On not being Super-Mom, not even close

While on a playdate recently with a new friend, I let it slip that I'd gone to the gym that morning before packing lunch and bussing over to the park to meet her, her daughter and the little girl she cares for during the day.

"You WHAT?!?" my new friend practically shouted at me. "You went to the gym?! Oh, I hate you moms who go to the gym in the morning!"

Instantly, I realized how I'd unintentionally presented myself, and I could imagine the picture that I'd conjured in her mind: Perkily-ponytailed, clad in cute workout clothes, super-fit Super-Mom, bounding to the gym as the sunrise breaks over the horizon. Ta-da! She probably runs marathons, too. Or maybe Perfect-Life Mom: The children awake with nary a snarl, feed themselves, dress themselves and look at books for an hour so Mom can go to the gym and Dad can sleep past 6:00 a.m. Amazing!

Listing excuses, I struggled to kill these Super-Mamas-in-her-mind, my imposters. "No, no, I really don't enjoy going that early. My muscles aren't warmed up enough to really work out. I only go in the morning because it's too stressful to go in the evening: If I wait till then, it's right during the boys' bedtime, which Gabe has to do alone. And I feel like I always return to a messy house, which stresses me out." I rolled my eyes at this point. "I'm one of those moms: I mean, is there anything worse than walking on crumbs first thing in the morning?" To my mind, sweeping the floor is far less a tip-off to a lurking Super-Mama than is early-morning gym-going. I hoped to win my friend over on this one. It worked, at least temporarily. She corrected me a bit, claiming that waking up to a loose hair stuck tangled in the toes was the worst way to start the day.

"Still," she said, doubt returning. "You have three kids. That's pretty impressive." I changed the subject.

Oh, friend, I thought to myself later. Some days I feel like I could vanquish the world; many days I feel like the old man on a poster in my parents' house: "I've only been here a week, but the boss says I'm already two weeks behind." This friend is new. Not knowing me well, she may see me as a young mom of three who manages to keep her stuff mostly together, evidenced, for example, by the fact that I make my own granola bars. And of course by the fact that I go to the gym before my children wake. According to the face that I typically manage to present in public, I may as well be a Super-Mama. Those family and dear friends who have known me for longer and around whom I let down my guard have seen the reality of self-doubt, strained relationships, impatience with my children and husband, and cynicism. And the person that exists where only God can see can be downright scary, far more often than I'd like to admit.

My immediate defense of my gym-going on hearing my friend's reaction make me realize how much I want to be known and accepted for what I am, with all my imperfections and baggage. I am often guilty of assuming that other women, and other mothers, have it all together. I assume that they are invincible, that they are better people than me, that their lives smell like roses. All this I assume based on a single and surprising new piece of information, just as my friend did when I revealed my morning trip. She makes her own yogurt? She grinds all her family's grain? She works on the side? She lost all the baby weight in how much time? Who is she? As much as any of these bits may speak to a woman's drive and motivation, they are hardly indicative of the larger picture of one's life. Going to the gym in the morning doesn't speak to my superpowers or my perfect life at all. I don't go then because I want to: I go to make the evenings run more smoothly. I go because these extra 20 pounds that I'm carrying after my kids consistently do a number on my self-esteem. I go because I don't want to wake up to crumbs on the floor, even two mornings a week. I go, essentially, to smooth even a little bit a day that will inevitably have a bump or two. Or more than I can count. I imagine that plenty of other moms do what they do less because they want to than because they simply need to.

There are undoubtedly a few mothers out there who actually do have next to everything in their lives together. When I meet them, I want to learn from them: After all, they've got what I want. I expect, though, that many of the women I meet are like me, trying to figure out what works best for self and family, looking for grace and understanding from their friends, and hoping to pass that same grace and understanding along to others. I don't in fact want to wallow in the misery of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to go lift weights, which, let's face it, "misery" accurately describes the reality of some morning trips. Instead, I try to look at these mornings optimistically: I'm doing what I can to achieve what I want. I'm trying to live the life I want instead of complaining as it passes me by, out of control. Getting up to go to the gym doesn't make me Super-Mom or Perfect-Life Mom, but it does give me a chance to grow into the person I want to be. A person with more peace, more patience, more strength, and, as a bonus, more muscley arms.

Mama-dates, part 1

I've joked with friends lately about "mom-dating," that is, the process of finding and getting to know mama-friends with whom I might like to have friendship and what's become known as "playdates." ("Playdates" are what I always called "going to play with" or "going to X's house" when I was a kid; today's mom needs a trendier term for it, apparently.) I've felt the need to begin mama-dating lately for a couple reasons: The first is that I've resolved to put down roots here in Chicago as much as possible despite the fact that there is always a sort of limbo in our lives as to where and when we may be next. (To this end, I also planted a garden this spring, a sign of my commitment.) Second, many of my friends have either moved away or have just been occupied with the general busyness of life. It's taken awhile, but I've finally admitted to myself that I am, in fact, kind of lonely. Attempting to be proactive, I've challenged myself to quit acting like I don't see other moms at the playground or our Music Together class and make some friends, already!

Perhaps you think that mama-dating should be easy? Well, friend, you think wrong. Consider: There are four separate parties involved in any form of mama-dating: oneself; one's children; prospective mama-friend; and prospective mama-friend's child(ren). All four parties must agree that play-dating is a good idea for a successful relationship. Add into this the limitations of coordinating these four parties' schedules (classes, naps and mealtimes) and tastes in activities (inside or outside; free-play or structure; rowdy or more sedate), and some relationships are doomed before they've even begun.

And once you add actual humans into the equation? The difficulties are heightened exponentially. Just look at me: I've always been shy (or have, at least thought of myself as shy, which is virtually the same thing), and this shyness sometimes proves insurmountable when attempting to initiate conversation with a stranger. What's more, the thought of making myself vulnerable can lead to paralysis by over-the-top self-doubt: Does she already have enough friends and doesn't need the mopey mom at the playground hanging around? Does she think I'm funny, "funny"? Will she think that I'm some weirdo stranger if I ask for her number? Will she think that the only explanation for three kids at my young age is that I'm a crazed religious zealot? Do I smell funny, or is my hair just too weird today? Maybe I should've worn makeup! Ack! Lacking the ability to read minds, and imagining the worst, I've missed at least a couple opportunities.

For however many opportunities I've missed, though, the past several weeks have led to a few actual connections, which I consider fairly remarkable. Except, of course, the drama is not over, and now I must figure out what kind of relationship I want with my current suitors. More on that to come.

Boston, pt 2

The trip was wonderful. My visit last year prompted an interest in the beginning of the United States, as we visited Concord, the site of the first battle of the American Revolution. We were treated to an inspiring lecture on American exceptionalism by a real New England blueblood, who spent his time dressed in period clothing, demonstrating rifle-loading, and rousing the masses. (Steve’s comment on the way home was that he actually felt proud to be an American for the first time in ages.) This year we continued the American theme be visiting the national park that includes the birthplace of John Adams, his first home with Abigail (both located, almost strangely, at a busy, unattractive, commercial intersection in Quincy – the times, they have a-changed!), and Peacefield, the lovely (onetime) farm and estate that he and Abigail bought and expanded upon their return from Europe.

Here Anneke relaxes with Baby Lou on the front porch. Lou did great thru most of the tour, and then passed out on this horribly uncomfortable-looking wooden bench. She could easily be mistaken for a doll.

Peacefield was handed down thru four generations of Adams men, who all kept an eye toward maintaining the home (which makes sense especially because they lived there!). The last of these men, Brooks Adams, donated the land to his country and its people -- we should all be grateful. Below is the side of Peacefield, at right, with the greenery-covered stone and brick library on the left. The library is a work of art itself.

We relaxed in the gardens with lunch.

Me, An, and Baby Lou. I look like I'm wilting from the heat and humidity. I was.

The four of us also engaged in that great American pastime, baseball spectating. One of Gabriel’s favorite major league pitchers, Tim Wakefield the knuckleballer, happened to be pitching a rehab start for the Boston Red Sox minor league team, the Pawtucket (Rhode Island) Red Sox. I almost felt guilty watching Wakefield pitch, knowing how much more my husband would appreciate it than I ever possibly could. A giant round of “fried dough” (yup, it is what it sounds like) with some powdered sugar helped to take the edge off. (I shared.) I took this picture on accident, thinking that I was taking a video. Lucky mistake!

My Sunday evening flight out of Boston allowed enough time to attend church service with the Stassons, lunch and a nap, and the world’s fastest coffee date with just Anneke, which was greatly cherished, as they are few and months or years between! What’s more, Anneke has been for the past several years my best friend.

I was somewhat of a late bloomer in college. Though I stayed in the dorms for my first three semesters, I wasn’t really what you’d call a “dorm activity” kind of girl. What’s more, I was dating someone during that year and a half, and I practically refused (still not sure why) to do my laundry at the dorms, opting instead to live at my parents’ house on the weekends (clearly, I had a lot of laundry that needed attention). I spent my fourth semester in Costa Rica on a non-Calvin program; my closest friends there attended school in Oregon and Illinois and Iowa and central Michigan, out of range of the “amazing college friends” bond that is fostered by seeing one another every day. I lived in a house with four and then five other girls my junior and senior years, but never really felt that I found my niche.

It wasn’t until Calvin’s January Interim term that I finally began to feel really and truly comfortable at Calvin, thanks in no small part to Anneke’s friendship. While we’d known each other for at least a few months prior to that January, sharing a room in a South Korean university’s dormitory and traveling the country with our class catalyzed a deep and lasting friendship, the kind I’d always wanted to experience in college. Returning to Calvin for the start of my last semester, I was in many ways different from the person I’d been before. My friendship with Anneke and with one other person actually gave me the self-confidence to be as outgoing as I can possibly be (difficult for me) and to actually relax.

Anneke stayed in Grand Rapids for about a year after graduation, and so she was with me thru the early days of my relationship with Gabriel, and thru the early stages of my conversion to the Orthodox Church. Just those two events almost define my life as it is now, and it’s very possible that no one had a clearer view into the inchoate stages of “My Life Now” than Anneke. At the same time, visiting her makes me revisit “My Life Then,” in college, when I thought of a Ph.D. (which she is now pursuing), when I was single, when I was attending a church that I now think of as only barely “a church.” I certainly don’t mourn the turns my life has taken; there is just a singular sensation in being with the one close friend whose friendship straddles these two parts of my life. And there is a certain bitter-sweetness in being with Anneke. I recall that she came to my extended family’s Thanksgiving dinner with me my senior year at Calvin. Afterwards, she told me that while she was happy to be with us for the time, it almost made her sad that she was missing that hominess with her own family. Perhaps that’s what I feel when I visit Anneke: I’m thrilled to be with her and to take part in her life, but it makes me miss her even more when we’re separated by a thousand miles. Besides my husband, I wouldn’t be surprised if Anneke is the person who most understands me, even though we lead different lives and filter each thru our own personalities and backgrounds and practices of Christianity. Having a dear friend like Anneke in close proximity is something with which I was blessed for a brief time in my life; I’m blessed still by her friendship, despite the miles.

Thank you, An. I love you!