A Different Perspective

Sunday (which apparently is the only day my brain functions these days, as it has spawned recent blog posts), we had a regional meeting for church that was a satellite broadcast. It was doomed to be a disaster from the get-go, as it was right during Pebbles' morning nap time, I was doing a stint as a single mother of two, and Woodstock ... well, Woodstock is three.

The one talk I heard all the way through, start to finish? The one on making family time. The one topic that sends a hot knife of guilt through a working mother's gut, regardless of circumstance. It whitewashes every reality and makes you discontented because surely you aren't so horrible as that.

The talk began, "In a perfect world, every child would arrive home from school to warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies and a cold glass of milk and a mother who takes the time to sit down and listen and talk. Of course, it isn't a perfect world ... so the cookies and milk are optional."

My heart sank. I was already on the brink of exasperated tears, trying to wrangle a 14-month-old Pebbles who desperately needed to nap and nothing short of rocking back and forth while standing up was keeping her quiet. Woodstock was quiet, but all the lights were off so as to see the broadcast, and she was irritated that she couldn't see to "read" or color. And now I had to hear all about being a mom who is there after school every single day - which I desperately want, and is so far out of reach.

And then? I had an epiphany. Right there, in the middle of church - imagine!

It was like a warm, comfortable hug from a good friend, and I realized, I am there - every single day - for my kids - to talk, to listen, to learn, to laugh. Every day I have them - a captive audience (hooray for carseats!) - for 30-40 minutes as we drive to/from Miss Jan's. I can absolutely control the interruptions. There is nothing that masquerades as being more important, nothing I cannot keep out of our little "mom and girls" time in the car, nothing besides mom and kids and time.

I actually love my commute. I have, unwittingly, turned it into preschool-confessional-church-cultural appreciation time. On our drive, Woodstock (and now, Pebbles) has learned new words. It was our commutes where Woodstock fell in love with all things construction related - which fueled our walks to whatever project was going on within a mile-radius of our house (fire station, library, the ever-present street construction every single summer, etc.). She learned to identify excavators, garbage trucks, backhoes, bobcats, dump trucks and "mixer trucks" (cement mixers). She has learned that orange signs mean "caution - be careful!" and yellow signs and lights mean slow down. She's learned that blue signs mean information and that you must stop on red (though we need to work on the "it's okay to go right on red after stopping bit, as I get a lecture about not stopping every time I make a right turn). She's learned about counting, emergency vehicles, the seasons (although she's a bit confused, since I told her that it was fall until it snowed - she's now trying to figure out what happened to fall now that there is 4" of snow on the ground), and her letters. She has also learned the words to the Hallelujah chorus, three CDs worth of Christmas songs, and a few others. She can identify violins and cellos and trumpets by the sounds they make. She has also developed a definite preference in music - preferring things with strong instrumentals over anything else. She knows which big bridge (overpass) you take to get to Costco, that the big bridge downtown takes you to the farmer's market and every day points out where we get our hair cut, the building that looks like a favorite cousin's house and the store where once-upon-a-time we bought fruit snacks.

It's also sister bonding time. Pebbles is rear-facing. Woodstock is forward-facing. They sit in the back seat, looking at each other. Woodstock loves to entertain Pebbles and very often the backseat is awash in little girl giggles. Often, Pebbles sticks out her hand, Woodstock grabs it and they hold hands. Woodstock narrates the scenery - she points out a pretty tree, a big truck, a bus or a landmark. She sings her made-up songs or real songs to which she's memorized the lyrics. Pebbles chatters back, delighted to have her big sister's undivided attention.

Every day on the way home, we talk about our day. Woodstock never fails to say, "How was your day?" - usually before I can even ask her. We talk about the best and worst things that happen that day. Woodstock spills every detail of her life at Miss Jan's - who was sent to time out, what they ate for lunch, what things happened outside and so forth. We talk about what events are coming up - and how many days away they are - gymnastics class, an upcoming road trip, a holiday or one of our field trips. We talk about what we're having for dinner, what story Woodstock wants read at bedtime and how Pebbles is doing.

In short, it's 30 or 40 minutes a day of captive conversation time stuffed full of adventures, wisdom, insights, education and discoveries both before our day starts and before the end-of-day chaos descends upon reaching home.

It may not be the typical "mom and kids" picture straight from a Normal Rockwell painting, but it is time - quality time - that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Sometimes, I let the guilt kill me before I realize there isn't always one way to put insights. I stopped feeling guilty and started celebrating.

I'm a better mom than I sometimes give myself credit for.