Of shoes and ships and sealing wax*

I told an Irish friend today that I never felt illiterate before I moved to Ireland...

I am constantly struck by the role of language in Irish culture.  Spoken language is caressed, played with, teased, spoken trippingly, stretched and re-examined in a mobius love affair.  Words are cajoled into song and rhythm and meter.  Phrases are plucked so as to hum through the haze of a conversation but are also honed to the sharpest of tips.  An Irishman worth the name can somehow make you laugh and cry all at the same moment, perhaps at yourself but even more probably at him.  The Irish are that kid at the back of the room that always had that perfect comment at the perfect moment; they are the ones that don't have the most muscles but do have the very best word.  The Irish are a bully's worst nightmare.

No matter where I go I am asked if I read this or that and, generally, I haven't.  I read.  I did take a reasonable number of literature classes with a fairly good level of vigor and even threw in a humanities elective here and there.  I can't hold a candle to the Irish.  I'm not sure any product of the US school system save an English major could possibly compare.  They've read the Russians, the Romantics, the Victorians; they've barreled through Beouwulf and meandered through rather incomprehensible moderns with stopovers in all manner of more pedestrian fiction.  Of course, they've read ALL of the great Irish authors.  Yeats and Wilde and Joyce quotes are a common currency used as shorthand whenever the moment possibly allows.  And, not only have they read them but they'd like to discuss them.  Bookstores not only still exist but they actually sell BOOKS rather than the oceans of mugs and bookmarks and stuffed animals you'll find in that rare breed, the American brick and mortar bookstore.  There are used bookstores, large bookstores, little bookstores you can get lost in and bookstores where someone will put a book in your hand and tell you how you simply MUST read it.  I see mothers at school pick up holding veritable tomes.  Most telling, even their engineers are well read.

You won't find the pablum we feed American children's imaginations within the Irish schools.  There are witches and giants.  There are monsters and magic.  There are good fairies and evil fairies and things to wrestle through and with and triumph over.  Megan was doing a phonics sheet the other day and asked if something was a gnome or an elf.  When was the last time you encountered a gnome in a US children's story?


One of the most striking differences to me about the Irish early childhood curriculum is how very focused it is on literacy.  The children spend roughly the first 3 years of their schooling learning not all that much in terms of math.  When US children are making 100th day of school everything and have manipulatives coming out their ears, Irish children are still wrestling with the number 10.  There is an argument to be made for both strategies but mostly, it crystallizes the idea that the US is a culture that was (at least once) based on building and engineering, and, more recently, out mathing the Russians.  The Irish culture predates the space race by millenea and written language by a bit less.  Their culture didn't survive by building the best bombs; they survived by telling the best stories.


*before it drives you crazy...  The Walrus and The Carpenter by Lewis Carroll who I think must have had a bit more than a drop of Irish in his soul

The Essential Self

Sorry.  I am again veering wildly away from the stated purpose of this blog.  In fact, I'm heading rather in the opposite direction.  What happens when the only non-original MacKenzie doesn't go adventuring.  The thing is that I have an awful lot of time to just think while we're in Ireland.  The children are old enough and social enough that they all enjoy time with friends at school.  So, I have a few mornings, most weeks, when I'm alone (something once inconceivable).  I also spend rather a lot of time walking hither and yon.  So, a lot of time for quiet meditation while I walk and clean and scrub and gather.  This of course, leaves the twin questions of why, exactly, the steps are such a disaster (a: I seriously feel a piece of my soul die every time I try to vacuum those steps with the highly unenthusiastic canister vac/satan's minion) and why I manage to post so infrequently (a: you just can't force genius, obvs- I joke!)

Charlie 20 months

I also have rather a lot of time for reading and not a ton of social outlets so I wind up reading rather a lot of blogs.  I noticed something of a trend the last couple of weeks.  Jenny and Stephanie both talk about how difficult it is to figure out a sense of identity within the confines of mothering very young children (after a fashion).  I distinctly remember that struggle and I'm only now really figuring out what it was all about and how I managed to resolve it.  I'm not sure it would help anyone else but perhaps...

It comes down to the "busy" thing.  For a long while we are identified relative to other people.  We are our parent's children and our spouse's wives.  We are a member of this team, that band, this high school, or that college.  We work within this organization.  Over time we might be identified by slightly more individual choices, traits or strengths.  We go to that church; we teach this subject; we bake this cookie; we are terrible at miniature golf.

Megan 1 week

When you become a mother, you are suddenly shifted to the place of identifier.  Suddenly, someone is identified relative to you.  Consciously or unconsciously, this is really stressful.  You are suddenly confronted with a need to identify yourself that allows you to be the nucleus of the equation.  Yes, it is sort of enough to simply be identified as "mommy" but that's still pretty broad.

Things get really sticky if you quit your job although I get the general impression that this is an issue for everyone who makes the transition to mother.

You have abruptly lost a fair number of identifiers you had gotten pretty comfortable with.  You no longer have a job title or company; your figure is completely different (you can be happy with it but it will never be the same.  Seriously, step away from the watermelon diet); you are far too sleepy and preoccupied to do any of those hobbies and such that acted as ancillary identifiers.  In short, you have no idea who you are.

Megan 2 years

This isn't an issue for a while (see aforementioned sleep deprivation).  Then comes the "busy" stage.  Instead of soul searching (and, really, I can't blame myself- I was sooo impossibly tired), you again fall upon the external.  You will be a champion housekeeper- people will marvel at your clean floors.  You enroll your children in toddler art and music and baby gym.  You will join EVERYTHING.  You will volunteer.  You will have THE happiest baby on the block.  You will be a martyr.  You will co-opt an identity if it kills you.  You are no longer simply "mommy."  You are That Mom- the one who manages to do it all and still looks fabulous.  And then you finally notice that this doesn't seem to be the point.  You have plenty of self identifiers but you aren't so much comfortable in that soul deep way.

Noah 1 week

I read an interesting blog post.  The where now completely escapes me and I don't think is accurate in all cases but held a very true bit.  The basic idea was that no one is quite as zen as a mother of more than about 6 children.  This is a mother who has given over.  A mother of 6 has a very keen understanding of the BIG stuff v. everything else.  This is a mother who has internalized the very true mantra of "to everything there is a season."  This is a mother who no longer has to manufacture "busy" but instead is vitally needed as the anchor, centered and intentional who knows how to not be lost in the wild rumpus of life- lots of life.

I am highly unlikely to have 6 children.  Allen has quite strong opinions on the matter.  I have a bit more in the way of options for self identity than that mother of 6.  I could re-busy.  My children could happily swirl about the mother who is identified by the external.  But, I'd rather grow.

Megan 1 week

The thing about being a stay at home mom (at least in my experience) which no one ever mentions is that it forces you to figure out

who you are

When you are dropped into the middle of a foreign country with nothing but time you have no option but to abandon the busy.  I think I would have gotten to the same point eventually but Ireland really accelerated the process.  So, let me share with you, the stay at home mom trying to figure why you are so very busy but still feel so very lost, the busy will never identify you.

  Let go of the busy.  

It's scary but you can do it and you will be stronger for it.  Then you have the delightful option to do because you want to not because you simply must.  Life with littles is loud and hectic and this will take time but it will come and in that moment you have while you're rocking the baby or patting the restless toddler or stirring the mac-n-cheese, think about not what you would rather be doing but instead what you are.  Listen to that small, quiet voice of your soul.  You might not like all the answers but at least you'll know where things stand; strengthen what you like and try to soften what you don't.

I don't have a job title; I'm not a perfect housekeeper; my children are quirky; I bake a mean cookie but that really doesn't serve as complete self identity.  Instead...

Noah 2 months

I am strong willed.  I am compassionate.  I am impatient.  I excel at creating a home but will always be a "good enough" housekeeper.  I will overcome most any adversity and I can adapt but I am aware there is always a price.  I strive to be a light rather than an abyss.  I will always have a squishy tummy.  I would rather have a friendly face than a pretty one.  I stand for something because I have learned that to not is to lose yourself but I struggle with confrontation.  I do not fit in a box.  I am rarely what is expected.

Paris

I've been struggling over how to write about our experience with Paris.  I approach anything I put out in the electronic yonder as something that can come back to bite you.  I know myself.  I will mess up the "to" line in an email.  I know facebook wants us to all be openly connected all the time.  I know that someday my children will google me.  I try to be mindful.  I also know that I am but a tourist.  We may be staying in Ireland longer than the average visitor but European cultures span millennia.  I can talk about contrasts and similarities between the cultures but I'm kidding myself if I think I really have a complete picture.  We spent 3 days in Disneyland Paris and less than 48 hours in Paris proper.  And, I got the strong impression that Parisians are distinct from the rest of the French.  So, you'll have to filter my perceptions through the knowledge that my experience was brief but vivid.

The architecture really was just as stunning as I expected and this was what I got to see while wandering the sidewalks, somewhat lost, in the rain, in temperatures just above freezing with 3 rather worn out and hungry children and everyone had some degree of a cold, cough and fever.  But, you looked around and it was worth it.  You saw beauty.  You saw hopes  You saw dreams.  You saw ideals carved from the stones of the human earth placed into the heavens.

The food really was quite good and we were eating from vending carts, Metro sandwich shops, and hotel breakfast bars.  You could tell that someone cared about what you experienced when you ate that ham and cheese sandwich.  Someone actually took a moment to see if the lettuce was crisp and if the ham was marbled.  The children are pretty sure that heaven is a crepe maker who uses a generous hand with the nutella.  I was shocked by the amount of french you can apparently pick up through the immersive experience of having all of your food products bear labels in english, spanish, and french.  Thanks, NAFTA!

The people were where I hit my stumbling block.  Some people in Paris were just as rude as you have heard.  But, most people weren't.  This is true pretty much everywhere you might go but the distinction was that there wasn't much in the way of middle ground.  People were either really just horrid or were perfectly pleasant.  I can see how this wouldn't be all that much of an issue if you were traveling as an adult or even if you were with older children.  But, we were traveling with young children.

The Parisians were actually quite pleasant and friendly to the children pretty much uniformly but as their mother, I was their buffer.  I got the nasty looks if they stumbled and blocked the sidewalk.  I got the curses when they spread out too far in the crosswalk.  I got the sighs as they spent too long examining the miniature Eifel towers.  I got the talking to when Megan was struggling with her coat (I was helping Noah with his at that moment). I got the repeated chastisement when Noah's stuffed animal dragged (I was carrying dinner at the time).  Allen didn't figure into the equation.  It was all on me.

In addition there was a general attitude that could best be summed up as "look out for number 1."  I can see how this would have easily developed.  You base a culture on beauty (with a heavy leaning toward external rather than internal), throw in the social contract, give a twist of secular humanism, see your country continually decimated in various wars, watch your population plummet and your culture therefore suffer some serious hits, and then, as a capper, have a good hunk of your children experience Nazi occupation.  I can see how you would easily wind up with a culture where the only one you could really count on was yourself.  I can even see how this would extend to the phenomenal level of social programs offered by the French government.  If you can't count on anyone else to help you, you would want a guarantee of government assistance and if it benefits someone else, so be it.  That's a happy accident.  The greater effect on the economy or budget isn't really your concern.  You need to take care of you.  It sort of spreads out in ripples until you get to "France looks out for France."

When we interacted with people through their jobs, they were all friendly, kind, and generally quite competent.  There was something of a key difference between other places, though, especially in Ireland.  While you sometimes do get the impression that this person is simply doing their job and doing it well, you will often get the impression that there is also an element of this person just generally likes interacting with the masses.  There is something motivating them beyond $12.50/hr.  In Paris (and even more so in Disneyland), I got the distinct impression that it was all about the money.  They will school you in how service with a smile is done but only because that is what they are paid for and also, because they are Parisian and obviously better than pretty much everyone.  After all, if you are the only one looking out for you, you better be pretty damn competent.

Looking out for yourself extended to things like waiting in line.  People casually and confidently wandering into the frontish of the line was pretty much how it was done.  Fastpasses useful only during your designated time slot were completely incomprehensible.  If you had a pass, you should be able to immediately board your chosen ride.  Mothers were expected to be extremely assertive about assuring their children the best seats, best snack, best view, generally just the best.    This was when I seriously had to buffer.  I was expected to be constantly on guard so my angels didn't suddenly wind up behind a group of 25 (ask me how I know!).  I was expected to wiggle and worm my way up to a reasonable spot near the stage.  I was expected to dart through craziness to get the children their breakfast cereal.  I was expected to throw a few elbows to get my children safely across the street.  I didn't even try for getting them "the best," I was too busy trying to just keep the wolves at bay.

Paris wasn't my favorite place.  It had a lot to do with not liking what I became after about 12 hours of exposure.  I did step up.  I did get assertive.  I did throw elbows and get in profanity laced shouting matches and, by golly, I did wish I had gotten me some acrylics.  It's sort of comforting to know that somewhere, deep inside, under the chocolate chip cookie recipes, breastfeeding experience, children's book knowledge and perfect for cuddles on the couch squishy belly there is mama grizzly but I don't really want to visit with her on a regular basis.

Lenten Musings

We are considered something of an oddity in Ireland for a variety of reasons but a big one is due to our religion.  Not only do we regularly attend church, we do it out of desire rather than obligation (or at least Allen and the children do, I find it to be a weekly exercise in homesickness).  To add to the curiosity we are Protestant and not only that, we are also Methodist- a lesser known variant. We haven't in any way experienced anything but acceptance- no derision, heckling, discrimination or anything of that sort.  But, we are definitely viewed as being out of the norm.

The thing is that I was listening to an NPR show (you can stream them on-line all over the world!) around the time of the election and they were talking about polling.  The part that stuck out to me was about cultural question biases.  If you poll people in the US asking if they attend church on a weekly basis you got some relatively large percentage 40% 60% (?).  If you asked in Ireland you got about 20%.  However, if you looked at actual attendance rolls you find that the percentage in the US and Ireland are about the same- 20%.  The difference is that in the US attending church on a weekly basis is culturally applauded and in Ireland (and most of Western Europe) it is viewed as something you certainly could do, but wouldn't you rather have a nice lie in and a fry up?

There is obviously a great deal of cultural baggage around religion, especially in Ireland.  Not only does the Church of Ireland/Anglican Church historically have close ties with political and cultural oppression but the Catholic Church hasn't done itself any favors.  In between sex scandals, the Magdalene laundries, child abuse scandals, and generally being less than welcoming to young children (which I really can't understand- if you encourage everyone to be fruitful, you really have to be ready for some crying babies and potty training toddlers) I can understand why the current generation has turned away.

The thing is that it just makes me sad.  If you are a happy atheist, go on with your happy self!  But, it seems like a I encounter rather a lot of people who aren't so much happy.  I've encountered a lot of lost souls; a lot of hopelessness; a lot of confusion and aimlessness.  There seems to have been a throwing of the baby out with the bathwater.

The thing that is so easy to forget but is vital to remember is that:

while the heart of the church, 

any church, whatever divinity floats your boat, 

is divine, 

the hands of the church 

are very much human.  

The human hands of the church in Ireland have managed to completely overshadow the Divine for any number of people.  When I talk to others about why they decided to no longer attend church there is a great deal of discussion about the difficulties of getting children to sit quietly during Mass; a lack of bathrooms at church; the lack of integrity shown by the Priesthood; the lack of need for Divine guidance in knowing how people should treat one another; a frustration with many demands with no return- tangible or intangible, or, worse, a squandering of sacrifices.  I hear about people believing in God but not the church.  I hear about and have experienced a reliance on doing things "the way they have always been" without thought as to what the scriptural or spiritual basis may have been or where it may be leading.  There is an over-reliance on the legal strictures of religious observance without the underlying uplift of Divine Inspiration.  While there is something to be said to finding the Divine within the repetition of the mundane, there is also something to be said for not losing the Divine spark within human constructs.

The thing that I have found most notably missing, especially from my Methodist faith, is the emphasis on social justice and personal revelation.  There is a great deal of discussion in every sermon about what Jesus did 2000 years ago.  There is a fair amount of emphasis on "Jesus loves you" theology with a smattering of how you should love Jesus and the occasional fire and brimstone billboard (usually from the Salvation Army).  There is rarely even a nod as to why.  Why does Jesus love us and why should I care and for that matter, very little concrete discussion about what you should be doing now, right here, with all this love you've been gifted with.

I have come to wonder if this might be the end result of 2 elements somewhat unique to this culture.

First, religious instruction is built into the public school system in Europe and especially in Ireland, where most all schools have a religious affiliation.  This means that there is no Sunday School for children and thus, no Sunday School for adults.  The upshot is that the sermon then becomes something of a Sunday School lesson and those lessons tend to focus on Bible knowledge rather than application of principles.

Second, the state has become the main dispenser of social justice and reform.  While I agree with the general idea and feel that there are areas that are more suited to government action than religious (for instance, I don't think a parent who wishes to stay home with their child should have to work outside the home simply to obtain affordable health insurance.  I am quite comfortable with the trade off of paying more in taxes as a preventative measure.), the church has not been nimble in responding to a changing call.  Instead of adapting to changing social needs and filling the crevices that are always gaping between what society needs and what the government can offer, the churches have simply given up and given over.  Their human hands were flawed.  Their endeavours were tainted.  Instead of giving people a reason to come together to try again based upon those very same Bible verses we spend so much time discussing as history lessons, I hear ministers bemoaning dwindling coffers and empty seats.

The thing that motivates me to remain strong in my Methodist faith is two-fold.  First, I believe that there is a spark of Divine in that which the church undertakes and implements with good faith.  I believe that somehow, my not enough becomes plenty when mixed with the hopes, faith, and offerings of others.  Second, I believe that at the heart of the Methodist faith is the belief that all have the Divine within and with it, a calling and responsibility to fight for the weak.  Methodists are rabble rousers, do-gooders, and trouble makers.  While other faiths do similar work, this is the faith tradition I feel closest to.

I can not speak for other faiths within Europe, but I can say that I have observed a notable lack of discussion about the second half of what I consider a key tennet of my faith.  When more time is spent hunting for Bible verses than learning how to apply them to the very important work you are to do during your very precious time on earth, I can see why people are left wondering what all the fuss is about.

Come together, over Me.

Pretty, Funny, Happy, Real

So, this time I can't find a way to neatly divide life into 4 categories so I'm squishing them all together.  :-)

This winter found me at a loose end.  The weather was best described as dark and dreary more often than not and I was quite homesick.  Creative activities tend to help me find my way out of aimlessness but the supplies for most of my old standbys were in the US and I didn't want to take up something new that required all manner of bits and bobs that I would then have to sort out when time came to leave.  So, I landed upon knitting.  Surely if there was only one hobby I should take up in Ireland, it was knitting!

Noah helps.  Without him I never would have remembered to get that yarn on my needle!

Allen performed some google magic and I went from weeping on the couch on a Friday to happily buying needles and yarn on Saturday.  Charlie's scarf came first and took me a good week to manage.  Things started moving much more quickly after we visited the Rock of Cashel.   There was a tapestry on display that had originally been in the chapel? cathedral?  At any rate, it contained intentional errors to emphasise that only God can create perfection.  I decided to embrace the philosophy and completed Megan and Noah's scarves in a matter of days.  I am now on Ravelry as afriendlyface.  I'm trying to decide between making a pillow cover or baby sweater next.

Happily, Ireland is on a definite upswing.  The sun is up around the time I am.  The rain is rain rather than sleet (at least most of the time).  The Celts consider spring to start on February 1 and I can see why.  Trees are blooming, daffodils are peeking up, crocuses dot the landscape.  I am really looking forward the glory of an Irish spring.

We're in the final stages of potty training with Noah.  At various intervals he now runs through the house yelling, "The poop poop is coming!  The poop poop is coming!"  It's like having your very own very small, very cute, and slightly demented Paul Revere.

When not channeling
Paul Revere

Finally, I went out with some of the other mothers from Megan's class for drinks at the pub.  In what is perhaps the capstone of my Irish experience... When Irish women get drunk, they start quoting Shakespeare.

Look Up

A while back, I was reading one of those action adventur-y romance novels and the hero was instructing the heroine that she should always be sure to look up in whatever dangerous situation they were entering.  The point he was making was that we generally look straight ahead, if not simply down.  If we're really on the ball, we might look to our sides or behind us occasionally but that the smart attacker makes like and owl and swoops down on you when you least expect it.

I'm hardly in the midst of Constant Danger but I have tried to take the advice anyway.  Mothers have a peculiar mix of tunnel vision and constant perimeter assessment.  Somehow you have to be aware of the massive puddle your toddler is Just About to stomp in while also being sure that your adventurous and independent 4 year old isn't about to take out any pedestrians 1/2 a block away (or at least manage to holler loudly enough to give them fair warning).  You have to keep a watch on the pace to be sure no one is being left behind while still making it to wherever in a timely manner and then offer a reasonably coherent response to whomever is talking at any given moment.  It's pretty easy to forget to look up.

Cashel

Neglecting the ceiling is a major misstep on a European tour.

Taking a decent picture, with your phone, while chasing children is pretty much impossible but take my word for it (or do a google image search) the ceiling is pretty much always worth a good look.

I'm a Methodist and an American.  On the whole, we don't do cathedrals.  On occasion, we have positively picturesque little country chapels.  The interiors are often nice and occasionally lovely but not so much awe inspiring.  We have a smattering of breathtaking religious architecture gifted to us by other denominations but it's a drop in the bucket compared to roughly 1500 years of European religious architecture.  It's enough to make a girl feel slightly hostile towards the Puritans.  Best of all, Europeans work in stone so there is some real staying power.  That's a lot of abbeys, chapels, and cathedrals, all built for the glory of God and all designed to take your mind to a higher plane.  It's architecture in one of it's purest forms and it makes me understand why creating publicly accessible beauty was a priority for first the Catholic Church and the many other denominations that followed.

Westminster Abbey

When we visited Westminster Abbey I was kept busy dragging Noah off of crypts and Very Historic Chairs when not telling Charlie, Megan, and/or Noah to stop running.  Someday I will publish a coffee table book of pictures of my children playing tag, chase, statues, and duck duck goose in sanctuaries, chapels, historic graveyards, Druid sacred spaces, abbeys and cathedrals.  We always make them stop and explain why but I also sort of think that Someone gets a kick out of the uninhibited joy of playing children as well.

When I finally did get to stop at at the transept and look up, it truly was A Moment.  In the space of a breath I was transported.  In the beauty of the soaring ceiling, the precise symmetry of the supports, the unfathomable effort that must have gone into building this all in a time when by hand was the only option, I saw why beauty and God are interlinked and the why of the toil was clear.

In other places, the vaulted ceiling, joists, and supports have been replaced by sky.  I see the beauty in all it's glorious permutations, cloudy, roiling, gray, alabaster, cerulean, slate, and indigo, perfectly framed by the soaring structures long ago built to inspire hope, reflection, and joy and am constantly amazed that those ambitions are still achieved, even in the ruins and crumbles.

Then I see a very few small people who feel so very moved that the only appropriate expression is a rollicking game of tag.

Cashel

Don't forget to look up.

My Hero

So, this post isn't about our time in Ireland but has been percolating about for a while.  And I never did get Allen anything for Valentine's Day so maybe this could count?  Plus, we've been watching The Big Bang Theory and there are enough echoes of our relationship that it inspires a bit of reflection.  

Megan drawing on chalkboard Allen made

Then I read this post from Grace about how her husband takes care of the children for a few hours after doing his night rotation as a Labor and Delivery resident so Grace can get some blessed sleep.  There's a lot of layers of love there on both Grace and Simon's part.  Grace is offering up some heroic parenting to support Simon's career and Simon is doing some heroic parenting to support Grace.  It's all just impossibly sweet wrapped up in This Is Life.

The thing is that that's my marriage, too.  I talk with other moms and they are so jealous of my relationship with Allen.  He supports me when I need it and how I need it.  He is an active father who changes diapers, gets up in the night, kisses boo boos, and reads stories.  He tells me how much he enjoys the dinners I fix and clearly values my role in keeping our family and home running.  But, it wasn't this mysterious happenstance.  It took time and effort and lots and lots of communicating.

Charlie at 3 months

There was a very clear moment when Charlie was 4 months old.  I was taking a shower and trying to enjoy my 15 minutes when I was Not On Call and Allen came in with a screaming Charlie asking me what to do.  I gave some suggestions but also firmly pointed out that Charlie did not come with a manual.  There was no secret mommy class.  I had not developed some sort of telepathy.  As Charlie's Daddy, Allen knew him just as well as I did and I had confidence in his ability to figure this out and if he couldn't well, that was not unique to him.  I spent a good bit of my days (and nights) holding a screaming baby pretty sure that I was the worst mom ever.  It took small steps.  It took a bit for Allen to stop seeing me as the expert.  After all, I babysat constantly as a teen, worked in nurseries and day care and even got a Master's degree in what was basically babies with disabilities.  But, Charlie, just like all people, was unique.  At first, it was Allen doing baby care while I made dinner then it was Allen taking Charlie out for a walk.  As Allen became more confident, it just became the way we parent.

Allen, Megan, Charlie first day of school

I never looked on my husband's parenting as "babysitting."  I never considered it especially noteworthy when he took the children out by himself.  He wasn't coerced into parenthood and this was what he signed up for.  I don't criticize his parenting.  I don't micromanage.  I respect his parenting decisions and if I disagree with something, we have a discussion where we both have equal weight just like we would about money or what movie to watch.  He, in turn, is obscurely insulted when praised for how wonderful a father he is for doing something I would be expected to do as a matter of course.

As our family grew, so did our skills and our relationship with each other.  We were blessed with fussy, particular, high maintenance babies (who turn into relatively easy toddlers and preschoolers).  It was eminently clear that if we didn't cling to each other, we would sink.  So, we learned how to cling and then how to swim and by this point we are hanging out on quite the lush boat.


I figured out the key to my husband and I sort of think it's the key to all of them so I'm sharing.

Allen wants to be a knight in shinning armor.  

He wants to save the day.  

He wants to be the hero. 

He wants to be the rock.

He wants to get the girl.  

Once I understood that, I understood how to communicate with him.  I could explain that the dragon was not experiencing a REM cycle for 3 months.   I could tell him the monster was trying to change a poopy diaper while in the throes of absolutely mind boggling morning sickness.  I could explain that the building needing to be lept in one bound was my need for 2 hours of silence.  I could tell him that when I called him weeping after one of Those Mornings, I really just needed my rock to tell me it was all going to be ok and that I was, in fact, a Good Mom.  While quests of the Round Table are something of fiction, being a White Knight was firmly in his reach.

Noah and Allen

I do my best to set my husband up for success.  I lay out what I need to feel valued.  At one especially stressful point in our lives, I put "give Becky a gift" on his calendar at regular intervals (Our Sunday School class worked our way through The 5 Love Languages and it was magic.  Nothing suits an engineer's soul quite like his wife taking a quiz that spells out Exactly what he needs to do to make her happy.)  I send emails with gift suggestions.  I give him warning when I can feel myself starting to get overwhelmed and tell him I really need some extra alone time or an extra date night or just some more chocolate around the house.

We talk about ways to meet both of our needs.  I lose my mind around 4:30 (as do most mothers of littles).  We figured out a way that he could get his work done but also get home around 4:30.  When that couldn't happen, we figured out ways to budget to have a babysitter come to help out for the OMG hour.  I tell him when I'm feeling down and could use some extra compliments.

This requires a certain effort on my part in terms of self awareness.  For instance, what I'm reading is almost always a good barometer for where I am in my head.  I read Alpha romance when I'm feeling completely overwhelmed and just want someone to swoop in and tell me what to do.  I read non-fiction when I'm feeling curious and/or understimulated.  I read inspirational romance when I'm feeling as if all is right with the world.  I read old favorites when I'm feeling insecure.

Becky and Allen

I tell him flat out that he's my rock and my knight in shining armor and how much I value him because he is and I do.

And, best of all, 

he gets the girl.