You know when you watch a movie and a main character dies unexpectedly and later while sorting through the effects, the family finds personalized letters to each of them?
And even the new godparents of the orphaned children have letters telling them all they need to know to raise the bereaved brood? The emotions swell as the family realizes just how wise and all-knowing their loved one was.
I wonder though, if the letters were found a week previous to the death—how weird and uncomfortable that moment would be. Thoughts of possible chemical imbalance may come into play.
And because I am a worrier and a sometimes planner-aheader, I often have that urge to leave heartfelt messages and counsel to my children in case I die trying to save them from a house fire. Or flopping on the floor of my dentist’s office.
But then I think of Jeremy’s facial expression when he finds the papers while I am alive and well making dinner in the kitchen and I decide push it off until I’m 80 or diagnosed with a terminal illness.
Which really, if you think about it, could happen at any moment.
Ergo my attempt at leaving my children advice and thoughts on adulthood and motherhood on this blog without my intentions being too transparent.
But just in case I kick the bucket before I get my real letters written, please print this off with your edits and additions, send it in the mail—and make sure to say a nice little comment about me.
I find ABC books annoying and predictable. Almost as bad as reading Green Eggs and Ham. Dr. Seuss was a great writer but if I saw him on the street, I think I’d have to fight the urge to kick him in the shins. I mean seriously, the rhymes, the repetition, the 38 letter words, the book with the same 6 words repeated over and over in different combinations--you’d think marijuana was legal a while ago.
But authors of ABC books do get kudos for simplicity and straightforward distribution of basic information, which is why I am blathering on and not telling you what I want to tell you yet.
So, for my children and all 6 of you:
The ABC’s of Motherhood/Parenthood/Life
A-G Edition
A is for All Done which you will never have.
Accept. I repeat: Accept.
You will never have:
- all the laundry washed, folded, put away
- every room in the house clean
- every child fed
- all projects completed
- every bill paid in full
- your home decorated just the way you like
- your car(s) spotless
- every desired skill mastered
- the bucket list marked-off.
You may be 
lucky enough to have some all at once, but unless you are insanely rich {to pay someone to do all of it for you}, critically poor {you can only sweep a dirt floor so much}, fundamentally lazy {the two reoccurring items on your to-do list are 1) buy Cheetos and 2) sit on the couch}, or taking your last breath—you will NEVER (and I do mean NE-VER) be able to coast and be D.O.N.E. So, be happy anyway and find a way to be at peace with the incompleteness of it all!
B is for Brownie Mix. In fact any packaging that is a pouch with a little flappy strip on the back is misleading. It looks so simple to hold and pull, 
but mark my words, resist the urge. I repeat: resist—don’t pull. Grab a pair of scissors. And if you ignore my counsel, go ahead and buy two boxes.
C is for Cement which is what granola, oatmeal and grape nuts turn into when not rinsed or washed from a bowl immediately after scraping the
bottom. Again, you can ignore my warnings, but I hope you trust me well enough to know that this nugget is worth a keepin’.
D is for Dumb Toys: there’s a lot of it marketed towards kids and their parents and 3/4 of it falls into this category. If it has a screwed door for batteries or makes you want to repeatedly rock in a corner, then it may require a gift receipt. Not all, but 
most. Everyone has their opinions, druthers, tastes, whatever, but I’m all for kids playing in cardboard boxes, mud puddles and abandoned mines. Not that I don’t use a TV babysitter, have a DVD player for long trips, or an overflowing toy room, but there’s stuff that makes you smarter and there’s stuff that makes you dumber. I’m all for the first one.
E is for Enjoy. I hear from a lot of grandma’s that children grow up so fast. I think that is a BIG FAT LIE but I’ll give them the benefit of old age. Whether it seems to take an eternity or each day flies by like a first kiss, I hope you enjoy your time with your children. Or whatever stage of life you’re in. I wasted too much time in college wondering if this guy or that guy was the one. I wasted too much time (and still do occasionally) wishing everyone could feed, bathe, and read to 
themselves. I wish I could take back every time I told my children to find something to do because “Mommy has to get stuff done.” I think it bodes well for everyone when I give a specific ending moment/time and THEN we can do whatever it is WITH the child. I hope the moments my children remember from their childhood is the daily ins and outs, chores, errands, walks, talks that were done together and with my {mostly} complete attention.
F is for feed the masses, love the one. ]
Not feed the one, love the masses.
I’m talking about picky eaters here, y’all. I’ve read many magazine articles and parenting books and my theory is: choice—not force. I try to make healthy meal choices and it is their choice to eat or choose to be hungry. I channel my inner Dept. of Motor Vehicle agent and remain loving yet powerless to change the situation.
One of my fav. parenting books has a great line that I use when the hungry rage and wail, “I feel that way when I get hungry too. I’ll be sure to make you a great breakfast in the morning. Love ya!” 
It’s great—no counting bites, no bribing, no cajoling…just offer and allow the empty stomach to teach the lesson. I understand there are kids with sensory needs and other exceptions, but in our home, you have to at least try it {“You may just like it!” is my cheer} and if you don’t you can spit it out. It might just come down to my not having the energy, patience or willingness to fight at the end of the day. Here is dinner. Your friend, Drama, is not invited. Period.
G is for Grandparents. I love them. I love how they interact and love my children in a completely different way then I do. I love how they get them things I can’t afford and more attention than I can afford. But, sometimes I wish their was a filter on phone to screen out these real live examples that I’ve heard the girls tell various grandparents:
- We lost Hannah at the pool today! *pause* Uh-huh. *pause* Yeah, she was in the bathroom. *pause* She was naked with a twisted bathing suit. *pause* No, Mommy didn’t know.
- Ben ate this dirty, hairy bouncy ball that he found under the oven today. *pause* No he didn’t swallow it. *pause* Yes, Mommy got it out.
- Mom left us in the car alone while she ran back inside Katie’s therapy to go potty.
- My shoes have holes in them.
- We had cereal for dinner.
- Mommy left a poopy diaper on a vent and the whole house smelled like diarrhea.
Luckily, my parents and in-laws will be my witnesses in court if my losing the Mother of the Year ever comes into question.
Yes, this is a re-post.
Yes, I will write a letter from myself now to myself as a High School Senior. Makey sensey?
And yes, I will be doing a new and improved ABC’s of Motherhood vewy, vewy soon.
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Good stuff.
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