve got energy enough for one more chapter of a Magic Treehouse book, making a beloved stuffed animal talk in funny voices, or joining in on a “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock” sing-a-long. I can randomly pull out the Nutella at snack time and slather the crackers with it, or I can pull a child, alone, into my bedroom for a five minute solitary cuddle and chat time. I can let art just happen, keeping a supply of crayons and pencils and pastels and paper on the table all day, with no direction given at all.

photo-6ting

And on occasion, when the time is right, I can pull off a fabulous, messy craft activity, or make a whole meal themed around a Winnie the Pooh tale, or sew a dress up outfit fit for a king (or queen). But I don’t have to. And when I don’t quite get there, when I don’t go over and above, well …

I know my kids will still remember their mother loving them. Doing fun things. Being there.

And that’s all I ever wanted. No crown for Best Mom Ever. No pat on the back from my fellow SAHMs. Just kids who look back on their childhoods and say, “Those were good days.” I believe they will.