Tag: parenthood

Mothering By Faith

Posted on October 14, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

Emmalee pulled another mug from the cabinet and poured more coffee. She handed it to Cora. “Can I ask you a question? But you got to promise to be honest with me, even if it means hurting my feelings.”

Cora nodded and took a sip from the mug. “Sure.”

“It’s just that you know so much about babies and mothering, and I was wondering if you think I can take care of a baby on my own?”

“Of course you can, sweetie,” Cora said, sitting her mug on the counter and reaching for Emmalee’s hand. “But you ain’t alone.”

Emmalee brushed away another tear.

~from The Funeral Dress by Susan Gregg Gilmore

Do any of us really know if we can take care of a baby on our own?

Eighteen years into motherhood, and I still find myself asking that question on a regular basis.

Motherhood, for many women, is the ultimate mission in their lives. It is the transcendent goal they strive for, feeling that with the birth experience complete, their lives will somehow magically fall into place.

Many of my friends carefully planned motherhood. Some wanted to be young mothers, feeling that if they were able to give birth in their early twenties that they would be ‘young enough’ to enjoy their children – I’m sure some felt their youthful bodies could more easily survive childbirth and keep up with active toddlers. Numerous girlfriends, like me, chose the college and career path first, deciding that the stability of accomplishment would surely be the golden ticket for a successful parenting experience. I was confident that if I took care of myself first, I would be well-equipped to deal with the uncertainties of mothering.

Some women I know simply tumbled into motherhood, like many experiences in their lives, without any inkling of how they got to that place where they had to choose between what was right and best for their child, and what felt right and best for themselves. I have friends who have endured the torment of infertility, their bodies battling against every maternal instinct they feel, only to end in crumpled dreams and a reconfiguration of self. And I know women who calculate the ticking of the biological clock, never having cast their bet at deliberate conception but feeling each second tick by in real time, sure that if it doesn’t happen soon, it never will.

There is a certain sense of possibility in the unknown. The first moment our child is placed upon our chest is glutted with possibility and hope. We feel powerful, exhilarated, and terrified all at once, knowing that life as we knew it before has forever altered. Our insecurities, our inadequacies, and our aspirations pile into the six pounds of sticky, squirmy flesh that has suddenly become ours alone to nurture for a lifetime. And we wonder, can we do this? Are we enough? How will we know when they ________ or __________ what to say? To do?

And somewhere along the way, we realize the secret. We hear the words of those wiser than we, words that remind us that we all we really need to do is practice mothering by faith.

“Our crown has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do is wear it”― James Baldwin

We realize that we are not alone, that all those mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers that have come before us have set the course for that pocket-sized little person we cradle in our arms. We realize that we carry with us in the very center of our soul everything we need to take care of this baby on our own. We realize, that if we stop long enough to peer right into our hearts, that we really do know the answers.

We become conscious of ourselves. We exude the instincts bred into us. We wear the crown proudly, sometimes pausing to push it back into place when it teeters precariously, or drop to our knees to scrape it up off the ground when it falls.

But we smile broadly at our child, feeling every bit the queen of the world. We trust. We are mothers. We CAN do this. We are not alone.

We are mothering by faith.

“When nothing is sure, everything is possible.” ― Margaret Drabble

No one has ever entrusted impoverished Emmalee with anything important but she takes it upon herself to sew her mentor’s resting garment in The Funeral Dress by Susan Gregg Gilmore. Join From Left to Write on October 15 as we discuss The Funeral Dress. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Raising Our Rainbows

Posted on September 4, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

“Parenting is hard as hell.”

They come into this world with something to prove. At least, mine did. Both decided to make early, dramatic entrances that seriously showed me that what I expected was not in their plan. All those birthing classes, those books, the lectures from well-meaning friends and grandparents who definitely have done this before – I listened and thought I had it all figured out. I thought they would arrive on schedule, eat on schedule, and certainly sleep through the night. I thought my parenting would fit nicely into a lesson plan, with strategically placed instruction, some practice time, a bit of review, and that then they would pass the test with ease. Little did I know who was testing whom.

“Sometimes we don’t owe anybody answers, sometimes we don’t have answers, and sometimes we lie like celebrities.”

I thought my girl was going to be a boy, and my boy would be a girl. I thought that I could handle working full time and mothering, and that my husband and I were invincible, that nothing would rock our parenting. We were clear on how we would raise our children and what they would turn out to be. I was positive my girl would play with any toys she preferred, except Barbie – she was banned around our house. I knew that my kids would try every enrichment class, every sport, every opportunity that they were curious about, and I would let them choose which they liked best. I knew for sure that my son would never hold a toy gun, pretend to hold a toy gun, or do anything remotely related to guns.

“The joke is on me. Just when I think I know my child, he surprises me.”

As those experienced mothers, grandparents, aunts, grocery store clerks and just about anybody who ever told me anything about child rearing knew, children are anything but predictable. They sleep on their own schedule, they eat, play, dream and imagine life on their own terms. They frustrate us with their choices, and astound us with their ability to tackle life in ways we never thought we could. They play with Barbie when their six-year-old friends bring her to birthday parties, then push her under the bed when they’re done. They read book after book about wars and guns and create amazing paper replicas, even when we say they shouldn’t. They follow their dreams, they make new friends, they try and fail and try again. They join teams and take classes and go places and test out who they want to be and what feels right to them. They choose their outfits, cut their own hair, and live life on their own terms.

“It was like watching somebody come alive, watching a flower bloom, watching a rainbow cross the sky.”

And then suddenly, somehow, that magical moment happens when it all clicks. When the new friend becomes the best friend, and afternoons stretch into evenings and they never want to leave each other’s side. When they discover the magic of a piece of clay and some glaze, and transform it into something only their mind can see. When they get their first ski helmet and goggles, and sleep with them on all night long. When the Christmas list transforms from paper to reality. When their library card has their very own name on it, and their report card actually echoes their efforts. In those moments, those small seconds of time when the world pauses and it suddenly makes sense, those are the moments when grabbing my camera just isn’t enough. Those are the moments when I realize that no matter what I do, no matter what I thought was the plan, their joy transcends all that and becomes their own.

“We are mindful every day to teach our sons that hate should not breed hate, fear should not breed fear, and prejudice should not breed prejudice.”

But it is also in those moments when I realize exactly what it’s all about – that my children are living as they were born to be. My children are living life as they think they should be. It is in these small moments that I realize that what we have taught them doesn’t always manifest in the ways we think or expect it should. Sometimes parenting is hard as hell. Sometimes it feels like we’re walking the path without a GPS to guide us, and the handbook has been left at home. Often times parenting feels like trusting in something you cannot see, but feel deeply in your soul. But like those experienced grandparents, friends, aunts and well meaning strangers, one thing I know about parenting is that if we’re mindful, if we love our children unconditionally, and if our eyes light up each moment they walk into a room, we’re on the right track to raising a human who believes in themselves and the power to be whoever they want to be.

This post was inspired by the memoir Raising My Rainbow by Lori Duron as she shares her journey raising a gender creative son. Join From Left to Write on September 5 as we discuss Raising My Rainbow. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

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I Took My Kids to Macklemore and They Survived

Posted on May 27, 2013 by Jennifer Wolfe

Macklemore performing with Ryan Lewis (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It was one of those surprise decisions, really. A ski mama friend, knowing I love Macklemore, looking for another mom adventurous enough to hang out at a music festival on a school night with our teenagers, called me. Of course, I was game-on. Not only could I see Macklemore live, but I’d get the Coolest-Mom-of-the-Year Award when I surprised my teenage son and daughter with the tickets. Win-win, I’d say – so I took my kids to Macklemore.

As so many well laid plans do, they became a bit complicated due to unexpected pole vault meets and a bit more driving than I thought, but finally we arrived in Napa for the Bottlerock Festival – the first night of what is widely hoped to be an annual three day music event. We had the timing down perfectly, and when the shuttle bus dropped us off in downtown Napa the kids were like racehorses at the starting gate, hardly pausing to take the customary photo for the Instagram post. They were going to see Macklemore, and they couldn’t wait.

At Bottlerock, pre-Macklemore

Being teens, the first thing they wanted, naturally, was food. Scanning the myriad of food trucks, we settled on two adjacent to each other and placed our order. Rookie move, mom. As the clock ticked down, the opening song thumped loudly throughout the fairgrounds and there he was-Macklemore in full glory. Food or Macklemore? I saw it in their eyes as they grabbed each other’s hands and sprinted to the stage area, leaving me alone with the food truck.

I started to wonder if I’d ever see them again, actually. Arms loaded with hot cheeseburgers and chicken sandwiches, I headed towards the stage, innocently believing their growling stomachs would find me . I was wrong. As I stood there, scanning the dark throng of tweens, teens, moms, and college kids, wafts of fragrant smoke filled the air, I realized they were nowhere to be found. I was standing there like a soccer mom with an armload of snacks and no children in sight, feeling just a bit foolish. After multiple unanswered texts (not easy to do with arms full of food), I shoved the uneaten dinners in my mom-purse (moms always have purses the size of shopping bags, right?), grabbed my ski mama bestie and threw my hands in the air. Macklemore was on stage, and the crowd was wrapped around his finger.

The collective energy of the young people, singing along with him about love and peace and equality and harmony, made me smile. I wasn’t worried that my teens were somewhere out there, lost in the throbbing mass of humanity. I watched Macklemore crowd surf, trusting that his people would hold him up, not let him fall, and realized that that’s really what was going on for them. It’s no wonder people love Macklemore; he’s really a voice for his generation, and more.It’s not about flash or fancy cars or lavish parties, or any of the stereotypical hip-hop images that might come to mind when you hear his music. Macklemore is something different. He is what our teens are looking for- a message of hope. Of acceptance. Of feeling loved for just being who you are, not who someone wants you to be.

When the final song ended, the lights came on and the dust settled, my teens emerged from the masses with huge grins on their faces and stories to tell. Yes, they saw some scuffles and overindulgence, but to me, that’s part of the deal. Life isn’t perfectly behaved, and it takes all kinds of experiences to learn how to navigate through it. But life was certainly in that fairground that night. Macklemore was singing about it. My kids were hearing it. We all were believing it, and hoping that we can make it come true. They survived. They knew how to handle themselves. They didn’t walk away talking about how they were going to start drinking or smoking or fighting-quite the opposite, in fact.

It was definitely a win-win, I’d say.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Spending Time in the Snow: Making Memories On the Way to Mammoth

Posted on December 30, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

I spend huge amounts of time in the snow. I mean HUGE. More than normal people; well, people who don’t actually LIVE in the snow.

Last weekend, my trip to the snow started like this: left work at lunch, loaded the car, started up some Taylor Swift on the iPod, and drove off in the early afternoon.

Lily Starbucks

Everything started off really well. Driving up the hill, leaving the valley fog behind, we were making progress. Only five hours to Mammoth-no problem before dark.

We even had time to pull off the road and load up on caffeine – it was BOGO Christmas drinks, after all!

This is what a trip to the snow should look like, right?

As we drove uphill, things went downhill. Fast.

Momentarily switching on the radio, we heard the news about Newtown. Tears. Shock. Horror.

Then it started to rain. Not good. The Prius is a lot of things, but it is definitely not a snow car.

We checked the weather channel app – if we hurried, we’d make it over the pass and into Nevada. It would be smooth sailing after that.

Looks pretty, right? It was. Lily quickly grabbed the camera while Taylor boomed through the speakers. So cheery. A white Christmas?

Not so fast. Chains ahead.

Highway 50 isn’t called the ‘loneliest highway in the US’ for nothing. There were NO services, so I had to suck it up and bundle up. My daughter was watching. There was no one else who could do it.

Don’t be fooled by the smile on my face. It was all for the camera. Inside, I was starting to panic. Prius in the snow is not my favorite mode of travel.

My spirits were elevated when the CalTrans chain inspectors, amazed that I did it all by myself, fist-bumped me and sent me over the pass. It was only 12 miles-we could do it. It was only 4:00, and with a three-hour drive in front of us, I wasn’t too worried.

Forgoing our usual shortcut, we opted for the pass over into the Nevada desert. I ditched the chains – again, all by myself, and as snow turned to rain, I thought we were clear.

Damn Weather Channel app.

What looked clear actually became snow. Lots and lots of snow. But it was flat, and as we passed through Bridgeport behind schedule, I felt nervous but confident we could make it.

Compared to 50, Highway 395 is desolate. Flat and decorated with gorgeous rock formations and rivers, I usually enjoy the drive. But at this point it was getting dark, I was tired, and there was snow hovering way too close to the six-inch clearance of the Prius.

Suddenly, we saw it: the one and only traffic alert sign, pronouncing our need for chains. Now.

And like a beacon in the night, the Big Sky Motel appeared, equipped with a large floodlight. It was the only light on the road besides mine, so I quickly pulled into the parking lot and prepared myself.

Like a scene from Psycho, the motel door opened and a grizzled, shaggy man sauntered out in his sweatpants, with an equally scraggly dog following behind him.

“Want a room? Only $69,” he croaked. I smelled something – he must have been enjoying himself in the motel lobby.

Although I desperately wanted to say yes, I declined, but when he offered to help with the chains I jumped on it.

Ten minutes later, we were off. Until the chains broke. In the dark.

At this point, I felt like Wonder Woman. Faster than she could spin into her costume, I jumped out and pulled those suckers off. I was muddy, exhausted, and determined to make it before dawn.

We did.

This is the next morning, enjoying coffee in our favorite funky coffee joint, Stellar Brew.

And this view…what a reward.

She didn’t even mind spending the afternoon in the motel room, studying for finals.

And despite the struggle, the frustrations, and the hours and hours of driving – not to mention the ski race that was canceled, we ended up with a white Christmas after all. And a whole bunch of memories, too.

Mammoth Lakes on Dwellable

Jennifer Wolfe

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Sharing My Tears

Posted on December 19, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

As a teacher, I’m trained in school safety procedures. I know how to protect my students in the classroom.

My first instinct when I heard about the Newtown school shooting, however, was to gather my own children near to me. My 16-year-old daughter and I had a road trip planned that afternoon, so we listened to the radio as the news of the victims and shooter began to emerge. She saw tears rolling down my face as I drove.

I tried to explain why I was crying; it’s the shared grief among the community of motherhood that couldn’t be felt by anyone who hadn’t held their baby in their arms. I explained to her about how we cannot fathom the pain the parents of the slain children must be experiencing. I praised the words of commitment toward ending gun violence, knowing that was a tangible action she could grasp. I shared my sadness and horror that a son would kill his mother–but there is no explaining that. All I could do as I drove along was hold her hand and share my tears.

image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Jennifer Wolfe

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