Welcome the Stranger
One day while walking the kids to school, Sean was telling me how his brand new tennis shoes allowed him to run really fast. I smiled, agreed with him, and continued schlepping Audrey's violin on my shoulder while holding the leashed dog in one hand and a dog-poop-bag in another.
Sean: You know, Mama. I bet if you put on your tennis shoes and tied them really tight, you might actually be able to run.
I scoffed.
me: I can run!
Sean: You can?
me: Of course I can! You just don't see me run very much because I have all this stuff weighing me down.
Sean: Oh. Yeah, (almost to himself) I just never see you run...
me: I am able to run. I just choose to walk.
His belief that maybe I could run if I just tried was endearing, but I suddenly felt very alien to my own child. I dropped the kids at school and as I walked home by myself, a half block from our duplex, I began to jog. I started to pick up speed, sprinting, and our dog happily raced alongside me. The air whipped my hair around and I felt strong and powerful in full strides. Then I got home: my lower back muscles pinched, my breathing choppy, my throat dry. I reminded myself why I don't typically choose to run.
That morning Sean saw me as a stranger to running, a stranger to being a youthful, energetic kid. I saw him as a stranger to me: why doesn't he see his mother as athletic? Then after running home, I felt like a stranger to myself. Running takes a toll on my back and knees, and I can have pain for days after pushing myself to hard running. The real kicker physically, however, is not running but when I try to do a cartwheel: never have I felt more like a stranger in my own body.
Sometimes the strangeness or divide between parent and child is funny, and that's proven in my Mother's Day present from Audrey last spring. Her belief that I'm not at all athletic has been memorialized for all eternity in a laminated Mother's Day poem. Sometimes the Stranger that needs welcoming is the unexpected mess: like the day Sean stepped in dog poop in the yard not once, but twice. Ruining not just one pair of shoes for the day BUT TWO. The Stranger I welcomed that day was a smell, a mess, and poopy footprints all over the kitchen needing immediate clean-up.
Sometimes the strangeness is not comical but curious and disconcerting - like realizing I'm no longer capable of doing a cartwheel. Or when Frances turns up at the side of my bed at 2am wanting to snuggle, or when her uptick in tantrums finally leads to a Strep Throat diagnosis on Thanksgiving weekend.
Sometimes the practice of Welcoming the Stranger is useful to me as a parent. When I am at wit's end with my children, my final resort is to imagine that they aren't mine. If I imagine that they belong to someone else, I can muster more patience. If I think they are my best friend's child, then I will want to roll out the red carpet for them, give them the benefit of the doubt, excuse a crabby day because they must have more going on than I know. I can shower mercy on children who aren't my own, but when the daily grind at home lowers my patience, my husband and children are the first to see my less gracious side.
That was the story of yesterday: I was challenged to welcome the stranger in a confirmed case of Influenza A in Sean. Then I found our dog laying on our bed (not allowed in our house!) right after Tom had lathered flea and tick medicine on the back of her neck: the duvet cover reeked and needing washing. Later Frances wet her pants (which on most days is a rarity), and shortly thereafter she spilled apple juice all over the kitchen floor: the apple juice that had just been purchased for Sean and his friend, Influenza. As the hours ticked by my day got stranger and stranger, but I forgot about my trick of welcoming my own children as strangers. By the time Tom came home I was in a bad mood.
I got stuck in the mindset that "these children are mine," and therefore they should act or respond in a reasonable, logical way, if only I can set the parameters of the day correctly. If they are mine then I take responsibility for trying to make each moment of each day go well or make everyone happy all the time. When I release that thought, when I welcome them as a stranger, I am able to see them as another human being in need of assistance. When I welcome them as strangers I try to control the situation less and stay present to the circumstances of the day more. What I forgot yesterday is this: welcoming the stranger as a stay-at-home mom means welcoming the daily foibles, sickness, and messes. Welcoming the stranger keeps me patient and sane. It's the practice of reminding myself that my children don't belong to me, but rather we belong to each other.
"If we have no peace, it's because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." ~ Mother Teresa
Sean: You know, Mama. I bet if you put on your tennis shoes and tied them really tight, you might actually be able to run.
I scoffed.
me: I can run!
Sean: You can?
me: Of course I can! You just don't see me run very much because I have all this stuff weighing me down.
Sean: Oh. Yeah, (almost to himself) I just never see you run...
me: I am able to run. I just choose to walk.
His belief that maybe I could run if I just tried was endearing, but I suddenly felt very alien to my own child. I dropped the kids at school and as I walked home by myself, a half block from our duplex, I began to jog. I started to pick up speed, sprinting, and our dog happily raced alongside me. The air whipped my hair around and I felt strong and powerful in full strides. Then I got home: my lower back muscles pinched, my breathing choppy, my throat dry. I reminded myself why I don't typically choose to run.
That morning Sean saw me as a stranger to running, a stranger to being a youthful, energetic kid. I saw him as a stranger to me: why doesn't he see his mother as athletic? Then after running home, I felt like a stranger to myself. Running takes a toll on my back and knees, and I can have pain for days after pushing myself to hard running. The real kicker physically, however, is not running but when I try to do a cartwheel: never have I felt more like a stranger in my own body.
Sometimes the strangeness or divide between parent and child is funny, and that's proven in my Mother's Day present from Audrey last spring. Her belief that I'm not at all athletic has been memorialized for all eternity in a laminated Mother's Day poem. Sometimes the Stranger that needs welcoming is the unexpected mess: like the day Sean stepped in dog poop in the yard not once, but twice. Ruining not just one pair of shoes for the day BUT TWO. The Stranger I welcomed that day was a smell, a mess, and poopy footprints all over the kitchen needing immediate clean-up.
Sometimes the strangeness is not comical but curious and disconcerting - like realizing I'm no longer capable of doing a cartwheel. Or when Frances turns up at the side of my bed at 2am wanting to snuggle, or when her uptick in tantrums finally leads to a Strep Throat diagnosis on Thanksgiving weekend.
Sometimes the practice of Welcoming the Stranger is useful to me as a parent. When I am at wit's end with my children, my final resort is to imagine that they aren't mine. If I imagine that they belong to someone else, I can muster more patience. If I think they are my best friend's child, then I will want to roll out the red carpet for them, give them the benefit of the doubt, excuse a crabby day because they must have more going on than I know. I can shower mercy on children who aren't my own, but when the daily grind at home lowers my patience, my husband and children are the first to see my less gracious side.
That was the story of yesterday: I was challenged to welcome the stranger in a confirmed case of Influenza A in Sean. Then I found our dog laying on our bed (not allowed in our house!) right after Tom had lathered flea and tick medicine on the back of her neck: the duvet cover reeked and needing washing. Later Frances wet her pants (which on most days is a rarity), and shortly thereafter she spilled apple juice all over the kitchen floor: the apple juice that had just been purchased for Sean and his friend, Influenza. As the hours ticked by my day got stranger and stranger, but I forgot about my trick of welcoming my own children as strangers. By the time Tom came home I was in a bad mood.
I got stuck in the mindset that "these children are mine," and therefore they should act or respond in a reasonable, logical way, if only I can set the parameters of the day correctly. If they are mine then I take responsibility for trying to make each moment of each day go well or make everyone happy all the time. When I release that thought, when I welcome them as a stranger, I am able to see them as another human being in need of assistance. When I welcome them as strangers I try to control the situation less and stay present to the circumstances of the day more. What I forgot yesterday is this: welcoming the stranger as a stay-at-home mom means welcoming the daily foibles, sickness, and messes. Welcoming the stranger keeps me patient and sane. It's the practice of reminding myself that my children don't belong to me, but rather we belong to each other.
"If we have no peace, it's because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." ~ Mother Teresa
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