When I Paid My Son To Stand Up To His Bully

He was in fourth grade. I saw it every day. The moment he slowly walked out of his school with his head hung down.  He carried the weight and sadness of being a victim of an elementary school bully.  "Retarded. Weird. Stupid. Idiot. Loser." All of the words that hurt. Sometimes it got physical. The school counselor was aware. The principal was aware. The behavior continued. I am a mom. I did what moms do. I took that little boy in my arms and I told him exactly what would happen if he finally stood up for himself.  I explained that the adults at his school weren't protecting him. I get it. I come from a family of educators. They can't deal with every issue. I have no doubt they had bigger problems than my son's bully.  But we were going to end this together.  I told that blonde hair little boy that I had five dollars just for him. The moment the bully touched him, my son was to push him back. And if he did this, I would have his money ready. And I would be so proud.

Several days later I saw that same little blonde boy exit the school and walk proudly toward my car. His head held high. I couldn't help but smile as he walked toward me. He entered the car. His smile was magnificent.
"Why are you smiling?" I asked slyly.
"I pushed him back. I get five bucks."
I smiled along with him. I held up the money and he grabbed it with delight.
We won.
The school counselor called the next day. He explained that there was an issue the day earlier. My kid had started an altercation by the drinking fountain. I explained kindly that the other little boy had actually started the altercation by shoving my child's face in the drinking fountain while my son was trying to get a drink. I explained that I had given my son explicit directions to stand up for himself. I told him that not only was I proud of my son, but I also gave him monetary reimbursement for his behavior.
The counselor didn't know how to respond. He told me that they prefer not to deal with bullies in this way. I was very sincere. I explained that I have a responsibility to protect my son. Well, actually, teach my son how to protect himself. I continued to tell the counselor that the way the school was dealing with it was not working.   I further told him that he did not have my permission to ever discipline my son again if it pertains to him defending himself.
The bully never bothered him again.
I have a soft spot in my heart for school bullies.  So often they are fighting a bigger battle than any eye can see. I loved my son's bully because he was a child who was silently aching inside. Our children have a responsibility to always be kind and accepting. But they should never have to be a victim.

Are we done having kids?

I'll be honest. I was pretty exhausted after three. Somehow we ended up with five.  Every parent knows there comes a time when you must decide, "how much more can we handle?" My husband and I recently had this conversation. It's not a decision that you take lightly. However, if you're anything like me, sometimes every day experiences can be blazing sirens of warning that help you make your decision a little easier.

1. I was driving my two oldest boys somewhere and thought I'd ask their opinion.
"What would you guys think about having another baby?"
My oldest son's mouth dropped wide open.
"No. Absolutely not. Don't you think we already have enough of those things running around this house?"
"What things?" I ask somewhat perplexed.
"KIDS. They everywhere."
 Point taken. I guess that's a no.

2. My baby wakes up and begs incessantly for chocolate ice cream. I give it to her as I load up the other kids for carpool.  Yep. I am giving my three year old chocolate ice cream in the car for breakfast. I actually find myself feeling extremely grateful. At least it's only ice cream. It could be worse. If she asked for a piece of cake to go with it, I'd probably give that to her too. I realize I am too tired to fight the battle. I've been doing it for fifteen years. Being grateful for an ice cream breakfast probably shouldn't be a thing.

3. You are filling out a permission form for your daughters dance class. Your daughter looks over your shoulder in horror. Her heart is broken and her exasperation tells me I have done something terribly wrong.
"What did I do?" I softly question.
"Mom, you didn't even put my right birthday. Do you even know when my birthday is?"
I looked at the form I had just filled out. I couldn't tell. It seemed right to me.
"Are you sure that's not your birthday?"
"Are you kidding me right now, mom?"
I looked again.
Yup.
She was right.
It was her brothers birthday.
"Shoot, sorry babe. I totally know your birthday. Just give me a second. It will come to me. I promise."
I sit there racking my brain going through each child's birthday and birth year.
I finally figure hers out.
"See. I told you, I totally know your birthday."
She was mortified.
"Mom, I think you have too many kids."
 She may be right.

4. School carnivals. My hip, younger self could hardly wait to donate all of my time, talents and resources to make the school carnival amazing. This year I found myself standing in the middle of bounce houses, cotton candy and snow cone machines feeling completely dazed. I felt so overwhelmed. Instead of cheering and counting how many milk bottles my 5 year old was triumphantly knocking over, I found myself fumbling for my phone. I pulled up the calculator and figured out just how many school carnivals I had left in my future. I realized if I had another baby...I'd have to add another 3 years... which means three more carnivals.

5. See #4.  When you have to pull out your phone because mental math seems nearly impossible in your current emotional state, it may be time to reconsider your priorities. 10 (age at which my child graduates elementary school) - 3 (age of my youngest child) to find out that indeed I do have 7 more school carnivals in my future. SEVEN. That's 7 more raffle baskets I will guilt myself into organizing, 7 more thanksgiving feasts, 7 more teacher appreciation pots of chili,  7 holiday parties that need donations and 7 times to bring in a special birthday treat.

So, yeah. I think we're done. However, my brother just sent me a beautiful picture of his newborn son. I cried. He looked so perfect. So amazing. So straight from Heaven. A piece of my heart was aching. Maybe I want one more.

And then I remembered the school carnivals.

The Parable of the Granite Countertops

We've been married nearly 17 years. We have lived in 5 states and 8 houses.  We've had 1 beta fish, 1 leopard gecko, 1 garter snake with 30 little garter snake babies, 2 kittens and 5 kids. No granite countertops.
I find myself taking my two little kids down to my favorite granite warehouse. They sell remnants. I stroll down the remnant isles dreaming of what could be mine. I know how many square feet we need. I've measured. I've made my husband measure. I've priced it out. Over and over again. After all my hard work and research, we still have the dark, outdated brown and black swirling laminate countertops. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. No reason to rip them out. They are sturdy, durable and clean up fairly well. But everyone else has granite. Well, actually, I'm starting to worry that I completely missed the granite era. All of my friends are now ripping out their granite and replacing it with an even durable quartz. Seriously? That could be even farther away in my future. Maybe never.
I think about granite as I fade to sleep. I dream of the light, beautiful stone sprawling across my long, open kitchen. It would look amazing. I would be so happy. So blissfully happy...for a moment.
If only granite could buy happiness, we would all be set.
I know too much. I've lived too long.  No amount of granite can make me happy. It is a fact of life. As soon as I install my dream granite, my wants will immediately go to something else.  My happiness will still be unfulfilled even after my prince in shining granite comes with his beautiful granite truck. It makes me so sad. Yet, unequivocally happy.
It's all too simple.  It requires my time, not my credit card. It requires me to find joy in the present, instead of dreaming of the future.
Don't get me wrong, if the chance arrives, I will be driving speedily down to my granite warehouse and picking out the most beautiful granite remnant you have ever seen. And I will be happy. For a moment. But I will know in my heart, that it is temporary. Just like all worldly possessions. The happiness will fade and be replaced with another want.
Luckily for all of us, true happiness, or joy, is not bought. It is earned.  Joy is a smile running toward my car in a school parking lot, a jump hug in my arms  and a soccer game in the backyard.  It is my 15 year old getting behind the steering wheel for the first time and my 5 year old being snack boy at preschool.  Joy is fifteen hugs and kisses at bedtime, and a laughing hysteria as I chase the kids around the house.  It is watching their smile light up a room when they find my random love notes in random places.
It takes my most selfish resource, my time.
Luckily, joy is something we can all afford. God gave us everything we need to find it.
He just forgot the granite countertops at the Ford house.
I’m starting to think it was on purpose.

Why I Don't Apologize For My Messy House Anymore

If you would have happened to stop by my house a couple of years ago, our conversation would have probably gone something like this:
"Hey, it's so good to see you. Sorry my house is a mess. I've been trying to clean but my kids keep creating messes that I can't seem to keep up with."
You would have been polite and said something like this,
"Oh, don't worry about it. It looks great. It's so hard to keep a house clean with kids."

Not. Anymore.

Now you come over and I try not to say anything.
I own it. Did you hear me? I OWN it.

I've had at least one toddler roaming my Sherwin-Williams beige painted walls for over 15 years now. I have another 15 years to go.  I keep painting them. And washing them. And painting some more. It's not as if I don't try to keep my home looking fresh and clean. I do. In fact, I believe in the age old proverb that indeed,  "cleanliness is next to godliness."  But I also believe something even more.

I believe that to embrace motherhood in its entirety, you will miraculously find yourself reverently wondering if God could possibly love you just as much as you love the little hands that leave dirt on your walls. And suddenly, the dirt on the wall becomes a sacred stain that forces you to understand how much you, yourself, are truly loved by your creator. The stain becomes an emblem. A flag of victory. A sealing to your calling in this life.
I am a mom.
I choose the little feet before the little messes. I choose the building blocks before the building frustration.
There's one thing that occupies my mind each day.
"In 15 years...what will I regret the most?"
It shapes me.  It haunts me.
I know I won't regret a messy house, but I will certainly regret a missed moment.
I will regret not pushing my child on the swing, or playing tackle football in the yard.  I will regret not going to the park or playing in the mud. I will regret yelling. Or losing my cool. I'll regret not pushing trains around the track and not memorizing all the names of the fiercest dinosaurs. I will regret not putting down the phone when they ask me a question.  I will regret not making them mow the lawn. I will regret not letting them light fireworks in the driveway and matches on their birthday cakes. I will regret not letting them struggle to solve their own problems.  I will regret not laying down at night with each child in their bed, reassuring them of my love. Even when they ask me not to.
I try to spend my days doing the things I hope I will never regret. Not the things I hope you see.
You will see my house and you will see my kids.
If you happen to see the sacred stain on my painted walls, I just want you to know,
I will not apologize.
I choose them.

My Husband. Your Doctor.

Speeding through town, I had just dropped off a kid at football practice. I raced back to the church to drop off another kid,  then drove quickly to a soccer practice for a third.  At about 7:00, I start to lose my cool.  I'm used to my husband being late. But tonight I was frustrated. I sat in the parking lot with two babies, strapped in their seatbelts, fidgeting and whining behind me. I sent a rather mean spirited text to my husband.

"You said you would be home tonight to help with carpools. Where are you?"

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. I just made a grown man cry like a baby. I'm doing my best to hurry"
You see, my husband is a pediatric hematologist/oncologist. That's code for a kid cancer doctor.

I stared.
At that blasted phone.
It was that same phone I stared at months ago after driving with five kids in a freezing Nebraska blizzard to our child's' first piano recital. James never came.  I had to take the two disruptive little kids out.  I missed the performance. I sent a similar frustrated text to my husband.

He responded,

"I'm sorry honey. We just got some labs back for a patient. I had to tell his parents that there was nothing more we could do. They are crying. They asked if I could please help them tell their son."

These are not isolated instances. This is our life. A mom at home trying desperately to save her family. A dad at the hospital trying desperately to save yours.
I continue to stare at the phone. Ashamed at my frustration. Knowing a family needs my husband much more than I.  I sit in the parking lot and cry for you. I bow my head as our minivan becomes a sacred altar and I pray for you.  And I pray for him. Every night. That he will be inspired how to help you. And your baby. I don't know who you are. And I never will. But we share something in common. My husband. And your doctor.

He leaves the house before the kids are at school. He misses soccer games, Scouting Court of Honors, piano recitals and football practices. We chose this life. And we chose it together. I forgive his absence. And he forgives my frustration.

My husband has two lives. Ours and yours.  I'm grateful that he's mine. And grateful that he's yours. There's no one else I'd rather share him with. I think he's pretty great. And sometimes I really miss him when he's with you. But I know you need him more.