Colin and I were on a date. Everyone else had plans or
meetings, so the three year old was stuck home with Momma once again. I decided
that we should have plans too, so we went on a date.
He chose a hot dog, and I ordered a BLT, knowing that he
would eat half the bacon for me. I let him pick out a table. I don’t really
remember what we were talking about. He’s three. He rarely stops talking. But
we were enjoying being together with no toys, no computers, no phones, and
nobody else.
Just Colin and Momma.
As we were finishing up, he said, “Momma, I really like this
Kool Aid.”
I laughed. “Of course you do. It’s liquid sugar.”
The gentleman at the table next to us laughed too. He was
eating alone and had been privy to our conversation going on behind him. He
turned around, smiling, and apologized. He hadn’t meant to intrude, he said.
Then he asked me, “Are you a teacher, if you don’t mind me
asking?”
“No,” I replied.
“It’s just that my daughter is a teacher, and you talk to
your son like she does her children. Always teaching. It’s so good for them,”
he said.
I told him that made my day and
that I was going to remember him saying it for a long time, tucking it away for
days when I felt like a terrible mother. He laughed again, and then we eased
into talking about the weather for a minute or two.
*********************************************************
It was Susan, my life-long best friend, who taught me to
always be teaching.
She taught me deliberately, giving me ideas of games and
activities to share with my boys. Telling me which toys were good for
stimulating which area of brain development. Suggesting books for them and
books for me too.
I learned from my best friend that every moment of fun is
also a moment of learning for children.
It has been hard to live up to her expectations of
motherhood. I fail a lot.
And when I failed, she also taught me that we always get to
try again.
Until, of course, we don’t.
Because some mothers aren’t there
forever. Some mothers get cancer and die. Some mothers have to pack a lifetime
of loving, teaching, and caring into five years of their child’s life. Some
mothers like Susan.
**********************************************************
I take a pill every morning. When I decided to start taking
an antidepressant, I felt like a failure. I called Susan to let her know how broken
I was. How I needed to take medicine in order to be a decent person. That I had
depression.
Like every good best friend should, she laughed at me. “Take
your pill and move on, Marty. Every mother I know does. It’s better for your
family if you take care of yourself. Oh, and you aren’t broken. You have a
chemical imbalance in your brain. It’s medical. That’s why they make pills for
it.”
She was such a scientist.
**********************************************************
I teach my children. I teach them to communicate. I teach
them to be respectful. I teach them compassion. I teach them music, art, story-telling,
dancing, singing, and anything else I can squeeze into our days.
I also teach them how to over react. I teach them how to
throw a tantrum. How to yell. How to be self-deprecating. How to withdraw.
It is after those moments, the teaching of my own
shortcomings that I rely so heavily on the kindness of strangers at next table
and the wisdom of my best friend.
You are always teaching your children. Take care of yourself
in order to take care of your family. And when you screw up, try again.
Because grace is one of the most important lessons of them
all.
