Toward Self Identity

By: Beth Duncan

Are you a mother of children who are shorter than you are? Or do you know someone who is cleaning up after kids this size? Then this advice is for you.

I have been struggling with the whole self identity concept for a while. Most days it feels like all I do is manage children; there is not even time to think of my existence apart from them. It feels like, through the years, with each subsequent child, my identity has been erased a little more and theirs were penciled in on top of mine.

By far the most monotonous and time-consuming part of this management of the children involves cleaning. Some days I am overwhelmed with the cleaning—I can’t escape the messes to find refuge anywhere because, alas, in every room the messes catch my eye and call my name. It was for days like this that the “silent butler” was employed in our home. I love her. And I’ll tell you right up front that she is FREE.

Here’s how it works: The children have been at it all day, storming through the house like little tornadoes. They whip things out in every room, strew them around, and then move on. Do you have that tornado image down? You may have your own little tornadoes and have had bad weather days as well. Ok.

You then announce that the “silent butler” will be coming in 10 minutes! The first time you will have to explain that the “silent butler” is mommy, walking around with a big bag, silently picking up everything that is left behind. The things picked up will be kept up in the top of Mommy’s closet for 2 days. They have ten minutes (or more if the mess is massive, but not too long or they won’t work efficiently) to pick up the things that are important to them. The things have to be brought to their rooms and put away neatly somewhere out of the butler’s sight.
As the butler walks around with the bag, she doesn’t engage in any arguing, warning, or explaining. She simply picks up everything, no matter what it is, and puts it all together in a bag. Once items are in the bag, they absolutely cannot be removed.

It’s easy to be the butler. It’s fun too. The kids hate it; it’s actually a little scary for them. But as much stress as those tornadoes bring in my life, I believe that a little scaring is good for them.

And about 90% of the time, they don’t even ask for the confiscated items in 2 days. After a while, I go through the bags and decide what to give away to Salvation Army and what could be stored for awhile (a toy stored for six months or so suddenly seems like a “new” toy when you give it back to them). All and all it’s a great system—great for my sanity, which is also a step in the direction of rediscovering my identity…some day.

My Mother Takes the Cake

By: Beth Duncan

We visited my mother for Mother’s Day. It was a special day to celebrate both of our motherhoods. The precious memories I have of my mother are numerous and span across many facets of our lives together. I feel so blessed to be creating memories still—my mother is 64 years old, healthy and eternally so beautiful.

Of the many memories, there are several that I like to call the “cake memories.” My mother and I both have always said that “we never met a cake we didn’t like.” We both appreciate cakes of every sort; although, chocolate cakes top the list. Turning down a slice of chocolate cake is nearly impossible, bordering on insanity.

For our birthdays through the years, my two brothers and I were each able to choose what type of cake we wanted my mother to make—always homemade, never store bought. I remember choosing a doll cake one year and a cake the shape of a blue ribbon when I loved horses.

But, as I matured and my tastes became more refined, I chose the famous Texas chocolate sheet cake almost every year. It was an incredibly moist cake with a cooked chocolate icing. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

While planning my wedding, my mother and I created some of our fondest memories. Choosing the cake was definitely a highlight. It was made by Sweet Stuff in Biloxi, MS, a gulf coast favorite for years. Before choosing the cake, we were able to sample several of their cake and icing recipes. It was mother-daughter bonding at its best.

No, my wedding cake wasn’t chocolate, but it was delicious. It was a simple, yet elegant, design—my taste exactly, and my mother’s as well. I still think of that cake and our wedding planning memories frequently. Incidentally, for the groom’s cake, we happily chose chocolate.

And finally, I have a different sort of cake memory, funny, but so meaningful. It wasn’t until recently that this memory became one of my favorites.

Around the time my second daughter was born 7 years ago, I remember my mother telling me—maybe I should say confessing to me—that on occasion when my brothers and I were young bundles of energy and mischief, she would hide the leftover cake so she could eat it without having to split it into four pieces. Then, when we were finally outside playing or otherwise occupied, she would escape from our view and enjoy her cake alone.

I always thought of my mother as completely self-sacrificing, so this surprised me, this bit of selfishness. I couldn’t truly understand what motivated her to keep the leftover cake from her little angels (ha,ha).

But now, two more children later, it has all become crystal clear to me. We kids were driving her crazy. Now, I can completely understand her motivation. And not only do I understand, but I partake of the same sort of indulgences, without guilt. No, it is not selfishness; it is simply a “chocolate cake escape.”

So, I’d like to thank my mother for the “cake memories” and all of the other special memories. I’d also like to thank her for teaching me that a “chocolate cake escape” is an acceptable part of motherhood.

Why I Love Sandals

By: Beth Duncan

Sandal season is in full swing, and I am so relieved. I expressed this to my husband recently while we were unwinding after the kids were in bed. We were sitting on the couch in front of the T.V., and I was folding clothes.

As I commented on the wonders of sandals, my husband slowly moved his gaze from the movie we were watching to me. He gave me that amused look that he gives me when I’ve said something unusual. I see the look frequently, actually. I could tell he was interested in what motivated my comment, so I continued.

“Sandal season means a dramatic decrease in the number of socks I have to sort through and pair up.”

He laughed out loud. Single socks were in a pile on the couch beside me. Some were lined up on the couch, waiting for their pairs to be found. There were so many that some had actually fallen onto the floor below.

You see, I have four children who think that if a sock has been worn at all, even for just an hour or so, it is dirty and should be left on the floor for Mother to come by and pick up so that it can be washed.

I always procrastinate on folding the socks. They build up for days sometimes. I do mean days. Honestly, it is like a small mountain right there on the couch. Laundry is by far the biggest chore in our household. It never, ever ends. Not for one single day.

As a girl dreaming of my wonderful married life with children that lie ahead, I would never have imagined so much laundry. I knew I would cook and wash many dishes and vacuum and sweep, but I didn’t know laundry would be number one on the job description list. It’s tedious and terribly time consuming.

After getting everything put away in the dresser drawers, closets and on hangars, I came back to tackle the socks again. There were as many without pairs as there were with. In some cases, I had to study them to decide which child they belonged to. I started pairing them with a similar mate, not exactly the same. The color may be off a little, but that’s okay, right? There were still about twenty leftover.

I pushed the twenty into a small pile in the corner of the couch. They would form the foundation for the new pile. Who knows, maybe their long lost mates were simply still dirty and they would be reunited the next day. I smiled a little, thinking of what I’d accomplished while watching the movie. The couch was nearly clean. I looked over at my husband, who was completely engrossed in the on-screen action. I was trying to multi-task, but I realized that I didn’t really know what was going on in the movie. I miss so much in life because of my mundane chores. But, take heart, I tell myself. Sandal season is finally here. I guess I’d better go repaint my toenails.

Old-Fashioned Outdoor Fun

By: Beth Duncan

It’s a kid’s world out there. Warmer weather promotes the perfect type of kid’s play. Our family is so fortunate to live in a child-friendly neighborhood; my four children have playmates their ages all around us. There is only a short time of the year when the kids have to entertain themselves indoors. The rest of the time they get to explore the wonders of outdoor play, old-fashioned fun!

I love to see what happens when spring comes and I send the kids outside to play. They become so creative, so adventurous, so energetic, and so full of life! They also become so dirty.

Just this morning my two- and four-year olds played in the backyard together. They were shoveling dirt into buckets and carrying it into their play fort. In the play kitchen inside the fort, they were transforming it into pies and cakes. With a little water added, it became milkshakes and soup. They served it to me with stick spoons and crumbled leaves on top. The four-year old added a little azalea bloom for my dining enjoyment. Their dirt-smudged faces shown with pride. The bigger kids used to do the same thing—and the big ones didn’t teach the little ones; it just came naturally, I guess. Those creative juices were flowing out there in the crisp spring air.

On any given afternoon, there can easily be as many as 10 kids playing in the backyard. They are often involved in some kind of elaborate fantasy play. Some are bad guys and some are good guys. Sometimes there is a mom or a teacher or a super hero. Many times there is a princess or two. Sometimes they are building forts, playing army men and using sticks for guns and pinecones for bombs. Sometimes there is a cook or a waitress or a shopkeeper collecting leaves for money.

For some activities, I have to help a little, like when they become little entrepreneurs and want to set up a snowball or lemonade stand. But, I must say that they have now become pretty self-sufficient as “lemonade stand owners.”

Of course, we also love to take trips to the zoo, the playground, McDonalds play area, the beach, and various other great hangouts. But, I think the type of play that is produced in my own backyard, front yard, or in the neighbor’s yards does something for the kids that is invaluable. The value is multiplied when I think of the way their childhood play links me back to my own childhood.

There are times when two or three of them are swinging up high on our swingset, trying to touch the branches above them. This is probably the outdoor activity I feel most nostalgic about. Swinging is such an exhilarating and carefree joy in life. When I watch the kids swinging, I can almost feel their happiness as if it is my own—my own joy of long ago.

The value of old-fashioned outdoor fun? Priceless.

The Baby of My Dreams

By: Beth Duncan

Our first sweet baby Emily turned out lives upside down 10 years ago. It was the day after Christmas and we were as full of expectation as two new parents could be. By the afternoon of the 26th, we were in a state of shock. We had learned that the baby of our dreams had Down syndrome. The shock was so raw, like a wound ripped open that lay gaping with no way to be repaired.

We struggled to make it through our grief, only to find that the grief came in waves. It would wash over one or both of us in a surge some days and on other days it would come more slowly until all of the sudden we realized we were drowning, it seemed, in the sadness. And then, there were good times, when the tide was out, so to speak, and we felt that we could stand again on the dry ground.

Through the years, difficult as they have been, we have learned much from our Emily. She has given us some tough lessons in acceptance, genuine love, and dedication. She has helped her three younger siblings and us to learn about differences and how to accept others. She has taught us about compassion, humility, and simplicity. We have learned what is meant by little miracles and small blessings all around us.

The baby we had dreamed of as our first died 10 years ago, but another baby was born. In some ways, she is better than the baby of our dreams could have been. This is something we just intuitively know to be true. Someday we will be able to look back and actually see all of the ways that Emily was our dream come true.

I admit that some days I still feel the ebb and flow of the tide and feel like the water is washing up around me threatening to overwhelm me. I guess in some ways, we still grieve. But now I like to think of the water that washes in and threatens to drown us as a cleansing instead. When things are really hard, we are actually being strengthened by it instead of consumed by it. In other words, the water cleans and renews us instead of drowning us.

In so many area of life, it is difficult to see our dreams coming true because heartache and disappointment can get in the way. The lessons I have learned cannot be easily summed up in one phrase. But, I will leave you with this thought: Concentrate on relaxing and taking each wave in stride and over time you will find the tide turning in your favor.

The Miracle of Sound Proof Glass

By: Beth Duncan

The addition of a free-standing Chick-fil-a has been a much needed addition to my community. Yes, the food is great and the service is nearly perfect too. But the selling point for me is the sound proof glass.

If you have to ask what sound proof glass I am talking about, you probably don’t have small children.

Oh, we do enjoy the meal together—that is, when the kids don’t fight about who touched whose chicken or who drank out of whose cup. We tend to be an overly germ conscious family—my husband had a very good professor for microbiology and has not forgotten anything he learned. Nor does he let us forget what he has learned.

So, if one kid touches the other’s chicken or, heaven forbid, drinks out of another kid’s drink, things can get a little loud at our table. I don’t like to be noticed; I’ve always like to blend, but blending is nearly impossible with four kids.

After a stressful meal, we get to sit back and relax. That’s right; we can actually relax thanks to the miracle of sound proof glass. The kids think we are giving them such a big treat by letting them play in the playroom after they eat. What they don’t know is that they are giving us a treat by going into the playroom.

My husband and I get our Cokes refilled and sit back and watch. We can see their little mouths moving, but no sounds reach our ears. How wonderful! Sometimes we even see mad looks on their little faces to go with their moving mouths. Still we hear nothing. Eventually the mad looks go away on their own! How miraculous.

We can now talk about adult topics...or about the children, which is what we usually end up doing.

This sound proof glass phenomenon has prompted some conversations between my husband and me on trips. Four small children competing for air time in a van can be quite noisy. There are times when all I can think of is quiet—it can be difficult to drive over the noise.

So, we dream of a magic button, and we even pretend to push it sometimes. What this button would do is raise a piece of sound proof glass behind the front seats, like something you’d see in a police car. The little convicts would be back there, talking their little hearts out and we’d be riding along in peace.

Of course, the kids would have a button they could push in case of an emergency. I don’t want to sound negligent or unappreciative. Kid conversation can be fun at times, especially when they are in good moods and can respect each other’s air time somewhat. But, let’s admit it, silence can be golden, and as parents we need piles of gold sometimes to make it through.

Growing in a Grandparent's Love

By: Beth Duncan

My last grandparent had a stroke recently. She is my mother’s mother—a beautiful Irish lady who once had long auburn colored hair. Now age 84, her hair has turned white, but still has some red pigment, a faint hue of her early days.

A Western New York native, accustomed to temperatures and conditions that would put us southerners into a tailspin, she is a brave, strong woman. She was able to leave the hospital on Saturday; temperatures were in the 20’s, while ours were in the 70’s on that day.

At home in her small apartment that she moved into after my grandfather died 10 years ago, she must now have daily care. Sharpness and independence have been replaced by a lack of confidence and periods of confusion.

Over the past weeks, I’ve thought a lot about my memories of my grandmother’s life, and I’ve thought about her eventual death. In a way, her life is my last link to the simplicity of my childhood. Of course, parents, siblings and our own children have their special ways of linking us to our innocent childhood. But grandparents have their own unique way. Grandparents are the ones who will leave us the soonest, so we typically lose that link to our past the earliest.

Grandparents are such a wonderful addition to childhood. They seem to admire us from the moment we come into this world. This admiration manifests itself in many ways through the years—and rather quickly becomes reciprocal. Grandparents are proud of nearly everything we do. Their love rains down in gentle, soft ways, like the type of rain shower that comes on a sunny day. It is refreshing; it sparkles with happiness and causes the flowers (and children) to tremble with joy.

My Irish grandmother and my grandfather, her husband, were travelers. My own father was in the Air Force, so we moved every few years. My grandparents were anxious to visit wherever we moved. I made several moves after high school on my own, and they visited me too. There was nothing quite like seeing their familiar faces when I was away on my own. Their admiration for me always shown through, even as we did ordinary things together.

Those memories seem far from ordinary now though. The gentle rains of love they showered on me have helped me to grow, bloom, and sparkle. It’s a legacy too; my parents are now “watering” my own children in their special grandparent way. It’s really a beautiful process to watch.

I miss my grandparents so much—all four of them. I only wish now that they knew the depth of my admiration for them.

Time Out

By: Beth Duncan

On one very ordinary day, a very ordinary thing happened…I was fed up with my 4 children. I grabbed my book off of the counter top and quietly slipped into the two-year old’s bedroom, which had a rocking chair in the corner. I closed the door without making a sound and locked it.

Across the hall, 10-year-old Emily was in ‘time out’ for pushing her little brother. Disabled and semi-verbal, she voiced her displeasure with unusual loud sounds, not really words. She also frequently opened and closed the door, forcefully.

I chose to ignore it; instead I brushed the toys off the rocking chair and sat down. I opened my book to page 17, yes, that is as far as I had been able to read, although I’d had the book for weeks. Coincidentally, the book was entitled The Hidden Feelings of Motherhood, by Kathleen Kendall-Tackett. I needed this book and I knew it.

Emily had only 5 minutes left in time out, so I had 5 minutes to read as well. I put my right hand up to my head and massaged my right temple, which was beginning to throb. I reread a sentence 3 times before I was able to concentrate enough to let it sink in. At that moment there was a knock at the door. It was 4-year-old James.

“Mommy, what are you doing in there?”
“I’m just going to be alone in here for 5 minutes,” I answered. “Go play and give Mommy just 5 minutes.”
I heard him run away yelling to the other kids, “Mommy’s in ‘time out’ for 5 minutes!” He was laughing.
I smiled to myself. If this is ‘time out,’ I want more of it. Can I have 30 minutes of ‘time out’ daily, please? I will do what I have to, just give me ‘time out.’

After about 3 more minutes, I realized that my ‘time out’ was over. Emily’s 5 minutes were up and it was time for apologies. I closed my book, marking the same page I had before. With a sigh, I emerged from my 5 minute respite. Emily gladly came out of the other bedroom, found her brother and hugged him. “Sorry, James,” she said as she rubbed his head.

I felt a little better, having had my five minutes. I’ve decided to take a ‘time out’ more often. Don’t tell the kids, but ‘time out’ is not something to cry about. It’s awesome. I imagine someday they’ll understand.
,

Gearing up for Summer

By: Beth Duncan

As a child, summertime was the highlight of the year. My classmates and I spent the last month or more dreaming about summer vacation. We looked forward to sleeping in, no homework, watching TV, going to the park with friends, playing (or in later years “laying out”) at the beach. It was so exciting to think of the fun we would have!

I never imagined that my mother was not as excited as I was about summertime. I certainly never thought that she dreaded it. I am hesitant to admit the way I have felt about summer vacation as an adult with four children because I know some other parents don’t share my feelings.

Last spring, I was having a particularly hard time preparing mentally for the fact that summer vacation was just around the corner. I was talking to a friend about my summer anxiety. She was so surprised because she “loves summer vacation and spending all of that time with her two kids.” That was not what I needed to hear—not only was I dreading summertime, but now I felt guilty about it.

So, by mid-May I got an idea, born of my desperation at the thought of long summer days. It was a simple idea, but somehow it promoted the growth of a new attitude within me.

The kids and I sat down at the table together and made a list. I think it was actually dinnertime and the subject of summer vacation came up. We brainstormed about summer activities—things they would each like to try to do. I thought maybe having it all written down would give us goals, purpose and ambition. I was still pessimistic though. I think I still had such bad memories of the summer before.

The summer before, I was nursing my baby. I was exhausted with the demands of a baby, and my body was tired from meeting her nutritional needs. My 10-year old with Down syndrome was draining my emotional reserves in her own needy way. We didn’t have much direction for the summer and spent most of our time making messes and cleaning messes (I’m sure you can imagine who was making them and who was cleaning them).

So, last summer, when we started with “a plan,” it gave us goals for most days. We worked toward these fun activities. Most of them were simple and inexpensive, such as selling lemonade in the front yard, going to the park or the zoo, having picnics, going the beach, going to see a movie, having lunch at Chuck E. Cheese’s, going to Lowe’s for a kid’s class, going swimming, and attending VBS. We also started “chore charts,” so they could help me around the house and make money for summer purchases.

The kids were thrilled that so much fun was ahead for their summer vacation. And an amazing thing happened! We had a great summer—I mean really great. We didn’t get to everything on our list, which was a little disappointing for my very organized and task-oriented six-year old. But, it was great for me. The summer flew by—I almost hated to see it fade away into the whirlwind of school supplies, new school clothes, and getting up way too early to get on the bus.

This year, I am remembering with fondness my childhood excitement about summertime. It’s true, I am actually dreaming of summer vacation.

No Dinner, No Dessert

By: Beth Duncan

We really don’t need to follow every dinner up with a sweet dessert, so we have a fairly strict dessert policy in our home. The three older kids know it well, but the two-year old is still learning. She is a strong-willed tot, that’s for sure. She is not very interested in food and what she does enjoy has a common ingredient—that’s right, sugar.

The primary reason we have her pegged as strong-willed is that she is not easily bribed at dinner time. The others were easily conditioned to the “eat this, then you can have this” routine. On the other hand, this child won’t eat even the easiest food—chicken nuggets, for example, in order to get some ice cream. She will watch us eat our ice cream, noticeably jealous, but she will stubbornly refuse the chicken nugget. No problem. We don’t give in. We don’t feel sorry for her. She can go to bed hungry.

Recently, at the dinner table, she wouldn’t eat her salad (they all usually like green salad with Ranch dressing) so she could get some M&Ms. Her 7-year old big sister blurted out, “Children don’t eat good… and grown-ups don’t either.” We laughed at the matter-of-fact way she said it, like she is an expert in dietary habits.

She is right though. In general, the American diet is pretty junky. Adults and children alike are often guilty of preferring to skip the veggies for the sugary dessert. Sometimes I even leave a few black-eyed peas and lima beans on my plate and move on to the cookies. Maybe if I actually finished what was on my plate, I wouldn’t even care for dessert. And wouldn’t my body be so much better off?

I will always remember a quote in a book I read years ago. The book was Sugar Blues by William Dufty. In it he recounted a chance meeting with Gloria Swanson at a press conference in New York City. She was sitting beside him and observing him placing cubes of sugar into his coffee. “That stuff is poison,” she hissed. “I won’t have it in my house, let alone my body.” Dufty said that Swanson went on to say, “I used to get positively livid when I watched people eating poison, but I’ve learned that everyone has to find out for themselves—the hard way. They can eat ground glass in front of me now and I don’t even twitch.”

The “ground glass” is the part that has stuck so firmly in my mind. My husband appreciated her comments too. We sometimes remind each other when it seems that too much poison is being ingested in our home.

So, here I am reminding myself again. And maybe tonight after dinner, we’ll skip the “ground glass.”

Mini-Van Gives up Secrets

By Beth Duncan

It still makes me laugh when I think about it. I'm not really sure why. And I think about it almost every day. It's strange how some comments stick with you that way.

My mother recently came to our town for a visit. She and my dad live about 2 hours away, so they frequently come to visit their four Duncan grandchildren. I always do a little straightening around the house to prepare for their visits.

I don't deep clean, I just straighten. And most of the time, I run out of time. So, I end up having to cut corners. throw clean laundry in the closet or put piles of mail and schoolwork under the bed. It's OK because at least it looks good, and I can take care of those piles later.

My mother always makes me feel good. "Oh, Beth, your house looks so nice," she'll say. "Everything looks so fresh and clean." I even sense some admiration in her voice.
I say "Oh, thank you," nodding my head and smiling. I actually believe her and am feeling good about myself. Being a homemaker and mother is not all that hard, I think. Maybe I really am good - good meaning organized, neat and clean. I've temporarily forgotten about the hidden piles.

My mother is probably the least critical person I know. She has rarely said a derogatory or judgmental word to me or even in my presence, since I became an adult. Of course, when I was a child, she said what she had to in order to steer me in the right direction.

Watching her as an adult now though, I realize how unique she really is. She is always looking for the best in people and focusing on that, rather than pointing out the worst. Gossip and negativism are simply not a part of her life.

All the more reason I cannot forget her recent comment to me. I wasn't prepared for the fact that my mother wanted to take the little kids and I out for lunch during her recent visit. Because of the car seats, we were going to take the van, my van.

I don't usually have visitors in my van, so upkeep is not that important to me. The only regular cleaning I do is when I am pumping gas. During those few minutes, I pick up gum wrappers, Kleenex and other trash that I can reach from the front seat and throw them away.
So, my mother got into the van with us, and, all of the sudden, I noticed everything. Not only were there the gum wrappers and Kleenex, but there were empty Coke and water bottles, bills and magazines, Cheetos and cracker crumbs, crayons and wrinkled coloring pages, ballet shoes and a ballet skirt, jackets, barrettes, toys and a hairbrush. And there were other things.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "It's a mess in here. I should've cleaned it up."
She said, "That's OK. It wouldn't be the Duncan van if it was clean."
I was shocked by her comment, and I guess it nagged at me for a little while. But, as I thought about it, I liked it. It was amusing to hear her say it. It added one of those little unexpected twists to life that make it more interesting.

And so this column ends with a smile.