I was flipping through cable channels recently and paused on a show that followed a family in the days leading up to and just after the birth of their second girl. The mom was a bit overwhelmed, tired and grumpy. I could so relate. At one point I’d been there myself surrounded by dirty diapers, an attention-demanding 19-month old and a helpless yet ravenous creature who seemed intent on sucking my life out through my breasts every two hours on the dot around the clock.
The next 18 years are a bit of a blur, and many memories are fuzzy. I know I was crazy busy getting kids out the door to school, getting myself to work, getting dinner on the table. While my military husband was working 12+ hours a day or away from home for weeks or months at a time, I was driving — to ballet schools, saxophone and viola lessons, soccer and volleyball practices and games, sleepovers, drama productions, band concerts. Our frequent moves as an Army family made packing, unpacking and my job hunting regular activities along with getting used to new homes, new schools, new friends and even new languages (German; West Virginian accents).
Apparently something worked over those two decades. My now-grown daughters are smart, independent women who quickly adapt to change. They are kind to others and care about finding ways to make our world a better place to live. Each earned her bachelor’s degree and found jobs upon graduation. Both made good decisions about the men they chose to marry.
I like to think that their success as adults is due, in part, to all the driving I did while they were growing up.
As I was watching the young mother on that TV show last week, I had fleeting thoughts about the advice I would share, such as how one way to get a toddler to quit causing mayhem during nursing time was to have a basket of books nearby so baby’s feeding time becomes associated with quiet Dr. Seuss reading time. Or how if that mom ever volunteers to chaperone a middle school dance, it’s best to fade into the background instead of trying to teach the other chaperones how to dance the Macarena. (I promise she will hear about the embarrassment she caused for years and years.)
In reality, however, none of these sort of parenting pointers really matter. That mom, like generations of moms before her, likely will figure out how to raise her children to become decent members of our society.
The one thing I wish I could share with her is the one thing I wish I’d done more of during those crazy, busy years: I wish I had stopped and made a conscious effort to imprint into my memory more of the wonderful everyday details of raising my children — the casual dinner conversations, the giggles during silly movies, the joy on their faces when they brought home report cards.
I’m damn good at giving advice based on hindsight. In this case, though, I plan to listen to myself. When I’m old(er) and feeble(r), I want to remember more of simple yet important details of my life today — the wake up calls of birds and frogs during my early morning walks through the park; the swirls of purple, orange and pink sunsets over the Gulf of Mexico; the sweet smell of orange blossoms floating on Florida breezes each spring; and the relaxed look on my husband’s face when he naps on Sunday afternoons.
Starting today, I will stop more often and pay attention to my life. Will you?
