Tag Archives: motherhood

Fill in the Blanks

Posted on by under Role & Place, Uncategorized

If you had told my seventeen-year-old self what she would grow up to be, I think she might have cried. But then again, she never knew half as much as she supposed.

It all began early. In second grade I was set apart as “gifted.” Practically, this meant I stood waiting in the school stairwell on Thursday mornings, with a little boy name Todd, and a mini-bus came and delivered us to a neighboring school. It was the best part of my week. There, waiting in the library, were several other children, word puzzles, art materials, floppy disks labeled “Oregon Trail” and “Turtle LOGO”, and a magical teacher who made learning seem like play.

As school progressed, I rode the wave of privileges and honors. When I was in fifth grade, they let me assist the kindergarten teacher, in junior high I chose among special electives that were only available to kids ‘like me’. By the time I got to high school, I was enrolled in A.P. Everything, heading for Governor’s School, and chosen as a National Merit Finalist.

I was so very impressive back then.

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When I was seventeen, I wanted to be an elementary school teacher when I grew up. And so I chose a college, and everything went swimmingly for about two years. But my interests were broad–or maybe I should say ‘scattered’. Toward the end of my junior year, I added some religion courses and decided not to student teach.

And with this choice, I stepped off the marked path, and began wandering in my very own vocational wilderness. Eventually I would end up in seminary, still longing for the day when I could finish this sentence: “I’m a _____________.”

If it wasn’t “I’m a teacher,” it could be “I’m a pastor.” Right?

But then our lovely, miraculous and terribly inconvenient babies were born. We welcomed two little girls, in two years. As graduation approached and I was changing diapers while learning Greek conjunctions, the thought of ordination exams-or a role as a full-time pastor-was more than I could bear. Again, I chose to get the degree without the title.

And again, “I’m a _____________,” was an open-ended statement. Sure, I could say, “I’m a mother,” but many of my friends were mothers and _____________. I had no “and.”

Without a professional certification, there was no point in getting a job just for the sake of getting a job. I made less per hour than we paid our babysitter. If I stayed home, the numbers worked. But still, it gnawed on me. How could it be that the little girl who was so smart, so full of promise, could grow up to become… me?

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Here is a true statement: we would never talk to our friends the way that we talk to ourselves.

Did I consider my fellow stay-at-home-mom friends “failures”? No, of course not. They were making choices within a specific season of their lives. They were blessed to have spouses who made good salaries, allowing them to focus on their young children. They were doing what they needed to do, as were my friends who pursued their professions.

And I soon learned that the grass wasn’t greener for my “mother and _____________” friends. Their paths were not as straightforward as they seemed. Some alternated between full and part-time, and many felt as if they did everything, but couldn’t do anything well.

It seemed that we were all making this up as we went along.

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photo by Niklas Fridwall

As my children have grown older (both are in elementary school this year), I have added hats along the way. Two years ago I took a part-time job as a secretary, working for an organization and with people I love. I’m also (as you may have noticed) writing, or rather trying-to-write while volunteering at my kids’ schools, leading a community Bible Study group, and being the “on call” parent for snow delays, sickness, after-school activities, and random inservice days.

It’s good. It’s busy. It’s worthwhile. However.

The most difficult part of all this is that it is almost completely volunteer. Not getting paid is a blow to my ego, makes our finances tight, and sometimes makes me feel as if I’m not a real, contributing grown-up. Now again, would I ever tell a friend that you “are” what you “make”, or that volunteer work is worth less than paid work? No.

But there are times, many times, when I still find these thoughts needling into my sense of who I am. Especially when I am tired, or a child is screaming, or some activity was a disaster, or a blog post fell flat, my seventeen-year-old self sits on my shoulder and says unhelpful things like, “We could have been someone, you know.”

And I just nod, wearily, and say, “I know. I know.”

But when I recover, usually after getting a good night’s sleep, I also know that being a grown-up is more complicated than I ever imagined it would be as a child. And then, ironically, I often remember a picture that was posted in the halls of my daughter’s elementary school, a picture that stopped me in my tracks.

The kids were asked to complete this sentence, “When I grow up, I want to be a __________” and then draw a picture of themselves in this role. Down the row there were firefighters and teachers, police officers and dancers-all the typical kid answers-but the one that stopped me said this:

“When I grow up, I want to be a woman.”

And underneath this sentence was a smiling stick figure. I suppose it was a picture of me.

I am Mama, hear me roar

Posted on by under Role & Place

I’ll never forget my very first Mama Roar—how it erupted spontaneously from deep within me (my loins, perhaps?) before I even had a moment to process and filter what emerged.

My firstborn, Q, who was just barely one, was on her maiden voyage at the mall play area. The fantastical space was breakfast-themed: populated with a huge fried egg (complete with a fun bouncy yolk), a banana to slide down, and a wavy piece of bacon to navigate. Q and I had sat and watched the kids there several times before, but that February day, after almost two months of practicing her walking skills, she was ready to join the fun.

I watched from a bench along the perimeter as Q bravely toddled into the fray of darting and screeching preschoolers. The term “helicopter parent” hadn’t yet been coined, but I had already determined I wouldn’t be one. If Q needed my reassurance or help, I would be close by. As I watched her bravely move farther away from me, her diaper-bum adorably donned in navy-and-lime-striped leggings, I mentally congratulated myself, randomly taking credit (as new parents do) for the fearlessness of my little girl.

Suddenly, BAM! A burly (at least relative to Q) preschooler ran by, deliberately shoving Q flat on her face. I jumped up, my heart pounding, then saw that Q was stunned, but not crying. She stood up, looking around her to gain her bearings, then started again to toddle toward her original destination: an enormous waffle topped with a pillow-sized pat of butter. I took a deep breath, commending myself for my restraint, before noticing that same boy was making another round through the oversized breakfast fare.

BAM! Down Q went again. And Mama Bear leapt into action. In a bound I was at Q’s side, picking her up in a protective hug. Then, as the boy sped back in our direction I reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him in mid-flight.

“YOU. Need. To. SLOW. DOWN.” I uttered as he squirmed against my grip. “There are very small children here—you’re going to hurt someone!”

Where is this boy’s parent? I wondered as I released my grip, looking around to see the mom or dad who would be surely walking toward us to offer an apology. What I saw instead was a woman who couldn’t bother to stand up, calling to me, “Is there a problem?” When I walked over to tell her that her son had deliberately knocked down my toddler twice, she laughed, saying, “Boys will be boys.”

“Only if you let them,” I seethed, turning away to buckle a stunned Q into her stroller and roll her back to the safety of our den.

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Indignation was no stranger to me. Even as a kid, I had an aptitude for speaking my mind, especially when faced with an injustice of some sort (whether real or conflated by my teenage brain). In high school, I was famous for pointing out to teachers why a “wrong” test answer was technically also right, and why those of us who had been marked down should get credit. More often than not, voicing my logic paid off. When my brother left for college, and I suddenly was called on to do the dishes every evening rather than every other evening, I argued it wasn’t my fault that I was born second and had no younger sibling to share the work with. (In this case, my argument fell flat.)

4765579640_89fc950de4_zBut even acting on a full range of indignation over the years did not prepare me for becoming a Mama Bear. Those pre-parent experiences had been merely exercises in logic and persuasion—hypothetical practice for the debate team I was never on. This—this was different. It was not a cunning game. It was the waking of a beast that had been hibernating within me, feeding on the hormones released by pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding. By the time Q and I visited the play area at the mall that winter day, the beast was well-rested and fattened, ready to bare her teeth.

As my two daughters have grown, I’ve become accustomed to my Mama Bear sidekick; sadly, we’ve had plenty of experiences that have called for her services. But knowing how and when to tame her has been an ever-changing challenge that shifts with each setting and stage my daughters go through. When do they really need me to intervene—to demonstrate the importance and art of standing up for beliefs and rights, and especially for others? And when do they need to learn about disappointment and the “life-isn’t-fair” state of the world? When should they be left to decide for themselves if an injustice is real or perceived? When do I need to advocate—ideally with much grace—and when should I demonstrate how to retreat with grace?

Because Mama Bear isn’t necessarily rational. She doesn’t always see the big picture. What Mama Bear does see, with laser vision, is the child. She sees the child for who she is—both the strengths and weaknesses, the abundance of potential that’s inevitably tinged with fear of how the world might respond. And the Mama Bear loves the child so much that she can’t help but ache for that child’s best. It’s a love that emerges from her very being, coursing through every vein and seeping from every pore.

In fact, if you could infuse that Mama-Bear-love with a whole lot of grace and a much longer view, it just might be a taste of the love God has for his children. With that in mind, I’ve decided to start thinking of the Serenity Prayer as the Mama Bear prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
(Grrrrrr…I mean, Amen.)

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(The Mama Bear and cub photo used above is by xinem.)

What to wear to the mall

Posted on by under Guest, Role & Place

Moving South is unbecoming on me. Or it is my becoming. I’m not sure. For the first time in my life, I care about what I wear to the mall. I make sure to wear matching socks. I make sure I wear make-up. I make sure I have something not too wrinkled on. Sometimes. Most of the time.

I hate the mall.

Or I hate that the people at the mall from whom I am trying to buy goods treat me like I am from the wrong side of the tracks who has no business being in their shiny, ridiculously expensive store filled with things from origins unknown and created by unknown people. What factory did that sweater originate from? Asia? Central America? Do you think it came overseas on a ship and airplane, on a semi? Hello, salesperson, don’t ignore me! Oh, there she goes. She is ignoring me, again.

I live in Durham, North Carolina. It’s quirky, retro, and trying to relive the 90’s in hipster style. Think: the more tattoos and mohawks and vintage clothing the better. Local artisans, food trucks, and community gardens are where Durham pours its resources. It’s hip, it’s entrepreneurial, it’s grungy.

And I fit in. In fact, I’ve mastered the hipster grunge look. I am a mom of two young kids, so I’ve haven’t slept in five years. You might think the “she looks like she just got out of bed” was on purpose, but no. I probably forgot to brush my hair because I had to chase my daughter around the house in order to brush hers. Except when I go to the super suburban, high end shopping mall twenty minutes south of the gritty, brick, tobacco warehouses called Downtown Durham, then I try to brush my hair, brush my teeth, and wear my Sunday best.

I grew up outside the Washington, DC area where BRAINS were what always mattered, not whether you wore Lululemon or Kate Spade or Tory Burch. Growing up, I was told, “who you are” is more important than what you look like. And so I cower, when women at the make-up counter with flawless but obviously overdone makeup say things like,”I treat anybody who comes in here the same. No matter what they look like.”

IMG_3197Are you talking to me? What are you talking to me about? What impression am I giving you as I try to keep my four year old from trying on every single lip-gloss? Do I look like a strange hobo? Is there a reason you are pointing out your graciousness? Do I look that bad? I did not try on purpose. Honest. Umm, here, please take my hard earned money, and give me some tinted moisturizer for sensitive skin. Hush. Please don’t talk anymore. You are giving me a complex, over-dressed salesperson.

The mall makes me vain. It makes me feel inferior. Perhaps that is the marketing strategy: Make people feel so unfabulous that they have to buy fabulous, unnecessary objects to make them feel better. Except, I just I feel unworthy. The mall has become a place where I feel my unworthiness. And it’s unbecoming on me. I turn into a grouch, my neuroses and angst come out, then in defense I become a snob. They judge, so I judge. It’s a terrible game.

So I am here, on the border of the conservative south, where the mall is located, and a liberal academic town, where my favorite coffee shops, farmer’s markets, and community spaces are. In one, I am secure and know myself. In the other, I am puzzled by my insecurities and apparent weakness for vanity.

And then there is God.

I hear Him and his strong sturdy voice, reminding me He is the God of every place. He speaks, almost with a chuckle, “Child, you are my child. Let those microaggressions roll off your back. The mall is not my kingdom. It does not recognize you as I recognize you. I am the source of all you need. The mall, the mall is mammon. You don’t need to worship at its throne. Durham, Durham has it flaws, too. You know that. You know that the world is filled with people in need…of Me.”

And later, on the car ride home with my bags of materialistic items from China, Mexico and Haiti, I realize that it’s okay to feel uncomfortable at the mall. I should feel different. I should feel like an outsider and befuddled and an imposter. Because that is what I am. I was not made for that world—I don’t want it to “become me.”  And I don’t want Durham to “become me,” either.

I want something else to become me.

I want grace to become me. I want God’s grace to become me. I want to wear that no matter where I am, whether I am enjoying a beer with tatted friends or buying a pair shoes with people decked out in Burberry. God is the God of Comfort and Discomfort, and the power of His grace is found in the tension between them.

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Photo on 4-19-14 at 3.52 PM“What to Wear to the Mall” was written by Sarah Hudspeth. Sarah is a mom of two kids full of life and mischief, a wife of a grad student, and a middle school math teacher to students with learning needs. Coffee is her favorite, as are books, Twitter, and any day spent outside. Sarah lives in Durham, North Carolina, and eats extremely well due to food trucks, her garden, and the eat-everything-local movement.