Service or Servitude--A Mother's Quandary

I am one who wears many hats. I am a cook who skipped culinary school, and a chauffeur without the squeaky-clean car. I am a nurse, a tutor, a maid; a manager, a teacher, a coach. It is my job to police our home, sending delinquents to do time on the stairs as punishment for sundry crimes. I am a shoulder to cry on, the voice of reason, a friend--except when I must not be. I am both lawgiver and judge. I work the night shift, the graveyard shift, and I work nine to five. I am always on call.

I am called Mom.

With infinite tasks and numerous roles to fill as a mom, it's easy to feel like an indentured servant. Often I struggle to determine whether I'm living a life of servitude or selfless service. Does the distinction even matter? I say it does; in fact, the answer to this quandary just might make all the difference in the world.

You might be wondering, since it's so hard, why I signed on for this life of servitude... I mean, service, in the first place. Well, if I'm being perfectly honest, I didn't fully understand what I was getting myself into when we came home with our first little bundle of joy. But by the time we brought home numbers four and five, my eyes were wide open and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Yet, no matter how much I love my kids, sometimes taking care of them does feel an awful lot like servitude, which is not the best way to foster happiness in the home, or within myself. Thankfully, I came across an article this week that gave me a new perspective. But before we get to that, a little background info might be helpful:

I discovered in college that selfless service is a surefire way to find happiness, and I've never forgotten the lesson. As a freshman, far from home and struggling to find my way in a place where I seemed terribly small and insignificant, I happened one day to see a bulletin posted in my dorm's common room. A group called Services for Students with Disabilities was looking for volunteers. I took down their information and stopped by their office shortly thereafter. Soon I became a volunteer note-taker for a deaf girl who, since she had to watch her interpreter during the lecture, couldn't take notes for herself. I went with her to a few classes each week and took notes for her. I continued in her service for several semesters and we became good friends. But the amazing part about it was my change in attitude. I no longer felt depressed or lonely or invisible, even though my circumstances at college hadn't changed a bit. I recognized it as an unforeseen benefit of the service I had given, and ever since that experience, whenever I felt down I would look for some meaningful way to give service. That is, until I had my first baby and found I was no longer able to give, since I now had a tiny, fragile human depending on me 24/7. The problem has only compounded with each new addition; hence my gratitude for the article I stumbled upon this week.

The article was written by a mother of four children, who tells of a time when she desired to perform a meaningful act of service, and her frustration when the demands of her family kept her from it. She says, "I longed for the free time and energy to serve someone other than my husband and children." She gradually came to the realization, though, that "just because she didn't have the opportunity to serve outside her home did not mean...that she hadn't been serving in meaningful ways."

She goes on to say, "At times I feel that the service within my own family somehow doesn't count, that in order to be classified as service, it must be outside the home, rendered to someone other than a family member. But with my new understanding, while I was making beds, doing laundry, chauffeuring kids, and doing all my daily duties as a mother, I did them more joyfully. My tasks didn't seem quite so mundane, and I realized I was making a difference for my family." (You can read the whole article here--scroll down to the heading "Discipleship in All Places" for Stacey's story).

Reading this mother's words reminded me that what I'm doing is not servitude, it's service, and if I let it, it can renew me the same way note-taking for my deaf friend did when I was in college. It is, however, important to recognize it as service and not servitude, since a dinner made and served begrudgingly does not have the same effect as when made out of love. (Trust me on this one--I've tested it).

So this is the thought I want to share with you this week: Motherhood is hard, there's no way around it. And you might not have known what you were signing up for when you jumped in. But you now have a choice, and your answer will make all the difference--both in the way you feel about yourself and in the atmosphere residing in your home.

Choose to live a life of service, not indentured servitude. The service of motherhood is a gift of yourself, freely given, to those you love the most.

The Fly Who Came to Dinner

I thought it was time to try shaking things up a bit, and there's really no better way to describe the chaos that is family dinner than from the perspective of a fly on the wall, so please enjoy the following story, as told by our most recent dinner guest:


I still remember the day I visited their house for supper--it was the first and last time I would ever make that mistake. I'm just a humble fly, you see, and I was merely looking for a bite to eat. I entered through the left-open front door--that should have been my first clue that I was headed for trouble. But I was very young--not more than a few hours old--and I didn't know any better.

The evening started out well. I snacked on someone's old lunch that was still sitting on the table while smells of dinner wafted out from the kitchen. I made myself at home, exploring the house while I waited for the main course.

Soon the stale lunch was cleared away and dishes began appearing on the table. Then the food came and the big human who brought it let it sit there for ages while repeating the phrase, "Dinner's ready" over and over again at the top of her lungs. But nobody came to eat and I was simply starving, so I decided to help myself before someone arrived. It was my second mistake.

Just as I neared the food, I heard a loud crash behind me. A plate was spinning to a stop on the floor and there was a tiny human climbing on the table with a grin on his face. I had to move fast to avoid being hit by the second plate as it flew by me and clattered to the floor. A spoon and two forks followed and by the time I was perched safely in a high corner I was breathing hard. The tiny human was having a wonderful time, but when the big one returned to the table and saw him, she wasn't very happy.

She lifted him off the table and strapped him into a seat, where he commenced screaming at the top of his lungs while she picked up the fallen dishes, dumped them in the sink, and set out new ones. Well, that just seemed unnecessary to me--those other dishes were perfectly fine--but I wasn't about to interfere after almost losing my life.

Tiny Human was still screaming the loudest, most aggravating sound I had ever heard when his cries were joined by an alarming stampede of feet. I lost count of them as they charged up the stairs and swarmed the dinner table. I didn't care for the racket they were making but I do have to say I enjoyed the sweaty smell that the boys carried with them--it made me feel right at home. I was anxious for the family to get on with their dinner so I could pick at their plates when they weren't paying attention and then escape to the peaceful outdoors.

From the moment they all sat down, it was chaos and cacophony as some clamored for food and others for attention. Those kids talked over each other, ran away only to be called back by the big one, leaned back on their chairs, stood up on their chairs in an effort to command the attention of the group, and spilled things. I've never seen such terrible table manners in all my life, and that's saying something. I noticed one of the small ones eating her mashed potatoes and gravy with her hands, dipping her fingers into her glass of milk in between each bite to wash them off before going back in for more. I can't say I didn't approve as it looked quite fun to me, but the big one wasn't happy when she saw it.

One of the children kept trying to say something, only to be interrupted by another one. Each time this happened, the victim sighed loudly and then tried again. I watched his face as the rage rose within him until suddenly it boiled over and he yelled "Will you shut up?!" to the offender. The big one reprimanded him for his language and then did her best to pay attention to him despite the din. The Tiny Human was still screaming at a level that would make any decent velociraptor jealous, but I noticed he was also throwing bits of food to the floor. I decided to take a chance and fly in for his cast-offs.

It was a success and after I ate, I fled. My ears were throbbing from the decibel level and I didn't care to stay there any longer than necessary. The door I had entered through was now shut, but luckily, another one opened just as I was about to go insane from the noise. An even bigger human came through the door and smiled ruefully as he beheld the chaos he was coming home to. I don't know why he didn't just turn around and leave, as I would have done.

As for me, I raced away as fast as I could. Since then, I've taken great care to never again enter a house through a wide-open front door. It's a sure sign that little humans live there and, as far as I'm concerned, little humans are just trouble.

My Little Worker Minions

Well, we have survived the "Epic Blizzard of 2013" and we came through it with a clean house. On Friday morning, as the news stations were predicting a historic amount of snowfall and widespread power outages, I decided to have my kids do their Saturday chores a day early (school had been cancelled anyway, so they had the time) just in case we lost power and couldn't clean on Saturday. They did, and the clean house made me feel much better about the impending doom of the storm.

After telling some friends about the success of my worker minions in cleaning the house, several of them asked how I get my kids to do chores. I thought I would therefore share my story, in the hopes that you, my friends, might be able to breed some little minions of your own too, as they are quite handy to have around.

One of the benefits of having too many children is that it's physically impossible to keep up with all the work they create. It therefore becomes a necessity to call in reinforcements. And while it's hard to admit that you need help, and takes a great amount of effort to illicit anything resembling it from your children at first, it is well worth the effort in the long run.

For our family, the journey began after Plucky was born. Dishes and laundry (which I had always prided myself on staying on top of) quickly piled up, in addition to the toys and even garbage that my older three kids left scattered around the house. I don't remember if it was me or my husband that began putting Energy's excessive energy to use but I have to say it was one of the best things we ever did.

Energy has always been a morning person, bounding out of bed at the first hint of sunlight (okay, oftentimes before), ready to greet the new day with a song and a somersault. So rather than let him bounce around the house before school each morning, waking all his siblings in the process, we put him to work emptying the dishwasher. He was only in second grade when we started, so quite a lot of counter-climbing was necessary for him to complete the task, but he quickly learned where things went and managed to put them away accurately, leaving anything he was unsure of out on the counter for me to put away later. The new system helped so much more than you would think.

With the dishwasher already empty at the beginning of each day, it became so much easier to throw the dishes in one-handed (necessary since I had a clingy baby who refused to be set down for any reason) as we used them. The simple act of having a semi-clean kitchen, helped me feel like I was no longer drowning in work. Energy's dishwasher efforts are what saved me that year.

Of course, having tasted a tiny bit of freedom from the endless work generated by my family, I couldn't stop there. We gave our two oldest children, Energy and Mellow, a couple of chores to be completed each Saturday and told them they would be paid a small amount for doing them. Mellow was five so he had easy jobs like dusting and picking up the toys in his room. Energy got harder ones and I taught him how to clean the bathroom and vacuum the floor with a cordless sweeper.

I have to confess that relinquishing the cleaning of the bathroom to my seven-year old boy was hard. Much of the mess was his, of course, due to a boys' unique ability to pee in, shall we say, hard-to-reach places. But hand it over I did, and I resisted the urge to come in behind him and re-clean it every week. I felt that it was important for him to learn to do this, and I didn't want him to think his efforts were not good enough. I did check it with him each time he finished and pointed out spots he had missed, but I let him do it on his own.

Now, almost five years later, my kids dust, clean their rooms, pick up random stuff left laying around, vacuum the house (with a real vacuum) and clean both bathrooms every Saturday. Additionally, the three school-age children still empty the dishwasher before they go to school every morning. It has been absolutely life-saving for me to have them do these jobs, and I believe it has taught them about the reality of work.

So, now that we've established how awesome it is to have your kids help out around the house, it's on to that all-important question: Just how do I get them to do it?

I think it helps that they began doing chores when they were young, but I know an early start isn't essential in teaching your kids to work. I clearly remember the day when my own mother's best friend convinced her that my siblings and I should be helping out around the house and I began my 8-year shift as official hands-and-knees scrubber of the kitchen floor. I also cleaned bathrooms, vacuumed, dusted, etc. No, I wasn't happy about it, but I did it and I learned what I needed to despite my sour attitude.

It also helps that my oldest child, and therefore the leader of the pack, has the get-up-and-go gene (which, for the life of us, we can't figure out where he got). I certainly don't have this gene, but somehow my mother still taught me to work so I know it's possible. Since I don't especially like getting up early Saturday morning just to crack the chore whip and prove a point, my kids get up on their own and are allowed to watch TV or play video games until 10-ish (or as soon as I'm ready to assume the role of enforcer). At that point, the screens go off, they have a small snack, and then they get to work.

Their stomachs encourage them to get their jobs done quickly because the rule in our house is that they don't get lunch until their work is complete. Plucky is typically the only one who has trouble with this rule, as she is the queen of procrastination and is prone to letting her mind wander, especially when she's supposed to be working. But for the most part, it has proven to be an effective incentive for buckling down and getting to work.

Despite the factors we have had working in our favor, my kids, like any, have fought back about doing their chores from time to time. The most notable rebellion came from Energy a year or so ago when he entered the wonderfully defiant world of Pre-teen. It's great when your kids grow up and become more independent, but they also get stronger, and Energy had reached the point where he was big enough that the thought of what he could do in a fit of rage scared me even though I was still technically bigger than him.

One day he put his foot down and refused to do his chores, ranting and raving and throwing a tantrum that would make any three-year old stop and stare in wonder. He barreled downstairs to his room and I was left fuming in the kitchen, racking my brain to figure out how to fix this one. I certainly couldn't let him get away with not doing his work after that display, but neither could I physically force him through the motions as I could when he was a toddler.

After a few moments of thought, inspiration struck and words began flooding my brain. I grabbed a paper and pencil and began making a list of all the privileges our children enjoy by living in our house, complete with a price tag for each. The list looked something like this:

Room and Board:  $150 per week
Food:  $100 per week
Laundry Service: $50 per week
Taxi Service:  $100 per week
Gymnastics Class (which he loved):  $300 per session
Clothes:  $50 per week
Heat and Electricity: $50 per week


And the list went on, but you get the idea. I listed every little thing I could think of that we provided for him that would cost money if he was living on his own. I then calmed myself and took the list downstairs. I read through it with him and asked if he really thought that, given all the things we provided for him, it was too much to ask of him to do three little chores once a week. He was calm enough by now that he could see the logic in what I was saying and agreed that it wasn't too much to ask. Since then he hasn't put up a fight.

Just in case that hadn't been enough, I was considering making him move out to to the cold garage or asking him to start paying for his food if he wanted to eat anything other than shredded wheat. I think one of those options would have done the trick as well.

A great idea I heard a few years ago that I've kept filed away in my brain is to have a number of papers (one for each of your kids) lined up on the kitchen counter when you go to bed Friday night. The papers will each list a different chore or group of chores and whichever child gets up and gets to work first gets first pick of the chores. I haven't employed it yet because I can clearly see that Energy would always get the easiest jobs and Plucky would get the hardest ones and then our house wouldn't end up clean. But I think this idea might work when they are teenagers and on more of a level playing field as far as ambition and abilities go.

The bottom line is that you have to do what works for your family, and it will be different for each child. But teaching our children to work is so very important, both for the sanity of us as their mothers and for their futures as functional human beings. I am so very grateful for my little worker minions!

Bedtime Shenanigans

Dear children:

How is is possible that you can spend four solid hours telling me that you're bored, and then as soon as dinner's over suddenly have enough creative ideas to keep you entertained into the next century? Why are you mortal enemies with your siblings while I'm making dinner, and best friends ready to play together nicely for hours right at bedtime? Can you really not think of anything to do during daylight hours, only for inspiration to magically strike at nightfall, or is it all just a very elaborate stall tactic?

Love,
Your Frenzied Mother
 


I have said it before and I'll say it again. Putting kids to bed stinks! Gone are the days of holding them close in the rocking chair and singing a few bedtime songs while you inhale their intoxicating baby scent and revel in their chubbiness. No more placing them in their crib and sneaking away, completing the bedtime ritual no later than 7:15 pm every night, leaving the evening open to all sorts of possibilities.

Since we have three separate rounds of bedtime these days, it's easy to see the stark contrast between them. I still do exactly the above with baby Caboose and it is absolutely wonderful. Then begins my least favorite part of every day, the two-hour ritual that sees me begging, pleading, cajoling and bribing my other four kids into bed only to leave me with a house in desperate need of tidying at the precise time I should be getting ready for bed myself. Not to mention the fact that the bedtime process has robbed me of any and all personal time I might have expected to get for the day.

The following Veggie Tales clip faithfully embodies the bedtime ritual in our house and makes me laugh every single time because it is SO TRUE! This is exactly what it's like putting Plucky and Bright to bed. Just keep in mind that this video doesn't display what happens before Junior is actually in his PJ's, with his teeth brushed, and sitting in his bed, so it could really use a prequel to capture the full scope of the nightmare.


Junior Asparagus' Goodnight Song


In addition to the very same devices Junior employs to get out of going to bed, here are some of my kids' favorite tactics (and some very random ones they only used once in desperation):


I forgot to pack my lunch, practice the piano, do my homework, etc.

I didn't finish my dinner!

Mom, we need music to sleep

I'm hungry--can I have a snack?

It's too dark

Sometimes I feel like you don't love me at all (said just prior to tragically bursting into tears)

I'm too hot/cold

Mom, I need a pair of scissors just in case I see a spider web that needs to be cut (yes, that was Plucky)

I have to go to the bathroom

My (tummy, throat, head, foot--take your pick) hurts

An apple is not a big enough snack for my lunchbox tomorrow

Daddy hasn't told us a story all week

Can I sing you a song I made up?

It's not bedtime yet--we went to bed later last (night, week, century)



That list mostly applies to Plucky and Bright, but Mellow and Energy did the same things when they were younger. Once the girls are in bed, it's time to see to the boys. They're older, so they get to stay up later, but they still expect some personal attention before they go to bed. (Which I do like to give them since it's exceedingly difficult to get my undivided attention during the day when everyone is vying for it). But it definitely takes time.

Additionally, we must have crossed some invisible line a while back that I didn't intend to cross. My boys now expect back and hand massages each night, in addition to listening to them talk about their days and singing them several songs while my precious evening hours are wasting away.

The word precious can be tricky, though. Is my precious time better spent reading a good book or listening to my children tell me about their days? For some reason, the older they get, the more endearing I find their bedtime talking. Perhaps I'm finally catching on to the idea that my time with them is running short. Energy will be twelve soon, which means I only have six years left with  him in our home.

It's time to see the beauty in the bedtime shenanigans. And if not beauty, at least I should be able to laugh at them rather than getting angry. Thanks for the reminder, Veggie Tales!