Dates

When I used to work full days, Dave and I would regularly meet for lunch, and I think he especially enjoyed that: seeing me in professional garb, in my confidently-positive work mode, mentally distanced from home matters. That habit evaporated after I transitioned to shorter days after Esme was born, but today we managed to meet after several cancelled OR cases left me with some extra time. Dave talked about his dissertation, which I (sadly) finally understood and was able to process some with him.

It’s strange how sometimes it takes getting out in a new setting to connect in certain ways. I always used to think, well, we can just talk after the kids go to bed—and sometimes we do, but more often we don’t. He’s getting steps and doing homework; I’m finishing chores or reading a novel. There’s something to be said for being creative about in-home dates, and with intentionality they work, but probably one of the biggest things I’ve learned is that paying for regular dates outside the home, where we are away from the kids and try not to even talk too much about the kids, is worth the effort. Which for me mostly means it’s worth paying a sitter for: as any couple with kids knows, it’s not just the cost of the actual date, but the not-insignificant cost of hiring a sitter for that time. People without kids must take for granted how easy it is to get out.

There’s so much about marriage that changes with having young kids, and one thing can be that you’re so busy, or depleted, meeting the needs of your kids that you lose focus on your own needs, and your spouse’s needs. There’s being attentive to expressing respect and love. There’s figuring out how to have a fulfilling sexual life in an environment where spontaneity and energy are scarce. There’s being aware of how your spouse is doing spiritually. For Dave, I figured out a major need was one of recreational companionship: where we do something new together, or have some experience outside of the house together. Traveling together has become harder and harder the more kids we had—not that some couples don’t pull it off—but we decided to hire a regular sitter every week. It’s time we use to lead a small group, or when the groups aren’t meeting, meet with other couples, go sit in a coffee shop together.

But today’s conversation was a reminder to me to be more proactive about finding new or different things we can do together. I’m more likely to get excited about reading a good book in bed than going out anywhere, so it’s some effort, but I sometimes think back to our dating days. How adventurous we were! And we still relive those memories. So it might be time to make some new ones.

Raising Kind Kids

“After all, when’s the last time you saw a bumper sticker that said PROUD PARENT OF A KIND KID?” – Michele Borba, TIME magazine article “Why Kids Need More Empathy”

If you had to pick whether your kid would be the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the most athletic, or the most kind, what would you choose? I remember talking about this with Dave once during a car trip around the time we were having our first kid. I was tempted to pick most beautiful. I think I ended up picking most intelligent.

Dave didn’t think twice about picking most kind. This wasn’t a hypothetical for him; he genuinely would feel most proud of our kids if they turned out to be kind people, more proud than if they were smart, or pretty, or athletic.

This is somewhat countercultural. Just consider the selfie, which didn’t exist back when I was a kid. Our one year-old knows about selfies. Studies have shown that we are an increasingly self-absorbed culture (one rated narcissism as occurring 58% more often among college students as compared with three decades ago). And this seeps into our parenting: we arrange our lives around our kids, monitor whether everything around them is for their best, praise them constantly whether they actually do well or not. In one study, 80% of youth said their parents cared more about their achievement or happiness than whether they cared for others.

At the same time, there seems to be an increasing number of articles out there about how important it is to raise kids who are kind. An article in the current issue of TIME highlights empathy as the trait most important in determining happiness and success. David Brooks discusses the “eulogy virtues” as opposed to the “resume virtues.” A NYT article titled “Raising The Moral Child” suggests instilling kindness in children by praising character over action. A blogger I read discussed how she never publicly brags about her kids except when they do something kind.

The more I think about it, the more I buy that Dave is right. It’s certainly biblical. And interestingly, it’s the one thing that I face teaching the earliest as a parent. I don’t really have to face teaching our kids to score the most goals or be first in their class or do their makeup right: I struggle every day, from the time they are infants onwards, to teach them to be kind. To share, to clean up after themselves, to be generous, to speak edifying words, to choose not to escalate a fight. To identify, process, and deal with their emotions in an undestructive fashion. To guard their noise level in consideration of a sleeping sibling.

How does one raise kind kids? On one hand, we are all born with a sinful nature, and the Bible is clear that we need Christ to redeem us, and the help of the Holy Spirit living in us to transform us to live the way we should. It’s not in my kids’ natures to be kind, and ultimately they can’t do it without Christ. So I continue to pray that they come into and one day be inwardly transformed by a saving knowledge of Christ.

On the other hand, kindness can be taught to some degree. Certainly, when we prioritize and model kindness as parents, it comes through to our kids. When I drop Ellie and Eric off for school each morning, I say “be kind to someone today!” When I see them doing something that involves putting aside their own preferences for someone else, I comment on it. We discuss kindness if we read about it in a book or story; we try to practice gratitude. We do projects together that involve giving gifts or thinking of how we can help someone else. When they kids get in fights, I try to help them understand how to think about what the other person may be feeling, both in the immediate setting but also more deeply in the context of their development as a person. Some day it would be great to take the kids on a missions trip or at least travel enough to broaden their ideas of others.

I guess that’s one good thing about having a lot of kids: they’re always having to think about others. This morning Elijah ran down the stairs screaming because Eric had “left him behind,” which woke Esme up, and I got him by the shoulders and asked him to consider how his noise had disturbed her. I got to thinking how Esme will never have to worry about waking a sleeping baby, whereas Elijah has had to be aware so often of that. Even Esme’s experience now as a baby is so different than Ellie’s just because she has three siblings instead of none.

Still, it’s good to be intentional about it, and to know we are doing something important in those days when it all seems like an uphill battle. Ellie got her first love note the other day. The boy wrote, “Ellie you are so sweet and kind to me that is why I am giving this to you.” I couldn’t be prouder.

The Boys

Have I written yet about how the boys bicker the most of all the kids? I read somewhere that children tend to fight the most when they are close in age, the middle child, or of the same gender. Well, the boys are two years nearly to the day apart, and both middle kids. There you go. It’s always, “I got big one!” “I got new one!” or Elijah running over with, “Eric… Eric say mean thing!” then running back to say, “Told you!” (by which he means, I told on you!)

But when they play together, it’s so sweet. Eric adopts this sort of higher-pitched, lisp-y little-kid cajoling voice (“you wanna play ‘dis, li-jah?”) and Elijah runs along copying everything he does with his tummy sticking down and his head bobbing up and down in the air. They play boom-the-bad-guy, build-nests-in-the-fort, masked-spies, driving the train/bus/truck, stranded-on-the-island, orphans-gathering-food, running-from-Chewbacca (for some reason Elijah loves running around screaming, “chew-bacca coming!”).

Journal Excerpt

The silence in the house right now feels so strange it’s sort of stunning. Been a really full day with the kids. In other words, a normal day when I’m solo parenting, which has been the norm lately. Dave’s been traveling some or all of every week this month. I celebrated the quiet by finally taking a shower.

One day I’m going to look back and forget what this is like, so I figure I should write about it. Solo parenting four kids the entire day feels like triaging and managing four beings with urgent, unique and changing physical and emotional and safety needs, while accounting for unpredictable reactions and interactions between the four, while balancing a constant list of chores (somehow keeping the house constantly tidy makes me feel like it’s not all going to pieces). I’m constantly attending to the kid with the most acute need while briefly addressing the one or two with the next most acute need while planning how and in what order I will get to those one or two as soon as I finish with the first. And meanwhile staying peripherally aware of the fourth. And thinking random things like I wonder when I’ll be able to actually leave all of them long enough to take out the stinky trash? I can’t believe I actually fantasize about taking out the trash.

Those order of needs constantly shifts. Typical scenarios from today: trying to feed a fussy Esme while holding her to see if eating will improve her mood as she’s likely too fussy to put down in the high chair (most acute) while negotiating a timed method of sharing a toy the boys are fighting over (second and third most acute) while telling Ellie yes, I know she wants pink lady apples thinly sliced because she’s reading The Berenstein Bears And Too Much Junk Food, and that’s great, but she will have to wait a few moments (least acute). Or comforting Elijah who is screaming after falling off his chair and hitting his head (most acute) while telling Eric to please go wash his hands with soap and not touch the back of the dining chair with sticky fingers (next most acute) while asking Ellie to go guard Esme who has made a break for the stairs again (least acute, though could quickly become most acute if she falls and gets a subdural hematoma, the MRI of which is flashing through my mind as I’m asking Elijah if he would like ice for his head).

Or walking Ellie through the fingering for E and A-flat major scales, which she finds hardest (most acute, since I lack perfect pitch and can’t tell which key she’s in when she shouts “DO I CROSS OVER WITH A 4?” across the house) while advising an increasingly-frustrated Eric that it’ll be easier to drag Esme in the play tunnel on hardwood rather than carpet (less acute, and Esme is so cute laughing in the tunnel) while checking to see Elijah is okay (lying down on a couch, non-acute). Or running from my room where I’m fetching a new bag of kids’ dental floss after hearing Eric scream “I’m pooping and Esme is putting her hands in the toilet! She’s eating her hands!” (most acute, unaware of other two momentarily). Or nursing Esme to sleep (most acute) while gesticulating wildly to the boys that they are to return to their beds and wait for me for whatever issue they have lest they wake her up (less acute) whereupon Elijah’s face crumples up and he starts crying right there in the room (slightly more acute but still less acute as Esme is so fussy I couldn’t help him anyway until she’s asleep). Elijah tells me later, with big and very serious eyes, that he was upset because I didn’t say the end of the bedtime story. I retell the end of the story (the one of Jesus healing the paralytic man that came in through the roof—Ellie asked, how did they make a hole in the roof? and I can’t remember if there was one), but Elijah says no, you didn’t say the end. So I say, “The End.” and he’s fine and I finally leave and the house is quiet.

There was the usual mix of questionably-worth-it adventures (getting all four in swimsuits and sunscreen to play in a kiddie pool in the yard), minor victories (Eric actually did a reading and math lesson!), and tough moments (said “what’s wrong with you?” after Eric complained about his cup all through breakfast only to spill a ton of milk all over the room after I got him a new cup; technically the spill was an accident and I should have just addressed his earlier complaining rather than losing it over the spill. Milk spills are always disproportionately frustrating for me for some reason).

There were good moments, that I could appreciate as they happened, and that’s good. Eric being affectionate (I asked him, “will you still let me hold you after you get big and grown up?” and he said, “after I grow up bigger than you I will hold you, mommy!”). Realizing Esme can say cheese to the camera (“cheh! cheh!”). Holding Elijah and dancing to “Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off” (they loved the lyrics). Reading Ellie’s journal entry about her loose tooth (“it moves every time I drink milk”).

Well, that was the day. And now I’m going to go enjoy my lime seltzer and rummage up some chocolate and go read my novel. Thank you, God, for this full life and full day.

Terrible Two's

I remember when someone first mentioned the terrible two’s, I was like, what? Ellie was at the time just turning two and still easy-going. They say there are two golden periods for kids: a year (sleeping through the night generally) until eighteen months (before the terrible two’s), and six years (post-terrible two’s, which really should be terrible three’s and sometimes four’s) until nine years (pre-puberty).

Well, Ellie’s first golden period lasted longer than usual. When the terrible two’s hit eventually, I was like, oh, I see. When they hit with Eric, I was like OH I SEE. Elijah’s in the thick of it now—he’s two-and-a-half—and I’m reminded again what it’s all about.

In a way, it’s sort of comical. The terrible two’s are saying no to literally everything (“no! don’t want to!”). It’s wanting to climb into the van and get buckled on his own (“ja-ja do it!”) even though he can’t actually do it and takes forever trying (“come on, Elijah!” the others are always saying. “Ja-ja slow,” he replies). It’s always having a vocal preference (“want that one!” “don’t have poop!”). It’s getting overly emotional over minor perturbances (“shirt wet!” “blankie not right!”). It’s displaying touchy possessiveness (“mine!” “got it first!”) and being sensitive to exclusion (“wait for me!”). It’s tending towards exclamation points or wails, towards demand or distress.

At heart, I think it’s him desiring independence, but not being able to actualize that most of the time, leading to a need for verbal assertion and frequent frustration. I think of this time as a little preview of the teen years. It’s saying a last goodbye to the spirit of infancy: I’m glad at least that he still has slightly chubby thighs and a protuberant tummy. It’s the emergency of a new self, and in that sense a window into all the things we basically desire as a person: having a sense of achievement and purpose, feeling included and special. Just, you know, in super-unfiltered fashion. That’s how kids are, though. Unfiltered little pieces of humanity, running around in all their loud-talking, messily exuberant glory.

That’s what I’ve got, four little pieces of glory running around here this week while Dave’s gone. If I see things that way, can see the strange sort of irony in a still-infant-like boy making loud demands, it helps traverse these stages of transition with humor and equanimity. And that certainly helps a lot.