When my brother signed up for the service in the midst of his senior year, I had mixed emotions of dread and annoyance. I was twenty years old and engulfed in my own selfish pursuits and couldn't quite wrap my head around my little brother's decision. Foreign affairs were growing tense at the time, though I gave little attention to it, but in the air, even the apathetic could feel that war was coming.
Being only two years apart (to the day as we share the same birthday), it is likely I couldn't have persuaded my brother had I tried. I feared for him, but it was more of a selfish fear of having to dedicate my mind and thoughts to deeper things than my romantic ponderings. So I largely ignored the sacrifice that he faced as he went off to boot camp and then on to Germany, and after 9/11, Iraq. I was managing a shoe store, bought a new car, was getting married. It didn't mesh with my mentality- to think about what he was doing "over there" while I was here, obliging the pursuit of happiness.
So when Memorial Day and Fourth of July come around, I feel unworthy to hold in honor men I don't know, when one that I do know received very little support from me during his time of sacrifice. But now I understand it is my duty. They are men and women who are taken for granted, misunderstood, and neglected. The bravery and the sacrifice they offer is beyond what I can comprehend.
Last year I took my children to a Memorial Day Parade. We clapped for the service men and women and the parade was over in no more than five minutes. We had enticed the kids along through their morning routine with the dangling of excitement over a parade, and lips started to tremble when we told them it was over and time to go home. Nobody tossed any candy. There weren't any marching bands or floats. It wasn't the parade they were promised. As I tried to ward off their tears, I began explaining that "this parade was never about us," and I found myself grasping that truth for the first time. It was never about me, or my kids. It's always been about something much bigger. What they- those service men and women- stand for is something much bigger. It's freedom, it's country, it's sacrifice.
My job is gratitude.
With Memorial Day approaching, I found myself asking which parade would be best to attend this year, recalling the disappointment from the past year. It became very clear to me where we belonged. Not at some big extravaganza, but the same parade that will likely draw even less of an audience this year. This year, as a family we have been working on tokens of appreciation to hand to the soldiers, because I don't want my kids to be confused about why we came. We aren't coming for entertainment or to get candy, but to give thanks, small as it may seem in light of what we received in return.
On Monday, take the time to go to a parade or a Memorial service. When those men and women march by, clap for them. When your hands get tired, keep clapping, because when they were tired they didn't have a choice to stop. And when your hands hurt from clapping, push yourselves to clap a little louder, because many of them pressed on in pain. And it's okay to tear up when you think about the ones that never got the opportunity to march. That is what you are supposed to do.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
What I Never Knew
I always called her "Mom," but I never fully understood what that word embodied. I've wished her many a Happy Mother's Day without the capacity to appreciate.
She used to say, "I'm so tired, I could cry!" Or, "I'm dead on my feet." Or, "I've spent all day in this kitchen!" I chalked it up to the melodrama of adulthood. After all, I knew what it was like to be tired after staying up late to chat on the phone and then getting up at 5:45am to start my school routine and I had never been so tired I could cry. Dead on my feet had to be an exaggeration.
I get it now. Tired is no longer fit to describe it. Try exhausted and we might be getting somewhere.
I remember her splaying her hands out before me, in an attempt to draw some sympathies for the cracked knuckles and nails from all of the scrubbing of laundry and dishes and bathrooms. I wondered what the fuss was about a few surface cuts. I understand now how it is to face down that steaming sink of dishes after every meal and the wounds that don't heal. How can your hands be wet all day and lack any moisture of their own at the day's end? How is it possible that just holding something can cause your knuckles to bleed? I hold my own hands out to my children and plead, "Mommy can't bear to wash her hands one more time today!" and know that the only other person who can understand is the one I never afforded any sympathy.
She signed up for it, after all. That was my reasoning. All those kids, all those dishes, the never ending circle of meals to make and meals to clean up. She decided to do things the hard way and preserve peaches and pears and tomatoes and pickles all over a hot stove in the heat of summer. Why would she choose to do that?! I groaned about the additional heat in the home, the sour smell of the pickle relish that permeated the air, and the fact that she had tied herself to the home so that she couldn't chauffeur us to the respite on the shores of the beach. Only years later can I understand the security behind all of those jars lined up in the basement; the best of the season preserved at a fraction of the price one pays through the winter. Who knows what "they" put in those jars of Vlasic, but we had pure, premium goodness, because of her sacrifice. For years, I took it for granted. I never once paused to understand the sacrifice she packed into those jars until I was dead on my feet and HOT from canning all day long.
I used to hate that she never bought any convenience food at the store. While other kids had HoHo's and Twinkies in their lunches, I at times woefully unpacked the fresh baked cookies in my own. With nine people in our house, she had to make cookies about every 3 to 4 days for years on end. Now, the cookie tin is one of the first things I hunt out when I come to visit.
I never knew that you really could make someone feel like "dirt" when you messed up the freshly cleaned bathroom with your sloppy toothbrushing habits. I get now why it made you feel like you "don't even exist," because an entire day's worth of work in waxing the kitchen floor can disappear with a pair of muddy shoes on the feet of the careless.
I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that I spilled my milk at dinner when you. just. got. to. sit. down. I never knew that I could actually break your heart with a huff of disrespect or the accusation that "I was probably adopted because you love everybody more than me!" I couldn't possibly have known that your blood pressure really did rise at the sight of a messy room that minutes ago had been clean. I didn't know that hearing the word "Mom!" one more time could really make you crazy. I never understood why the millions of little squabbles with my siblings ever affected her. Why did she care that I thought my brother was stupid?
I never knew that I could truly humiliate her with my own actions; that my actions spoke to the world about her parenting and opened her up to the judgements of every onlooker. I need to find a purse big enough to crawl into, because God knows I have frequently felt the need to find a place to hide when my children have acted up in public. God knows and she knows.
I never knew what the big deal was that you carried me for nine months after already having done it 3 times before and THEN choosing to do it 3 more times. How can one really understand until they have offered their body in this way- to host a new life that will be as much a part of your own life as it will take away a part of your own life?
I never knew the fear that can accompany a seemingly small decision- that you can actually feel the burden of your child's future in the decisions that you make. It rests on your shoulders, invades your dreams if you're lucky enough to enter sleep, and haunts you when you make the wrong one.
I never knew that moms actually dread disciplining because it really does hurt her more than it hurts you. I use to look forward to the day I'd wear the Iron Fist and I silently promised not to rule my own children so sternly. I never knew that everyday would be a balancing beam of the thin and dangerous line between too much mercy and too much leniency.
I never knew. I suppose I could not have known until I reached this point in my own life. And while I want to say I have earned the right to enjoy this coming Mother's Day, I have not at all. Six years of it doesn't hold a candle to the number of years it took for her to see the fruits of her labors. I have a lot of half-hearted well-wishing to make up for. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. This time I really mean it, because I really get it. Thank you for never giving up all of those days of tiring and thankless sacrificing. You have earned the right to sit back and fully enjoy watching your grandkids drive your daughter nuts. I deserve it.
She used to say, "I'm so tired, I could cry!" Or, "I'm dead on my feet." Or, "I've spent all day in this kitchen!" I chalked it up to the melodrama of adulthood. After all, I knew what it was like to be tired after staying up late to chat on the phone and then getting up at 5:45am to start my school routine and I had never been so tired I could cry. Dead on my feet had to be an exaggeration.
I get it now. Tired is no longer fit to describe it. Try exhausted and we might be getting somewhere.
I remember her splaying her hands out before me, in an attempt to draw some sympathies for the cracked knuckles and nails from all of the scrubbing of laundry and dishes and bathrooms. I wondered what the fuss was about a few surface cuts. I understand now how it is to face down that steaming sink of dishes after every meal and the wounds that don't heal. How can your hands be wet all day and lack any moisture of their own at the day's end? How is it possible that just holding something can cause your knuckles to bleed? I hold my own hands out to my children and plead, "Mommy can't bear to wash her hands one more time today!" and know that the only other person who can understand is the one I never afforded any sympathy.
She signed up for it, after all. That was my reasoning. All those kids, all those dishes, the never ending circle of meals to make and meals to clean up. She decided to do things the hard way and preserve peaches and pears and tomatoes and pickles all over a hot stove in the heat of summer. Why would she choose to do that?! I groaned about the additional heat in the home, the sour smell of the pickle relish that permeated the air, and the fact that she had tied herself to the home so that she couldn't chauffeur us to the respite on the shores of the beach. Only years later can I understand the security behind all of those jars lined up in the basement; the best of the season preserved at a fraction of the price one pays through the winter. Who knows what "they" put in those jars of Vlasic, but we had pure, premium goodness, because of her sacrifice. For years, I took it for granted. I never once paused to understand the sacrifice she packed into those jars until I was dead on my feet and HOT from canning all day long.
I used to hate that she never bought any convenience food at the store. While other kids had HoHo's and Twinkies in their lunches, I at times woefully unpacked the fresh baked cookies in my own. With nine people in our house, she had to make cookies about every 3 to 4 days for years on end. Now, the cookie tin is one of the first things I hunt out when I come to visit.
I never knew that you really could make someone feel like "dirt" when you messed up the freshly cleaned bathroom with your sloppy toothbrushing habits. I get now why it made you feel like you "don't even exist," because an entire day's worth of work in waxing the kitchen floor can disappear with a pair of muddy shoes on the feet of the careless.
I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that I spilled my milk at dinner when you. just. got. to. sit. down. I never knew that I could actually break your heart with a huff of disrespect or the accusation that "I was probably adopted because you love everybody more than me!" I couldn't possibly have known that your blood pressure really did rise at the sight of a messy room that minutes ago had been clean. I didn't know that hearing the word "Mom!" one more time could really make you crazy. I never understood why the millions of little squabbles with my siblings ever affected her. Why did she care that I thought my brother was stupid?
I never knew that I could truly humiliate her with my own actions; that my actions spoke to the world about her parenting and opened her up to the judgements of every onlooker. I need to find a purse big enough to crawl into, because God knows I have frequently felt the need to find a place to hide when my children have acted up in public. God knows and she knows.
I never knew what the big deal was that you carried me for nine months after already having done it 3 times before and THEN choosing to do it 3 more times. How can one really understand until they have offered their body in this way- to host a new life that will be as much a part of your own life as it will take away a part of your own life?
I never knew the fear that can accompany a seemingly small decision- that you can actually feel the burden of your child's future in the decisions that you make. It rests on your shoulders, invades your dreams if you're lucky enough to enter sleep, and haunts you when you make the wrong one.
I never knew that moms actually dread disciplining because it really does hurt her more than it hurts you. I use to look forward to the day I'd wear the Iron Fist and I silently promised not to rule my own children so sternly. I never knew that everyday would be a balancing beam of the thin and dangerous line between too much mercy and too much leniency.
I never knew. I suppose I could not have known until I reached this point in my own life. And while I want to say I have earned the right to enjoy this coming Mother's Day, I have not at all. Six years of it doesn't hold a candle to the number of years it took for her to see the fruits of her labors. I have a lot of half-hearted well-wishing to make up for. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. This time I really mean it, because I really get it. Thank you for never giving up all of those days of tiring and thankless sacrificing. You have earned the right to sit back and fully enjoy watching your grandkids drive your daughter nuts. I deserve it.
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