Embarrassing Mum

I've made it.  I have finally reached the status of Embarrassing Mum.

It doesn't matter what Embarrassing Mum does, it won't ever be quite right.  I'm old.  I don't understand how things work these days.  I don't know what 'everyone else' does or has.  I certainly don't know how to be cool (and that's probably not even the right word) like 'everyone else's' mum.  

And so, I begin the task of continuing my relationship with Toby (12, but far more knowledgable than you could possibly imagine) when he is beginning to push me away to form his own sense of identity, separate from me and even from our family.  It's a daunting prospect.

And it's a very strange feeling to watch my child, the one I cradled in my arms, sung to in the middle of the night and taught how to wee in the toilet, pulling away from me.  Of course, he doesn't know that I know what he's doing.  He just thinks that I am clueless about the whole thing.  I've always been old.  I was never his age.  And yet, I find myself remembering being 12 and feeling shocked that Toby is as old as I was then.  I remember boyfriends to awkwardly hold hands with, giggling girly friends to meet in the town (2pm, outside 'Boots', every Saturday) and feelings of being desperate to grow up.  

It's time to let go again.  I need to let go, but hold on at the same time.  He needs me to be his safety and security as he begins to tip toe out into this world of girls (not yet), school results, new friendships and fads.  As all around him turns into a whirlwind of confusing thoughts, decisions, dilemmas and not to mention changing bodies, he needs his parents to be the boring ones who stay constant.

So, I'll be Embarrassing Mum with pleasure, as long as (when nobody is watching) he will still come and give me a hug and tell me he loves me.  

"Come, follow me."

Stepping out of the boat wasn't just a thrill-seeker's adventure.  It was a death sentence.  To climb on top of the edge and then stretch your toes out onto the cold, dark, swirling waters was madness.  This wasn't some crazy bungee-jumper's adrenaline rush.  This was certain suicide.

What would make someone do such a thing?  How would it even occur to someone?

Gazing into the eyes of his Master, Peter heard the word: "Come".

No questions asked.

It was a no-brainer. 

Did Peter engage his brain before clambering out of that boat?  Did his friends shout and tell him to stop being ridiculous?  Did they try and pull him back to safety?  Or did Peter see his Master walking on the water, calling to him, and just follow?

"Come, follow me."

Does following require us to seek thrills or does it require us to obey, finding grace given to us every step of the way?  Does it mean we keep our gaze fixed, firmly, on the One we follow despite the danger and difficulties?  As we step out, putting our own desires and dreams to death, we are given a whole new set of dreams that are more than we could have ever imagined or hoped for?.

"Come, follow me."

Can we follow, but keep hold of a couple of things just in case?  Do we follow just for the benefits or are we in it for the long haul, when the waters threaten to overwhelm?  Do we really trust the One we follow or do we keep a back up plan? 

Following requires our all, or we're not really following.  We can't pretend to follow - we either do or we don't.  But the promises we are given outweigh the shaky, fearful steps every time. 

Certain death?  Yes. 
Certain hope?  Yes. 
Life beyond anything we could ever have expected?  Yes. 

"Come, follow me."

Reading Books - What the teachers don't see.

If only the teacher could see what happens at home when, in good faith, the reading books are handed out.

If you are lucky enough to have a child who actually wants to read their book and you don't have to go through the crying / screaming / bribery / attempting to think of innovative ways of making reading fun, then you have already passed the first hurdle.  I have been known to read by torchlight; in a Yoda voice; inside cardboard boxes and even up a tree to persuade a child to read their book.  

The next hurdle is attempting to stop the sibling distraction.  Younger siblings are difficult to contain and while you are sitting down attempting to explain 'was' is actually pronounced 'woz' they are merrily taking their favourite cuddly toy swimming in the toilet or emptying the contents of the fridge into their mouths.  Older siblings present a different problem.  Their activities are fun - more fun than reading about Biff's latest adventures - and the reading child would far rather be with their older brother or sister.

Sometimes you come across the 'independent reader' who does not want you to even look at the book let alone help them.  They sit as far away as possible, holding the book away from you as though it is a secret document.  This makes for a long and frustrating reading session while the child stumbles over laugh, pronouncing it 'lowg', but will not, under any circumstances, allow you to assist.

The 'rolling around whilst reading' days are my particular irritation.  Holding on to the book, they roll across the floor, kicking their legs, constantly losing their place in the book.  Once the place is lost, you have to start the battle all over again.  

As much as I promised myself I wouldn't ever do it, I have been known to say (in a very pious tone of voice) "What in earth would Mrs Baker think of your behaviour this evening?" and I have even written in the reading record book: "Said child has been very silly tonight silly tonight and has not concentrated well on their reading". I hope the teacher could read between the lines.

End-of-day tiredness has a big effect on the quality of the reading.  Often, there is no opportunity other than when they are very tired at the end of a long day.  Not only are they worn out, but so are you, and patience levels are low.  Allowing them to sound the word out themselves when you are tired and really don't want to hear anymore about how Floppy the dog fell into the river, it's very difficult to contain yourself when you just want to snap the words out and be done with the whole thing.  Tears, on both sides, are common at this stage.  

Oh, if only the teachers could be a fly on the wall.

Museums

My tips for visiting museums with boys.

1. Practice speed walking before you go.  You will need to follow them everywhere, and they will not walk slowly, appreciating the history.

2. Don't attempt to read any of the information signs.  If you are good at the art of dressing up boring activities, you can try to make the information sound fun but usually it will backfire.

3. Prepare some useful answers for questions about 'buttock ornaments' and naked statues.

4. Try your hardest to keep out of sight of the museum staff, especially when the boys are lying on the floor hooting at the people below through the vents in the floor.

5. Don't try to be a history teacher.  While you are impressing yourself by explaining the intricacies of the Aztecs, they will be wandering off climbing the totem pole.

6. Smile at the people fortunate enough to be visiting without children.  If you smile, they will be more forgiving when the boys push past them to see the bows and arrows or shout 'you can see that statue's bum cheeks!'

7. Walk through the inevitable 'you have to exit through it' gift shop as quickly as possibly shouting 'NO, NO, NO, NO, NO' until the boys realise you will not be buying them yet another wooden sword or fake gemstone.

8. Remember that one day you can go back and visit everything in your own leisure, including reading all the information signs.

Finding Perspective

Frustrated again at the half Lego body lying, decapitated on the bathroom floor; the toilet seat that miraculously seems to have wee on it  ("it wasn't me, I ALWAYS wipe it up" hmmm) and the overflowing cardboard box in the kitchen which is for me to put in junk left lying around the house but has become a new place to keep it instead, I wonder at the 'difficulties' of my life and try to keep perspective.

I sigh over the stains on the white shirt which haven't come out in the wash (and I did use Ariel - they're not whiter than white, after all) and remind myself that somewhere out there in the world is a child whose clothes have never been inside a washing machine.  Somewhere there is a child who may not have clothes at all.

Wondering yet again how we are going to help Max to control his temper after another explosive outburst this morning, I remember that some children don't have a mum or dad to help them learn self control.  What will become of them?

Feeling irritated at the boy's obsession with money and their focus on constantly saving up for things, I think about the children who are sent to work at the same age as my little ones.  Exploited and prohibited from having a proper childhood, these tinies work long hours for not even half of my boy's weekly pocket money.  They can't 'save up for things' because the money is needed for basic essentials.  Forced to be adults before their time, these children don't know how it feels to have a new toy car or Lego kit they've been watching on eBay for weeks.  They don't even hope or dream for such things.

I feel shut out of my boy's lives when I walk into a room while they are dressing, only for them to cover themselves up.  "I changed your nappies!" I exclaim to them.  "All your body parts grew inside me!"  Embarrassing, I know.  Then I remember how many children out there don't have the opportunity to cover up.  Their bodies are infiltrated, abused, ravaged by adults who use them for their own disgusting pleasure.  Some of their bodies are even used to make money, when they should be wrapped up in their pj's and snuggled under cuddly blankets with those who love them.  

The screen battle is my consant war.  "Go outside!" I shout at them. "It's a beautiful day!" I think about the children who not only don't have screens, but are kept inside all day and night, a prisoner to someone else's demands.  No fresh air, no footballs, no pooh sticks over a bridge.  Just the never ending story of being held captive.

Racing up and down the stairs at bedtime, I wonder if the boys will ever go to sleep and give me some peace.  What excuses will they think up next to call me from their beds?  "I can hear a scratching", "I've just figured out that conkers go mouldy really quickly", "Max's teeth scare me" to name but a few. And then I remind myself that for some children, bedtime is the most terrifying of all.  Not knowing whether they will wake again the next morning, they go to sleep in fear of their lives and the lives of their family.  Some children, fleeing the violence, don't have a bed to sleep in or even a mummy to tuck them in and stroke their hair.  

I feel bored of our meals.  I look at 'family meals recipes' online to try and find something more interesting for us to eat.  And then I remember that some children are grateful for the same food day in, day out because otherwise they might not have any food at all.  

And so, I try to put my own worries and frustrations into perspective.  There's a whole world out there that needs us.  Sometimes it's good to lift our head from our own busy little lives and take a daring peek at what the lives of others look like.  It might just propel us into action.

Vision

As I approach Toby's twelfth (I have to breathe deeply at this point) birthday, I wonder whether as parents we are working out the vision and aims we had when he was a baby.  It's a psychological truth that if you aim for nothing, you will hit nothing.  The Bible puts it in another, more dramatic way, in the book of Proverbs: 'When there is no vision, the people perish.'

And so, attempting to understand this in our 'new-parent-shocked-exhausted' state, we decided there and then that we would bring our boy (and subsequent boys....  oh, how little we knew of what was to come) up to be a radical follower of Jesus, obeying him despite the cost.  As a baby, instead of a christening, we dedicated him to God.  For us, this meant saying thank you to God for him and then giving him back.  Toby is on loan to us and as his parents we have been commissioned to train and disciple him.  He's not ours to keep, he's ours to prepare.

In light of these thoughts, we made these promises at his dedication (and for Max and Jonah too), based on the words used in the Salvation Army.  These are promises we did not make lightly, but much thought and soul-searching went into them.

“If you wish the Lord to take possession of the soul and body of this child, Toby, that he shall only and always do His will, you must be willing that he should spend all his life in the service of Christ wherever God may choose to send him; even if he should be despised, hated, cursed, beaten, kicked, imprisoned, or killed for Christ’s sake. 

Whilst living out God’s purposes for his life he will know the unending and unconditional love of God, the peace that passes all understanding; and the joy of having an intimate relationship with God as his father, friend and counsellor. 

You must let him see in you an example of what a Christian ought to be, serving God with all your heart, soul and mind.  You must keep as far from Toby as you can every influence likely to injure him in either soul or body; and teach and train him to the best of your ability to be a faithful servant of Christ.

Do you wish to surrender your child to God in this way?”

“We do.” 

“In the name of Jesus, we take Toby who has been fully given up by his parents to God and for the salvation of the world.”

 

Of course, our role ever since has been to model living this way to our boys.  I wonder how well we are doing at this and want to make sure that I am doing everything I can to prepare my boys for the exciting plans God has for them.  Being a Christian parent doesn't mean making sure they go to a good Sunday School or teaching good values (although this is important too) it means modelling being an obedient and radical follower of Jesus so that our children will see, in us, how to live.  It means we base all our decision making on our obedience to God, and not on whatever the consequences might be.  It means making sacrifices and sometimes being uncomfortable.  It means having a peace that doesn't quite fit with the circumstances.  It means finding true joy instead of fleeting happiness.

 

For me, there is no better vision for my boys than seeing God's plans fulfilled in their lives and watching them serve him wholeheartedly.  I don't want them to navigate their lives without a vision, watching them perish with the crushing weight of indecision.  I want to instil in them a passion for the One who makes everything (pain, difficulties, hardships) worthwhile.   

 

And so, after 12 fleeting, manic, slow, enlightening, exhausting but satisfying years, I am doing a parental and spiritual stock-take, ensuring we are following the track we set out for ourselves at the beginning.  What's your vision for your children? 

 

 

 

 

 

Porn And Why I Can't Keep Quiet.

There's a subtle, but taboo, mist that hovers over our society.

Young boys begin to be blinded by the mist as young as eight years old.

Married men stumble and lose their footing.

But it's all unseen.  This secretive mist penetrates through middle class 'new builds', council flats and expensive mansions.  Seeping into the minds and hearts of Doctors, Teachers, Shop Assistants, Cleaners and even Church Leaders, it is not picky about who it captures or even how it enfolds them in its grip.

Some who have seen the mist perceive it as harmless fun, misunderstanding the depths of captivity it can bring.  

Harmless, however, it is not.  And the heavy weight of the mist brings guilt to men, pain to women and devastation to marriages that can't be spoken about.  

It's time pornography wasn't a secret anymore.  It's time the light was shone into the dirty, dark corners where the mist lurks, exposing it for what it really is.

Those affected need help, not judgement, and young boys need to be protected and taught of the dangers before it is too late.

I can't keep quiet anymore.  I've seen too much unnecessary pain caused.  

It's time to stop the taboo and allow people to be real.