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Revering the Crayon Marks: An Essay on Rediscovering the Joy of Parenting
by Susie Cortright
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"Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be
extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired."
Mother Theresa *
This was one of those relatively rare - but still very real - days as a
stay-at-home mom in which I feared the best I could do would be to fake
a smile and turn my back, when necessary, to count to ten.
It was on this particular day that the girls and I were heading to a
distant store to pick out just the right Christmas gift for someone. My
3-year-old was passing the time by speaking every thought that occurred
to her. At this particular moment, those thoughts revolved around the
time of day.
"If you get up early enough, it's night," she announced.
"Callie gets earbubble," (that would be "irritable") "right before her
nap."
"Daddy comes home when it gets dark."
I answered yes to all of these things, only half-listening. Then, making
a distracted attempt at conversation, I asked her, "What's your favorite
time of the day?"
Silence.
"What did you ask me, mommy?"
I repeated the question. "What's your favorite time of the day?"
Silence again.
I looked in the rear view mirror. Her blank stare told me she thought my
question was absurd. After a time, she answered:
"This one."
Now Cassie does enjoy a good long car ride, so I asked her the question
again as she was getting ready for bed that night:
"Cassie, what's your favorite time of day?"
The answer was the same: "This one."
Ah. This one. And so should it be for me. How I wish it were. How I wish
I could recognize the peace and joy in every single moment with my kids.
You see, my daughter is better than me at something I long to be good
at. It's what Richard Foster, author of
Prayer: Finding the Heart's True Home, calls the Prayer of the
Ordinary.
"We are Praying the Ordinary," he writes, "when we see God in the
ordinary experiences of life. Can we find meaning in the crayon marks on
the wall made by the kids? Are they somehow the finger of God writing on
the wall of our hearts?" In the same chapter, he writes: "It is in the
everyday and the commonplace that we learn patience, acceptance, and
contentment."
That, I'm sure, is true. Particularly that patience part.
My fear is that, like everyone with adult children tells me, the time
will go too quickly, I fear that I'll wish for it back, even those
mealtimes interrupted by the whisper "Mommy, I pooped." Even those
whines for another Go-gurt. Even the stray Legos I nail with my bare
feet. I fear that I'll soon pine for all the time I've ever wished away.
And yet, though I'm infinitely conscious of trying to freeze those
moments -the good and the bad - in my memory for some distant future,
it's hard. It's hard to see Foster's crayon marks on the wall as
anything but crayon marks. Crayon marks that I will have to scrub.
I'm experiencing a crayon mark of sorts right now. As I jot notes for
this column at the kitchen table, my 3-year old is sitting on my lap,
trying to push my pen along the page with her Three Little Pigs book.
She has just dragged her grape lollipop through my hair and wiped her
nose on my sleeve. "Mommy, make your pen go ALL the way along the page,"
she orders, scooting it along and making my thoughts an illegible mess
of ink.
For a moment, I have an unbecoming and out-of-the-blue urge to chuck her
beloved book across the room.
And it is precisely times like these when I need to indeed see the
crayon marks as something left by the finger of God. To feel a sense of
reverence for my every moment of my life as a mom. To once again find
meaning and glory in my daughter's cherubic yet filthy face.
But for this, I need some kind of tool, some trick for the heat of the
moment. A trick to bring myself back in an instant to the kind of mother
I long to be, the kind of mother I sometimes know myself to be, and the
kind of mother I want my daughters to remember me to be.
At this moment, I have a little talk with myself. Cassie and I end up
tucking our feet under a blanket on the couch and reading the very book
that I wanted to hurl. And I enjoy it. I always do if can just sink into
the moment and remember what a little miracle I have here on my lap.
Perhaps that tool, then, is surrender.
Or maybe it's distraction. The same trick that all moms learn when their
youngest is about 18 months old. When Cassie was that age, and she'd get
angry and frustrated, distraction worked wonders. When she was 2 ½,
distraction worked wonders on MY anger and frustration. Sometimes, the
best tool for me is to change my scenery…to get my mind on something
else.
Perhaps that tool is compassion. Compassion for our children and a
conscious understanding of what they must be feeling at certain times in
their precious and sometimes bewildering lives.
And compassion to ourselves, which we can show by not over-scheduling
our lives to the point where it's impossible to get down on the floor
and play for 20 minutes, if that's what it takes. Or to call your own
mommy just to chat for 20 minutes, if that's what it takes.
Perhaps that tool lies in the realization that our lives are long and
full and that there will be plenty of time to do what we need to do when
we no longer have little ones pulling on our pant legs.
Perhaps it is the tool of single-tasking. So we don't feel distracted
all the time. This is the tool that involves downshifting out of
overdrive, because it's in overdrive that we talk too much, eat too
much, think too much. Enjoy too little.
Perhaps it is the tool of shifting your awareness. A conscious
committing to memory of the ripe physical sensations of motherhood: The
feel of your baby's marvelous, heavy head on your chest. The smell of
Cheerios on her breath. This is how we bring ourselves back--gently--to
the gifts that are under our fingers and, oftentimes, directly
underfoot.
Perhaps it is the tool of solitude. So that, by enjoying the pursuit of
something, solo, we may return to them renewed--and without resentment.
Perhaps it is the tool of being honest and talking it out with other
moms. It helps me to remember that we're all in this together. Most days
we are genuinely loving it. Some days we are genuinely faking it, just
as generations of good moms before us have done.
There is a certain solace in this story told by my mother-in-law, whose
three children would describe an ideal, involved, committed, and very
loving mother. There were days, she says, when her face hurt at the end
of the day from smiling. A clear and present sign that her smile was,
for days at a time, forced.
But her kids didn't know. With grace, neither will mine. And tomorrow
will be a different kind of a day, with new tools to look upon those
crayon marks with the reverence they deserve.
Copyright Susie Michelle Cortright
Editor, Momscape.com
*Note: I found the quote that begins this column in Mimi Doe's new
book
Busy but Balanced, a terrific read filled with good
suggestions for parents.
About the Author:
Susie Michelle Cortright is the founder of
Momscape.com She is a writer and
full-time mom whose passion is helping women celebrate and embrace their
role as mothers. She lives in Breckenridge, Colorado, with her
husband and three young children.
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