Wednesday, November 11, 2015

I wish that someone else was writing about this....

so I could learn from her.

The discussion of late has been on where are the mature women writers these days? When my boys were younger the blog world was filled with moms writing about their kids. Of course, back then, everyone had nicknames AKA code names for their kids because even though we were on social media we were suspect of it. Naming our real names or our kids' real names would most assuredly bring a stalker to our cul-de-sac.

Although, anyone who knew us in person and knew about our blog knew exactly who our kids were so those code names were really just figments of privacy. When it came to telling all the silly and all the fool that our kids did, our aggravations with and about, well, privacy and discretion were somewhat code words as well.

However, as those same kids moved past toddler years or elementary school years and gasp! began to read. Or as the blog we were writing became a bit more well known by the friends in our close circle who shared it with their friends in another state who told their friends in yet other states, well, then it was like finding out that your Christmas letter was on regular rotation through your grandmother's hair salon and it all seemed a bit TOO public.

Because, there always came the day when the kids featured in our clever, humorous, pithy blog posts found out that we were writing mostly about them (because where else does a mom find her fodder?) and they objected to having their lives shared on social media. How EmBarrAssing! Mom!

That is at least one scenario of what has driven the now mature moms of older kids into writing-not-any-more-land.

I think though, that there is another scenario. I think that for the most part every mom has her story of poop where it shouldn't have been and stomach bug disasters; of handling sibling rivalry and tears over a game loss; of funny moments at the kitchen table and aggravation at the messy rooms. These are the nearly shared experiences of parenting in the younger years. These are the experiences that we expect to happen and when they do, we read these events and empathetically nod our heads with her and comment something like, "I know just what you mean, sister!"

But when it comes to sharing the unpleasantries and difficulties of the older childhood years that maybe, perhaps, we think reflect badly upon us--is this what causes us to stop talking? Do we fear that if we speak out on the dining room table arguments at our house that there will be no one to say, "I know just what you mean, sister!"?

My son has rejected God. My daughter is pregnant. My daughter is addicted to drugs. My son is failing school. My daughter was caught shoplifting. My son was kicked off of the team.

These are not the things we "expected" to happen while living in the younger years. Our expectation is that these precious children in our home will grow up to embrace the values and beliefs of us, their adoring, loving parents. Sure, we will deal with sin. Everyone deals with sin. But when it comes down to it, we do not expect that their sin will rival our own.

We may assent to the truth that each child must make his/her own response of faith and therefore, responses of choice, but I think we live out in expectation that because we have poured the gospel, the catechism, the worship, the hymns, the preaching, the family worship, the devotions, the youth trips, the Sunday lunch discussion over the pastor's sermon, into them that of course, of course, of course, they will make the response of faith in God. And from that response will pour out nothing but good, solid, righteous fruit. The sins of the world, of the "faithless," will not touch these.

And then it does.

There is so much here. I can't write anymore on this right now. I will write more later.

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