I kid you not. Less than one month after I splurged on the Pottery Barn Classic Everyday Suede slipcover for a chair in the den, there were tire marks on the cushion. I questioned the usual suspects, but who am I kidding?
I love this messy life. It will never be balanced or finished because that’s the nature of creation, and God is always creating new stuff. Some days I will fit into my momma-life better than others, just as some days I follow Jesus better than others. I take comfort, though, and believe that Jesus really loved and hung out with women. Jesus strikes me as a porch sitter and a sweet-tea drinker, maybe even that guy interested in your cheese dip recipe. You know why? Because God always cares about our story. Indeed, God once told the followers, I have pitched my tent with you, right here in your campground, strewn with empty sippy cups, files of science fair projects, and the delicious smell of athletic clothes.
CHAPTER 3
THE PRODIGAL PACI
“Or what woman, if she owns ten silver coins and loses one of them, won’t light a lamp and sweep the house, searching her home carefully until she finds it?”
—Luke 15:8
Bart: You can have your dumb pacifier.
Lisa: See if we care.
Bart: We don’t need pacifiers.
Lisa: We’re big.
Bart: We watch TV.
Lisa: We’re mature.
Maggie takes out two pacifiers and gives them to Bart and Lisa.
—The Simpson
When your husband is in politics, you know politicians. Really. You know them personally, but you don’t expect to get personal advice about home life from them. When Penn was a baby, Rep. Steny Hoyer of Maryland—only the Democratic House Minority Whip at the time, as in the second-highest-ranking member of Congress—phoned my husband about a bill that Congress would be taking up soon. My husband said, “Steny, if you don’t know anything about breast-feeding, I don’t *blankety* want to talk to you.” Victor really said that, and I think, given my postpartum misery, he meant it. There I was, sitting on the bed, crying and trying to get this not-natural thing to happen gracefully. Steny Hoyer shot back, “I’ll get three staffers on it right away!”
Our little domestic matter is probably not one you generally hear men in Congress discussing. Hands down, I think family is surely harder to negotiate than trade deals. This is my way of solving a trade deal real fast: OK, you can have fifteen minutes of Minecraft, but that is it, Buster. You hear me, right?
The women members of Congress are most likely another matter. I’d bet real dollars on their problem-solving abilities. I suspect they share advice on babies and grands in the women’s room even while they’re riffing on foreign policy.
While the guys may not share baby-sleeping techniques or breast-feeding how-tos with great regularity, back then, my husband annoyingly peppered his conversation with anything related to his firstborn child and, later, the whole pack. Victor liked sharing his family life with all his colleagues. I suspect it helped ground him while he was away from home. That was before most of us had a smartphone or FaceTime, so he stealthily carried the latest photos of all our children in his suit pocket, ready to whip them out for forced viewing. Poor Steny Hoyer. Poor Nancy Pelosi. Poor Mac Thornberry. Everyone, hide! Here comes Vic Snyder, thoughtful member of the House Committees on Armed Services and Veterans Affairs, with more baby pictures.
Honestly, his friends and colleagues were great. When we announced we were having triplets, one of our senators, Blanche Lincoln, who had twin boys, grabbed us in the airport and, with a huge smile, said, “I can give you two pieces of advice. Always accept help. Never turn it down. And second, always get two birthday cakes. Three in your case!”
I had added an army, and it was marching on me.
It’s heartening to know leaders are real people who want to help change the world, starting with your little tribe. We received advice and letters from senators, members of Congress, presidents, and a vice president. It may surprise some people to know that Dick Cheney sent us a very cute Onesie with the seal of the Office of the Vice President. Thanks, Veep, for helping us all think more ambitiously.
Such encouraging words, letters, and gifts can be remarkable keepsakes.
But even more incredible and grounding for me are the unending ways God is always searching to find us, including the times parenting overload drives us near insanity and hiding. Hiding can be as subtle as not being authentic, not revealing our fears and doubts, and unwisely pretending we got this thing.
My dear sweet mother used a weird phrase when she thought a child might be fibbing. “Are you telling a Tee Wat-teeee?” she’d say, exaggerating the question with raised eyebrows. Don’t ask me where that word came from. I think she read too much Roald Dahl.
We all have our secrets that we keep from one another, but there are no secrets from God. God knows when we’re telling a big one. God knows when we’re standing behind the itchy fig leaves not being real. I know when I’m kidding myself because it’s exhausting: “Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
Jesus said give it to him, all of our luggage, baggage, and makeup bags. I have to remind myself of his generosity by listening to his stories regularly and hanging onto the saints in close proximity to me and mine. How’s that for self-soothing? Although there’s not a specific story about Jesus helping with the laundry or babysitting—frankly, those disciples were pretty helpless, like, a lot—we have treasured parables to unearth and hold to the light of day. Parables are pictures of God and us. In some photos we’re closing our eyes or making a funny face or looking the other way. Sometimes, we’re distracted, and sometimes we’re not even in the picture. Was that the back of my head? Who took that? I look awful!
If you’re suffering from a lack of needed reclusiveness and from a deep desire for grace, look at Luke’s Gospel. He offers us three back-to-back versions of his well-known God-loves-you-so-much-and-can’t-stop-searching-for-you story (see Luke 15). Christians commonly refer to the last in the trilogy, the climatic story, as the prodigal son because the emphasis seems to be on the naughty, wastrel son who spends his inheritance in true binge fashion. Prodigious spending. Yep, the youngest is having a cray time living it up out in the wide world. Then son number two hits bottom, finally aware that he’s alone and naked among the pigs. We usually think of this parable as a forgiveness story.
My spiritual mentor, Friend Gayle, calls her dark days “the armpit of Sheol.” Sheol is that great biblical word that I have chosen to interpret as “the Pits.” Sitting in the armpit of Sheol, that younger brother realizes there’s absolutely no reason for him to remain god-forsaken. Why did he ever leave and try to do it all on his own? He can have love, acceptance, and community. All he has to do is go home; clean sheets, a home-cooked meal, and a long, squeeze-till-it-hurts hug will be waiting.
After rereading these beautiful parables, I am rechristening the last story the Prodigal Parent. Why? Because in all three stories, and especially the last, God is the One who is obviously the imprudent and reckless One. God is the One who abandons all judgment, grudges, and possible resentment to lavish love on a child in need. Notice how God brings out all the stops in loving that lost child, from the best free-range beef to the David Yurman ring. (I might have held the ring back.)
God, you see, is there not only for the self-indulgent and world-weary but also for anyone who’s overwhelmed by life. This God is for stressed-out women too. When you’re lost in sleep-deprived nights, the thick fog of young children, and valleys of self-doubt about whether you’re pulling off motherhood like you imagine you should, God is still with you. Sometimes those open arms are the arms of support already present in your life. And sometimes, God is waiting for you to say, “Help me.”
Women in the Pits also need saints.
When I refer to saints, I mean people who know firsthand all about the Pits. I don’t mean someone who is pious (those kind usually dr
ive me nutty and threaten to undermine my rock-solid secure self) or a haloed figure whose prayers bring miracles or even a Mother Teresa–caliber person. The way I see it, God can use anyone at any time because God is so beautifully gracious like that—reason one million and one that I’m not God. Just like that, God drops them into your needy midst to remind you that you—a flawed, limited human—are made for love, care, and community. Throwing a few gritty saints your way is God’s way of saying, “It’s not good for y’all to go it alone” (the Southern version of Genesis 2:18).
Dear Girlfriends, not to wallow in self-pity, but heart failure was one of those nasty little situations nestled in my very own Sheol-ish armpit. When it looked like I wasn’t going to die right away, I needed help surviving each day. Surviving was being a late-forties mom with four children, two years and under, and a husband working in another town with my health issues thrown in. (Incredible kudos to the military families out there.)
Too many people assume pastors have a lot of stuff figured out. The main thing I have figured out is this: it’s going to take my whole life to grow up, including completing all this hard work of loving God and neighbor. Loving people is so hard. It’s hard to love strangers, and most days it’s even harder to love the people you live with. Having all these new people—little people, big people—in my house taxed any realistic attempt at mastering 1 Corinthians 13. I had added an army, and it was marching on me.
With four babies at home, I wondered what home actually meant because it was no longer a private sanctuary.
With that army came gear. Having gear for four young children is like being stuck in the toy aisle of a big-box store for eternity. It’s fine to browse about ten minutes, but after that you need to go to yoga, Zumba, or whatever you can to shake off head-spinning clutter. If you’re really in a bad way, nothing beats a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing. Not only did we have the not-so-standard three cribs and toddler bed, but there were also full-on gymnasium contraptions, swings, car seats, three—count them, three—high chairs, endless diapers, wipes, clothes, swaddles, bottles, charts, lovies, and pacifiers.
The green pacifier was my frenemy.
I had a thing about offering my kids chew toys. Introduced at the NICU, the green pacifier was something about which I was simultaneously appalled and curious. My firstborn had never shown any interest in a pacifier. Besides, it seemed like a thing we didn’t need or want to initiate. I was concerned pacis would keep the babies from learning to self-soothe. While that’s an important tool for any human, I’m embarrassed to admit that I was expecting too much of triplet preemies, like Baron von Trapp in The Sound of Music when he pulls out the whistle to get the kids in line—a real line.
I thought breast-feeding was the best way I could help my preemies, even though it wasn’t good for me. I couldn’t take the proper heart medicine, get the rest I needed, or let available friends and family help me. Someone should have pulled me aside with a “Hey, Hon, just a thought. Bad idea!” (Low whisper: The good folks around me were letting me think I had some control.) I ended up pumping for a while and had to use bottles anyway, so that every baby could be fed at the same time to keep on schedule, or we’d be feeding for two hours. Preemies like to take their sweet time when breast-feeding.
After our schedule was set, I relaxed my dogmatic opinions about breast milk and pacis and finally began to lighten up. Breaking news: my kind-hearted volunteers were not wet nurses. Most were past menopause. This wasn’t going to be round two of my first pregnancy, lollygagging with my firstborn. I had to accept a very different situation. So I embraced my frenemy, buying three to four packages at a time, so that I’d always have a stash. I began to see the similarity of using a pacifier and fulfilling my own needs. Help is not a bad word. I needed some soothing, but where, when, and how was that going to happen? Probably the same way I searched for the frenemy when I was desperate. I looked anywhere my frenemy could have fallen: under beds, behind couches, in the laundry. The thing we hate to admit and need most was usually right under my nose.
Mom, Get a Neighborhood
With four babies at home, I wondered what home actually meant because it was no longer a private sanctuary. It had become Project Triplet, a three-teething-ring-circus and revolving door of church friends, neighbors, and strangers who signed up on the volunteer chart in the kitchen. The giant erase board, sitting on the island, loomed large.
This is what helpers walked into. The board was divided into days of the month, each day made up of three-hour increments, during which the babies were awakened, diapered, fed, maybe re-diapered, held, played with, re-swaddled, and placed back in bed; the mattress alarms turned on; a sound machine cranked; the curtains pulled; and the babies’ consumption and elimination charted. Each baby was color-coded for convenience, wearing a particular color that matched his chart color and a bit of toenail polish to match. Wyatt was yellow; Sullivan was blue; and Aubrey was green.
Having all these children cuddled and cared for by others who came to my house, because there was no choice, left me frustrated with how to enjoy and bond with these precious, stinky messes. I wanted to do it all. I didn’t want to hand them off to other people, but if I didn’t, I might drop a baby, literally. The intimacy I’d had with my firstborn was replaced by community. Not lying. Some days my privacy felt like it had been stolen, so that all my vulnerabilities were on display.
So I started with training wheels. I had to learn that God was in the thick of my new family through my own family, friends, acquaintances I barely knew, and a few folks on the who-are-you-and-how-did-you-get-in-here continuum. Even though I might have chosen more privacy, I had a whole neighborhood of women who ate with me; sang to, rocked, and diapered my children; and talked to me. I grew to love them and cherish them.
Looking back, I had the kind of experience most women used to have when they gave birth at home. Other women living nearby came in to help the new mother in the weeks after, aiding her ability to return to her normal activities. Back then, one of the main offerings given to the neighbor who’d given birth was to prepare food. Today’s casseroles sent to new parents are the downsized version, the leftovers of a tradition that once brought people together, face-to-face.
It makes me pause and consider why Jesus put such an emphasis on gatherings and meals. He ate with all sorts of people, pointing out to them that they were his family and that, from then on, they should help one another. When you eat together in community, you are not merely consuming food; you are breaking bread and becoming family. Jesus was the consummate eat-local foodie. If you’re eating together, you’re becoming family.
Although we don’t know if Jesus ever attended a kid’s birthday party or whether or not he babysat, he had and has an inclusive definition of neighbor and family. When parents came to him with their children, Jesus didn’t tell them he had better things to do with his time or that parenting wasn’t on his radar. Rather, Jesus blessed the children, and, I am convinced, this action still blesses all the parents who lift their runny-nosed, sticky, fidgety progeny into his arms (see Matthew 19:14-15 and Mark 10:13-15). When someone affirms by her presence that your kids need to be loved and that you do, too, well, isn’t that person a gift from God? A neighbor. All those folks who helped take care of our babies took care of me too.
Surrender: Don’t Do It Your Way
Suck on this one: loosen your grip. No one is going to do anything exactly like you. I know. You’ve got your special way of being in the world. God made only one of you. (I know my husband is soooo glad he lives with only one of me.) Whether it’s soothing a crying infant, burping a child while holding him up or tossing him bag-of-taters-style over the shoulder, or making your one and only chicken tetrazzini, we’ve all got our styles. I beg you, Sister; unless it’s dangerous, let it go. Your child is going to learn soon enough that there are diverse styles, opinions, strategies, and worldviews. By the way, that is a very good thing. Most days of mothering are learning to let
go anyway. Breathe deeply.
Whether it’s day care, a sitter, a mother-in-law, a family member, or a friend, no one can replace you as primary parent, but the job of parenthood is to give space to a world bigger than ourselves. Look at the long conversations Jesus had with people who were very different from him. Not only did he disagree with and debate the law with the religious authorities of his day, he also discussed his understanding of the spiritual life with people as diverse as a despised tax collector named Zacchaeus and a Samaritan woman. Jesus, in fact, made it a point to tell Zacchaeus they were going to eat together. Likewise, Jesus also pointedly walked right into Samarian borders to talk theology with someone different in ethnicity and gender. These encounters explain something important about God. God made diversity. God likes diversity. Diversity helps children. The breadth of opinion in this huge world is massive.
Did I say letting go was easy? The practice of surrendering our own perfection, our neatly barricaded emotional walls, or our insistence that we alone hold the keys to our child’s happiness is a spiritual practice. Letting go is a habit we must practice if we are to cultivate surrender.
Own Your Needs
My boys are now about the size and age of Mowgli. Man cubs. They could probably figure out how to fetch honeycombs off a cliff for Baloo the bear. They make stuff. Endlessly. It’s easy to see they’re growing up, but the inner life is still and always will be a mystery.
That doesn’t mean we don’t apply the gift of discernment. What ways can we practice prodigious grace for ourselves and within our families? Not long ago, Sullivan, our middle triplet, was assigned a time-out after school for not having a good start that morning. Drama. His school has a color-coded behavioral system. He finished his day on the color orange, a behavior no-no. Upon learning that he had a lengthy time-out after school, he sobbed. And sobbed. Maybe time-out could be reframed as something positive and soothing. I said, “Let’s do something to calm you. How about a bubble bath and time to yourself?” Sniff, snuffle, and head nod. I gave him a towel and bubbles and started his water. I checked on him once. After the warm bath, he put on jams and looked at books. He was a new man cub. I looked at him and, though there was no paci, saw that he had waded through his own trying, tangled jungle of needs and anxieties.
Stepping on Cheerios Page 3