Don't Lick the Lawnmower!

Every once in a while I’ll have one of those reflective moments where I look at my life almost as though I’m on the outside looking in. Strange things usually trigger these times, and so it was that warm spring day. The kids were outside playing. One was in a tree and another was begging to get in the sprinkler. (They believe any day with a temperature over 60 is fair game for water play). I was working in my garden and keeping an eye on the toddler. I’m sure I was saying a lot of things, but as I turned my head and called out, “Don’t lick the lawnmower!” a reflective moment was born.

Did I really just say, “Don’t lick the lawnmower?” Is this seriously what my life has been reduced to? I mean, I’m a smart, capable woman. I’ll have you know I graduated Summa Cum Something or Other with a degree in nursing. I was going to be a valued member of a health care delivery team—at least that’s what my resume said my goal was. Yet here I am advising my young son to keep his tongue off the old John Deer. There has got to be something more important for me to do in life. Not that dispersing lawn mower safety tips to children isn’t important, it’s just frankly not what I had in mind for myself.

Another one of these moments happened recently. Out of my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of one of my sons picking his nose. But what caught my eye and caused a closer look was the appearance of the offending finger—it was slightly discolored and unusually shiny. I immediately knew what he was doing and called out, “No, you may not pick your nose with one of your fake fingers either.” He had received a magic kit a few years back for Christmas and had just revived an interest in it. He’d been amazing us with his new tricks that had been too difficult for him to learn when he’d first gotten it, especially the ones using the fake finger. I’m pretty certain what I observed was not in the instruction guide.

I’m actually embarrassed by the feelings these moments create. Do I think I’m too good to be “just a mother?” I’m among the first to express righteous indignation when someone else suggests mothering isn’t worth the sacrifice. I remember sharing an evening with friends we hadn’t seen in awhile. They had no children and were both experiencing exciting job changes. The entire evening was spent talking about their interesting careers as they exchanged stories with my husband. Not once did they see fit to ask about my days or how I spend my time. I left feeling a little hurt and even offended. "They don’t understand how valuable mothering is," I reassured myself. But, I admit, nagging feelings remained.

Let’s face facts. We’re raised in a culture all about self-fulfillment. As Americans, we do whatever we must to seek out and attain that end. On a daily basis, mothering just doesn’t fit the bill. We want to put our signature on important documents, emerge successful from a new-client meeting, make a big sale or simply have our boss pat us on the back and say, “Well done.” I don’t know about your kids, but mine just aren’t quite old enough to say thank you and pat me on the back. I’m still in the stage where at least once a week some friend or stranger points out that I have spit-up running down my back. It’s easy to feel discouraged.

It would be one thing if we spent our days passing out proverbial wisdom to our children. Saying things like, “I’m going to teach you how handle your finances,” or, “Let’s talk about the allegories from Pilgrim’s Progress,” is one thing. “Please turn your head away from the bowl of cookie dough and cover your nose next time you sneeze,” is another.

I have diligently spent hours of my life teaching my three boys that the little opening that looks like a pocket in their underwear goes in the front, but tags go in the back. (The almost twelve year old is just now catching onto the difficult “tag” concept. Someone who works for the clothing industry can let them know they’ve done mothers no favor by removing all the tags from our clothing.) Lucky me though, I still have yet another boy to instruct and pass on my great wisdom to.

I used to look at my friend’s five children and inwardly think, “Come on now, couldn’t you have combed their hair and at least made an effort to match their clothes?” Aah…humbled again. I told my seven year old daughter to go put on traveling clothes last weekend for our trip to Columbus. She astutely asked, “What are traveling clothes?” I told her to put on something comfortable for the ride in the car. She appeared ten minutes later in her plum colored jeans, the ugliest shirt she owns (the one I only kept thinking perhaps she could paint in), brown knee high boots, a dilapidated black straw cowboy hat, and a bandana with paw-prints on it tied around her neck. I looked at her. She looked back and announced emphatically, “THESE are the clothes I prefer to travel in.” Issue dismissed. I would have intervened a few kids ago, but not now.

Mothering is teaching how to wipe your own bottom, how to squeeze the lotion bottle so 1/3 of the moisturizer doesn’t come squirting out, the pitfalls of twisting the glue-stick all the way up, how to peel an orange, flush the toilet, and use the mouse on the computer (debatably one of the most painful aspects of mothering a toddler in the 21st century). Mothering is correcting for using Sharpies on the furniture and the new white board, leaving every light on in the second-story of the house, and for not rinsing out the sink after spitting.

Simply put, mothering is the antithesis of glamour. And as trivial as it all seems at times, it is THE God-ordained way of taking our little impressionable bundles and turning them into adults of character. Winston Churchill and Abraham Lincoln were once taught that the little pocket of their underwear goes in front. Or can you imagine the horror if Bill Gates tried using a Sharpie on the new company white-board in the conference room? Somebody must teach the young, somebody must impart life wisdom!

Galatians 6:9 says, “And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.” God’s word always says it best. We must wear those long-range spectacles for child rearing. The rewards and the harvest are not just around the bend. The world-renown heart surgeon was first taught to wash her hands by her mom. The counselor out there helping to save marriages was more than likely first taught to listen by his mom. The electrician wiring up your new home was taught not to stick his finger in a light socket under the loving care of you, mom. And that young lady down the street hollering at her son not to lick the lawnmower, I bet she learned that from a special woman too.