Author: Judy Hanawalt (Page 17 of 23)

Well, it’s actually text and call. I’m at my kids’ text and call.

When something comes up–problems, joys, news, questions, plans–I get a text. Or I send one. Whole conversations take place over text. I started texting when it became the most reliable way to get a hold of my kids. When they couldn’t (or wouldn’t) answer a phone call, they would read and respond to a text.

In the days of flip phones, it was terse, more like a telegraph, with just the bare minimum of words– “Get home now, ” or “Where are you?” Now that we have a full QWERTY keyboard at our fingertips, texts have expanded.

They can be surprisingly personal. Everybody has their own texting accent. Some are standard English, complete with proper puctuation, others are slapdash, with short phrases, periods and question marks optional. Some use slang and abbreviations, others are wordy and descriptive.

With or without frills–emojis, pictures, videos, links–personality comes through. The other day, one of my texters sent me this message about lunch in his distinctive style: “Yo that sandwich was on schmack.” I’m pretty sure that means he liked it.

Even serious conversations take place this way.  I’ve informed the family of sad news, like the death of an elderly family member, over group text. With everyone seeing and responding to each other’s texts, it is a sweet way to be together in  sad times

When the text hints at something bigger, I follow up with a call. Making or answering a call is a bigger time commitment than tapping out a text. Texters can multitask; they can be in public, in a meeting, in class, even in the bathroom and carry on a full conversation. With a phone call, more attention is needed, and it requires stepping away from other people and activities.

A text came the other day, “Mom, I’m really wrestling with whether or not college is right for me right now.” This needed more than a few cheery words. I called and learned that a bad situation with a roommate had gotten to be too hard. When I can hear the tone in a voice, or the tears behind the words, I can get a better sense of what is going on and be a support and encouragement.

Because so much talking is done via text, phone calls have become the long, newsy, handwritten letter of modern communication. On the phone, we can have a good, old-fashioned chat. Quick calls don’t happen as much; when we get on the phone, conversations can sometimes last an hour or two, like a remote coffee date.

I am so glad I can be at their text and call–I love having the space in my life to be available to connect with them when life happens. They leave home, but they are still often on my mind. A little text–or maybe a long phone call–lets them know they are loved.

From the first day mothers find out we’re pregnant, we worry. Mothering and worrying are synonyms. I’m not talking about curled-up-in the-corner, eyes-glazed-in-fear worrying (though that does happen), I’m talking about a more active worry: The “I Will Keep My Baby safe From Everything” type of worry.

It starts with vigilant pre-natal care, pregnancy books and blogs, birth plan research, and breathing practice. Healthy eating and exercise regimens become a constant quest. When the precious one arrives, we battle through diaper choices, feeding decisions, child care options, and skin care products.

Relentless, life forces us to make schooling selections, extra-curricular and child-care plans and find appropriate social outlets for our little ones. The details and thinking and–yes, worrying–are endless.

Everyday, we either protect and care for our children ourselves, or we carefully select the people who are in their lives as caregivers, teachers, medical professionals and friends. We dress them, feed them, hug them, talk to them, listen to them and make sure they are growing and thriving.

It gets more difficult in the teen years–but we do our best to keep track of them, to help them navigate school work, to go to every game they play, and to drive them and their friends around, eavesdropping just a little to get a sense of what’s going on inside their lives when they aren’t talking to us quite so much.

Then they move out. They go to college, they start working, they are not in your constant, physical care. You have to turn them over to themselves. That old Mother Worry screams, “Wait! I didn’t teach you everything yet! You can barely do your own laundry!”

The Mother Worry is kept in check by the ability to do something about it. For the first 18 years or so, we have a hands-on role in keeping baby safe. Even when they start to exercise their independence, we are there, waiting up for them to come home. We are still feeding, clothing, watching, listening, monitoring. When they aren’t there to see and feel and feed, Mother Worry can take on a life of it’s own.

I feel it now, as I think about it. The clenching in the gut, the what-if’s crowding in with images of all sorts of trouble and pain waiting to pounce on my babies. It is not safe out there. I remember how I felt when I first tip-toed out on my own, unsure of myself. I was lonely. I was a little scared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. I want to be there for my kids to help, to cheer, to protect.

So, I pray. I text. I call. I send care packages. I visit. Many nights, I wake up and can’t sleep, and my kids come to mind, so I pray some more.

There are some hard things that they have to face. There are still bullies out there, and terrible friend choices. There are drugs and parties and bad drivers and bad bosses. One of my precious ones even got lost, barefoot, in a forest after a river floating trip. And I wasn’t there to help. I didn’t even know about it.

That’s when I realize that my Mother Worry, while it helps me to be a persistent, careful parent, is not enough to ensure that my children with grow up to be happy, healthy adults. It never had magic powers to keep all the bad, scary stuff away. There aren’t any guarantees that can be purchased, stolen, earned or even prayed into existence.

Children grow up, learn from their mistakes, and live their own lives. It is truly a wonder to behold. Pride and anticipation start to push down the worry. They have grown into themselves in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I was focused on keeping all the bad stuff away. They are people that I like and admire.

The worry doesn’t go away, but we can manage it by trusting that God is the best at Mother Worry, and is taking care in ways we often can’t see or understand. Then, when the children come home for a visit, we get to baby them again.

As I toured the house today, looking for items to fill out my white load in the washer, I remembered those days not so long ago when laundry was a crushing task. It haunted me, dogged me, overwhelmed me.

There used to be a literal mountain of dirty laundry in the basement by the washing machine: clothes from six busy children, linens from a kitchen that cranked out food like a camp chuckwagon, towels and sheets from endless baths, showers, night-time accidents and sick days. The few times someone came home with lice, requiring that every sheet, rug, towel, pillow, blanket and stuffed animal be washed, nearly broke me.

Almost every day, I began with re-washing the wet items in the washer that had taken on a musty smell, and re-heating the items in the dryer that were now a cold, wrinkled mass. Then I could begin processing things through, folding everything hot out of the dryer–if I transferred it to a basket, it would never get folded–and sorting it into stacks for each person or room, and then feeding the washer and dryer with more from the pile.

I used to think that if something happened to me, the biggest problem would be that no one else could possibly know how to sort all the Disney Princess, Lion King, Batman and Superman underwear into the right stacks. I gave up on sorting socks and bought dozens of the same socks. Easy to pair, easy to distribute.

The smaller kids liked to hide in the pile, stifling giggles and waiting for me to come. I would pretend I didn’t see them, and act like I was putting them in the washer. The sorted piles were a mess, but the laughter lightened the load.

When my mother came to visit, she made it her mission to conquer the laundry mountain. She would stay in the basement, doing load after load until she washed every last thing in the pile. It was a challenge to put it all away, since it was so rarely all clean at the same time. By the time she left, I was actually ahead of the dirty clothes–for a day.

Laundry is a stand-out among other tasks–like cooking and cleaning-that feel endless, and defy us to measure progress. They need to be done, but are often repetitive and thankless. If success is measured by how much stuff we get done, surely we must be failing.

My laundry piles have subsided, and I have some breathing room and some perspective. These tasks are not ends in themselves; they are building something bigger, something that will last. All those loads of laundry, together with your other labors for the family, create a place where people are safe and clean and cared for.

Success isn’t  measured by what you get done, but by what you allow to grow, making space and pushing back chaos to make a home.