My little soldiers...

I sometimes feel, as I say goodbye to my munchkins in the morning, that I am sending them out to the wolves. I think every mother wants her young ones to have some sort of protective bubble surround them at every moment; protection from danger, from hurt feelings, from a fall on the play ground, from the evils that abound. I think if we women were to design childhood, we would have our kids wrapped in some sort of environmentally safe, color-coordinated bubble wrap. We would watch them play at the park in some kind of happy, slow motion, ballet of giggles and love. Instead, we send them to school (even though we KNOW there has got to be a better system out there for learning) knowing full well that they will encounter the frustrations of the classroom, the drama amongst their peers and the hurts of everyday growing up. Let's not even think about what could happen... the abductions, lurking perverts, peer bullying, etc. But the everyday goings-on of the school yard and what happens to the little fish in the little pond that is my child at school.
Every day, each one puts on his backpack, heavy with books and a lunch he has made himself and enters a gated commune of fellow students and teachers. Chances are he will be told what to do and how quickly to do it in a sharp and course manner, barked at rather than redirected and patted on the back for what he does right. Chances are he will hear very little positive praise, instead reminded of rules and consequences; "Slow down!" "Take out your binders!" "That's enough!". Chances are he will get very little time for recess, never getting to use his body and imagination in the way they were created and intended for (play!). Chances are he will get little help if he doesn't understand an assignment, and if he is actually ahead in class, chances are he will just be told to sit down and refrain from distracting the others. Chances are that most of his peers are already pressuring him to make out, choose a sexual identity, drink, smoke or loiter around some park or mall, buy the latest video game or identify himself with the current tween pop star just entering/exiting rehab. Chances are that I have sent my kids to a place just as punitive and restrictive as our prisons; or at best, a military boot camp. My kids then come home to do their chores, complete their homework and play outside (before it gets too hot and that pleasure, too, is removed for the next 6 months) all with a cheerful disposition. Even here at home, the wolves circle around, hoping to be let in through the internet or TV programs.
And so, I think to myself at about 10 minutes to 4, when I know they will be through my door any minute, "How can I make this a soft place to fall? How can I fill their little cups which have run on such emptiness for the last 8 hours?" I try to smile, to ask them about their day, to be positive, interested and undistracted. I try to remember how much bravery it would take for me if I were the one asked to daily face a world where I was physically smaller, wholly less-experienced and most assuredly in the least control of every situation I found myself in.
I respect my children; the warriors of my womb who so bravely confront these challenges with a smile; those smiles I live for. I owe them my respect and my admiration. And I ponder why some mom hasn't found a way to bubble wrap the heart.

Motherhood 101

I like to think of myself as a volunteer, but I know better. When I volunteer to give blood, the pain is over quickly and then I get a snack or some juice, a sticker, and a thank you smile from the Red Cross. As a mom, your daily donation of time, tears, sweat, sleep and energy all seem to go unnoticed, unappreciated, often taken for granted. No donut, no juice box, sometimes not even a thank you. This seems to be the lot drawn for moms. We give. We do for. We serve. I understood this when I entered into this whole motherhood thing. But I gotta' tell you, it gets old. This volunteer wants some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Or jewelry. Yeah, okay, I'd settle for a kiss and a true "thanks for all you do, Mom" and we could call it even.

With this job comes some pretty serious obligations. Never mind the health, safety and moral direction that is your to provide to a precious and innocent human being. That is daunting enough. You've seeen the June Cleaver image that it is we all make some effort to live up to. We make the birthday cakes, help with the science projects, drive them to ballet practice. But it's the nights you lie awake with a sick child, wiping her forehead with a cool cloth or stripping her bed because she threw up that really seals you to your child. It's watching your child experience the consequences of his own mistakes, and then crying with him as he feels the sadness and pain that soon follows. It's seeing the hate and anger in your child's face when they first see you as the enemy and not as your friend, and biting your tongue when you want to say something hateful and mean right back. It's saying the prayers at your bedside asking for protection over your little one in a world that seems especially intent on preying on our youth. Real moms don't reach that TV ideal everyday, or even any day. Real moms volunteer for the dirt and pain and heartache in the trenches of life, and they are rarely rewarded for it. No parades, no purple hearts, no yellow ribbons. Just a little wisdom, some crow's feet grown from worry and weariness, stretchmarks and more gray hair by the minute.

Volunteering has its benefits, don't you forget. We volunteer for the smile of a 6 month-old who now understands that when you are around, so is lunch. We sign up for the swelling in the heart we get when we see a toddler share his favorite toy with his younger sibling. We enlist because when a child lies in bed at night, with the moon on his face, the world is at peace. We make an investment in the world of tomorrow; that our efforts today, though largely unnoticed, will somehow contribute to a strong, beautiful, confident tomorrow. Our job is not easy. It is not something we can quit or delegate to another. Our enlistment is eternal.

So yes, I am a volunteer. An employee of my child, a servant to my sons, maid-in-waiting to my daughter. And as they return home from school today, I intend to ask them to get me a juice box.