Forging Ahead

We've had mostly rainy days since December 18. Today, the sun shone brightly and the children drifted outdoors and promptly began digging in the dirt behind the deck. I think the hole may now be large enough to bury a small animal. They came back inside with dirt in the creases of their hands and mud caked on their shoes and faces glowing.

My husband sent the 12-year olds outside with orders to sweep the Douglas fir needles from the driveway. We own no Douglas fir trees, but the neighbor does and those trees shed as if it's their job, which they take very seriously.

The boys did not take their job very seriously and my husband remarked, "Those boys have a terrible work ethic!" And I tried not to take it to heart, this criticism, so I just glanced his way and turned my attention back to the little ones. I told myself he was not talking about me and then thought, I must google "teaching children work ethic" even though I think it's something "caught, not taught," which is further proof that I am a horrible role model and human being and someone please stop me from this destructive train of insane thought.

Later, I stepped out the front door and the boys appeared, red-cheeked, clutching brooms. "Do you think this is good enough?" Reluctant Student asked. I said, "I don't know. What would dad say?" And then the other boy piped up, "This is child abuse!" and I said, "No, this is good parenting."

I am in uncharted territory as a mother. My own mother left her children when we were younger than twelve. (My dad had primary physical custody and we had no formal visiting agreement but I'd see her from time to time and during those visits, my siblings and I would struggle for her sole attention.) For the most part, I have shrugged off my family of origin and its dysfunction, but in other ways, I can feel the gaping wounds, the missing spaces where a functioning family would have simply passed on traditions by osmosis. When I was my twins' age, I was waking myself up in the mornings, foraging for my own breakfast, riding my bike to school, dealing with peers, babysitting, studying, going to church by myself. I sequestered myself in my room after school if I were home. I had virtually no interaction with the adults in my family.

I wonder if I'm broken in some fundamental way or if the brokenness healed and left me crooked or if everyone is like me, damaged from something or another. I forge ahead--I'm good at facing the right direction and moving along--but I feel desperate for a map and assurance that I'm doing okay at this parenting thing. So much is at stake and I'm raising boys with a terrible work ethic and a daughter who thinks I'm gorgeous when I roll out of bed in the morning which can only mean that she lacks not only judgment but good taste. And perhaps she should see an ophthalmologist.

On the other hand, my husband and I have been married over eighteen years, which is nothing to sneeze at, and our children have no idea who Brad Pitt or Jessica Simpson or Kanye West are. We must be doing something right.