Parenting | Cookie Cawthon | product of a tenacious grace

June

Keep Calm & Summer On, Moms.

Our best defense will be our sense of humor.

Campbell: I’m pretty tall for my age.

Carson: No you’re not.

Campbell: Carson, stop. I’m encouraging myself.

summer on

These people of mine bring the snort chortles on the regular. Mothering our girls, Carson (14) and Campbell (11), is one of the most fun things of my life. They cast barbs at each other daily, and they have a superhuman tolerance for disarray in their rooms and bathrooms. They poke along when I’m in a hurry, and they inform me of projects and baking assignments at the last minute (don’t worry about that baklava I spent all night assembling for International Field Day). They are your standard issue offspring who are often ungrateful and sassy and lazy. And they are fabulously unique and delightful all at once.

Not long ago, the girls asked what we were having for lunch, and I freed them to feed themselves (i.e., Fend for yourselves, chickadees). One announced she would have a hot dog, and the other assented. Pleased with their decisiveness and agreement, I left them to their preparations. Finding a sole bun in the pantry, the meal plan was quickly wrinkled and complicated. While the eldest set in to argue her valid claim on the bread, the youngest moved swiftly. She removed the bun and gave it a long lick, thereby sealing her procurement.

crazy hair

Campbell complains about school substitutes that smell like cabbage, and Carson tries to self-tan in a tea bath. Campbell claims sushi makes her gassy and tries to practice her recorder in the car while she and I run errands. Carson treats choosing a sauce at Chick-Fil-A like a major life decision, and I croon “Jesus, Jesus, Precious Jesus…” at the top of my lungs to numb my sensitivities and beg the immediate deliverance of my Savior.

Recently, I accompanied Campbell into her room to inspect her cleaning and found her bed-making performance to be substandard and wanting. I expressed my dissatisfaction, and she received it with uncharacteristic grace and restraint. As I turned to leave her to make repairs, she proudly contended, “You gotta admit; it’s pretty good for making it up with my feet.” I stared blankly as her confession registered. My chin dropped as my grin stretched for my ears, “I don’t even know…” I mumbled, wagging my head as laughter overflowed its banks.

This is my circus. These are my monkeys.

kid smile Motherhood is a serious business; I make no claim to the contrary. I have been so troubled, sitting alone in the wee hours of the morning writing and praying Scripture over one of my sleeping girls who was losing a fight with overwhelming anxiety. A choking mama fear hounds me when the media slices my consciousness and reminds me of rampant evil. It’s a paralyzing, unhealthy preoccupation. There is a countdown clock in my heart that alarms me with the urgency of now. I see their high school graduations across the way, and I clutch the present with hot tears blurring the view. I am genuinely afraid of the heartbreaks and hardships that transform little girls into young ladies of character and strength. They are inevitable, and I am not sure my heart can bear them.

But for now, we will belly laugh.

We will not allow our home to be so serious and rushed and busy that we miss the hilarity of it all. Motherhood is expensive in every way, so I intend to cash in on the comedy of living with rookie humans as they understand and experience life.

When Carson grouses, “C’mon, Mom! Hurry up! My fabulous is being wasted,” I will breathe and savor her wit. Allowing the hustle and self-absorption fueling it to fall like discarded crumbs this time. When Campbell responds to a request for a decreased volume with, “I can’t help it. I talk loud when I’m thirsty,” I’ll chuckle at the incongruity of that logic and commit myself to keeping her well-hydrated. I may also privately hum a hymn to stay my nerves and keep my mama soul open to whimsy. kid finger up nose

Not only that, I’ll laugh at myself. At the sight of bedhead me pumping gas in my fuzzy snowflake pajamas and slippers because I almost ran out of gas during the morning drive. At the teacher catching me belting out Adele while carting the oldest to middle school. At the ridicule of my progeny when I cry at EVERY event they’ve ever participated in. At their mockery when I throw around outdated slang and call their friends by the wrong names.

And when I have the next interaction that goes a little something like this one…

Campbell: You don’t do math during the summer.

Me: You do do math during the summer.

Campbell: You said doo-doo.

Me: [sigh] It’s going to be a long summer.

I’ll snicker like a middle school boy and shelve the math lesson for the day.

[Images: Toni Verdu Carbo, Hayden Beaumont, Aikawa Ke, & Scott Cresswell]

April

Dads, What We Hope You Teach Your Sons…

skating father son

“We did role plays in Health today, and they were hilarious, ” Carson shared at dinner.

“Aren’t you studying Sex Ed in Health?”

“Yeah.”

“WHAT!?!?! WHAT KIND OF ROLE PLAY DO YOU DO IN SEX ED?!?!?!”

She nonchalantly recounted the content while my eyes bugged out of my very head. These conversational role plays that still freaked me out.

“Well, we may homeschool Sex Ed.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Of course I can.”

“Mom, I know you’re not a fan but think about Thomas, whose parents will never teach him anything about sex.”

“Well, I have a teaching degree; I’ll volunteer to teach it.”

“Yeah, and I have a lot of experience having sex, so I’ll volunteer too! ” Chris pipes in.

Both girls scream, throw their hands over their ears, and run from the table.

_______________

I am a girl out of season.

Chris is a girl daddy.

I mama women-children.

We know girls.

Dads, one day your sons may be part of our family. We think of you often and hope things are going swimmingly on your end.

We want you to know we are giving it our concerted effort to teach our girls compassion and adventure and purity and boldness. Courage and love, responsibility and grace.

We teach them about the College Football Playoff Selection Committee (highlighting Condoleezza Rice’s participation, of course) and watch as a family as the top teams are announced each week during the season. Our girls can drive a boat, mow the grass, protect the seasoning on a cast iron frying pan, and bake a chocolate chip cookie just shy of done.

We teach them about sex and finances and injustice and hard work. We encourage their voice and questions, and we don’t airbrush our marriage to make reality more palatable. They know we squeaked through our hardest season, that we went to counseling, that I took “stable pills” (an anti-depressant) for a while (and they were glad for it, mind you!).

Most of all we’re pretty crazy about a well-known carpenter, and we hope they notice him building a messy masterpiece of our lives. And they allow him to do the same in theirs.

We’re trying, man. We know she may sit at your table for Thanksgiving dinner, and – if so – we want her to be a permanent fixture there, to be a rich blessing to your family.

If we were allowed to whisper into your ear during this formative time, we’d champion these ideals…

dad and son

Talk real talk about hard stuff. About failure. Your failures. Your struggles. The pressures of being the provider. The weight of being the leader. The ubiquitous measuring-stick that always asks, “Do I have what it takes?” Talk to him about man things. And share how you navigate those difficulties. He needs you to be a guide in his life, not a superhero in his mind.
Overtly teach him that sex is for marriage and worth the wait. Not because it’s a conservative mainstay or because it’s the responsible thing to say. But because you believe it. This is no hollow assertion based on a fairytale ideal. My past sexual indiscretions have borne lasting consequences in my marriage – emotional, mental, relational. That’s just how the thing works. Casual sex is not a rite of passage; it’s an expensive withdrawal from the marriage bed, and when we accept (or worse, promote) the “Boys will be boys” platitude, we act as enemies of their future marriages. It’s not unmanly to wait; it’s the most noble gift a man can give his bride. We want that for our daughters.
Be a man who values women. All women. Without ever articulating one word, you will teach your son 1) what you love, 2) what you think about women, 3) what you feel about marriage. If I could beg one thing of all men, it would be for you to take up the fight against the sexual abuse and exploitation of women. However, for the purposes of this conversation, I would just ask that you live the belief that EVERY woman and EVERY girl is valuable and to be respected. Sometimes the danger here is that your words and choices don’t match. Words that take the high road are proven fraudulent by choices that exploit and denigrate. And – as a bonus – if you want to insist he open doors and pull out chairs and give up his seat to a woman on a crowded subway, I won’t be mad about it. I’ll worry about making him an activist later… 🙂
Make him a lifelong adventurer. Do dangerous dude things that are exhilarating and challenging. We believe the desire to burn stuff and blow things up and climb stuff and shoot stuff is innate to man-ness. As much a cord of his makeup as the network of vessels that keep him alive. Responsibility can gradually tug on slack in that strand and over time completely unravel his sense of adventure. We don’t want that for him. Boredom in marriage is dangerous, so let’s instill in our people a wonder and a courage and an appreciation for adventuring together.
Demonstrate leadership as a posture not a position. A leader who believes his authority comes from his position as the leader is quite susceptible to tyranny. A leader who recognizes his position as an opportunity to serve and help and nurture and foster has influence over many glad followers.
Be certain he knows what you love most. This is the easiest of them all. Without a doubt he will know the answer. If a third party were to ask, “What does your dad love most?” he will have a response. We hope his reply is about that well-known carpenter who’s so important to us…

surfing

Thank you for doing the good work of dadding. What a weight to steward……parenting today affects marriages tomorrow! We feel ya, man. Rock the next decade of your father business, and we look forward to fighting over grandchildren and family holidays one day down the road.

Just kidding…

Or not so much.

[ Images: Filter Collective, Gil, and Steve Simmonds]

March

When Your Personality Is a Liability to Your Kids…

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It was Monday, April 14, 2014. The first official day of Spring Break, and I did what any ambitious, sanity-valuing mama would have done. I made peace with reality (aka, if-we-tarry-in-this-place-we-will-be-homicidal-by-2:00), stuck one eyeball through a slat in the blinds and saw sunshine. “We’re going to the beach!” I chirped.

I welcomed a smile into my soul and grabbed the beach bag from the closet, shaking last year’s sunscreen to assess our supply. I confirmed that our baby powder – in its cloudy Ziploc – was still in place and haphazardly grabbed snacks and juice boxes and beach towels and made haste for our departure.

// Time Out: Baby powder is the supreme sand removal agent at the end of a beach day. Carry on with your lives, people. //

The girls’ lukewarm response could not diminish my internal horn-tootin’. Their shortsightedness could not see the harrowing pitfalls of staying at home. My seasoned sensibilities knew the danger. “This is brilliant!” I self-congratulated.

Not wanting to lose momentum, I enlisted Chris’ help clothing the people, loading and gassing the Jeep.

“You want me to put the top up?”

“What kind of question is that? Absolutely not. We want the top down for the beach…” I replied with one eyebrow raised in indignation. I pursed my lips and shook my head at the thought as I entered the closet for a cover-up.

In record time for a morning-averse family, we were in reverse down the driveway. We stopped for an absurd length of time to capture this special moment (and seventeen other very similar special moments just before this one)…

family Jeep pic

Cookie, you are the real MVP of parenting, I gushed as I released the clutch and sped away.

As we crested the overpass just outside our neighborhood, Campbell belted over the gale, “Mama, I’m cold.” As the roofline of our house grew faint in the distance, I cranked the heater and assured her it was all part of the fun.

I repeatedly punched the radio button, insistent on dialing up some vintage country for the occasion. “Mom, do we have to listen to this?” Carson groused.

Unfazed I was.

If I lead with positivity, they will eventually succumb to the merriment of the day, I rallied with a mental fist bump.

About the time we passed the bank, I noticed a down comforter of complete cloud cover. I dared not state the unfortunate and obvious but felt certain the sun was working its magic on the coast. Regardless of how it treats us inland folks, it’s obligated to play nice at the beach….especially during Spring Break.

As we headed east, I nailed the accelerator to the floor as the wind buffeted us for our hour and a half drive. Campbell, with no protection from the battering, regularly registered her displeasure.

“We’ll be there soon, and you can ride in the front on the way home, ” I leveraged.

Once I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw her flapping behind us from the roll bar. She appeared to have a tight grasp, so I kept driving. Press on, sister. Perseverance is a virtue.

When we arrived I cruised the strip in search of a public access with parking, rejecting a dozen or so for one deficiency or another. Too crowded. No available parking. Sketchy surroundings. I finally chose one.

No restroom. 4231347208_c0f2e98461_o

No shower.

No restaurants or stores in sight.

Obviously, I was winning the day.

A dense meringue concealed the sun, but there was still the sand and the surf. There was still fun to be had.

And what fun we had!

For seven and a half minutes.

“We’re bored. We want to go home.”

I had no hearing for such nonsense. “We just got here. Go make some friends; build a sand castle and moat. Jump the waves with your sister. Collect cool shells in one of our buckets.” I was full of ideas.

“Mom, this is ridiculous. The sun’s not even shining, and we’re cold.”

“We’re not leaving,” I resolutely announced as I tilted my chin skyward, leaning my head against the chair. Eyes closed behind my shades, basking in the dingy cloudiness. You can still get a tan on an overcast day, you know.

I was committed to the mission. Fun was no longer a consideration; it was all about completion.

An hour and a half later, the heavy grey rolled in, and fat raindrops peppered the sand. “Grab everything quickly and run to the Jeep; if we hurry we can probably get ahead of the rain,” I yelled.

Have I failed to mention that I had NO IDEA how to put the top up on the Jeep? My plan was to outrun the afternoon storm. We layered any source of dry warmth, rolled the windows up, blared the heat, and tore westward. Racing the rain. We were golden.

For seven and a half miles.

Traffic stopped. We were gridlocked in the center lane. People to our right stared. People to our left stared. I smiled at them as though we were not stranded inside a mobile aquarium. The girls……..they did not smile at them. Carson looked over at a disturbed passerby and mouthed, “Adopt me.”

Ride or die, ladies.

YOLO.

No pain, no gain.

Life is like a box of chocolates.

All about that Jeep life.

You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

I mean, how many clichés could we live in one day?

I didn’t pull off to find shelter. I didn’t stop at a gas station to find someone to pull the top up. I didn’t take us to a mall or a movie until the rain passed. I gave no moment’s thought to formulating Plan B. That’s not what I do. I get a thing in my head and all else becomes background noise.

Hyper-focus gone crooked.

I did allow the girls to persuade me to stop at my parents’ – about halfway through our disastrous return – for dry clothes and Papa’s Jeep expertise.

Once we were home, a dry though sour Campbell commented on my Instagram post of the picture above:

“Werst trip ever.”

Carson was probably in her room trying to call DHEC or the Department of Social Security (as she frequently threatens) for my dogged inflexibility.

I have a problem.

And the worst part………I have replicated myself.

Screen Shot 2016-03-16 at 10.35.03 AM

Reproduce responsibly, people.

silly girl edit

[Images: Brittni Gee Photography, Vanessa Myers, and Ame Rainey]

November

The Advice That Changed My Parenting

awkward family

Disclaimer: Yesterday it was 55° (that’s cold to South Carolinians), and my girl rolled out the door for school in shorts and a short-sleeved tee. You may not wish to read any further…

I’ve been at this parenting gig for thirteen years now, and it’s a beast. Along the way I’ve snatched up tips like a rabid woman on Black Friday, throwing elbows and pressing in assertively. A mama needs all the help she can snag. I’m a generous rabid woman though, so here’s the goods (no throwing of elbows necessary):

1) As your children age, move from control to influence. This gem is from the teaching of Andy Stanley, pastor of North Point Community Church in Atlanta, and it provides a truth we can break ourselves against or adjust ourselves to.

My oldest girl is 13, and the fastest way I can alienate her is to attempt to exercise the control over her I did when she was younger.

There are certainly decisions I still hand down that carry the weight and finality of the mama, but there are other dimensions of life where wielding influence is most protective of our relationship AND most effective in preparing her for post-mama life: classes, friends, extracurriculars, dress & style (she’s quite modest), schoolwork, social opportunities, room decor, and time management.

While our non-negotiables remain our bedrock, I have found a margin for independence buys me a lot of influence in this season.

2) Respect cannot be commanded. I learned this one from my Education degree. I began teaching high school English at twenty-two and looked like I was fresh off the school bus. True story, a fellow teacher asked for my hall pass during the beginning of my first year. I had to learn to walk in an authority that neither my age nor my inexperience commanded. Mutual respect and sincere apology were the tickets to looking up into the faces of grown boy-men, requiring them to toe the line.

I wasn’t a pushover. But I wasn’t a tyrant either.

Behavior can be marshaled, but respect rubs shoulders with trust and care. As a former teacher of adolescents, this truth is serving me well with my tween and middle school woman-child.

3) Laughter is relational glue. I have been so guilty of living in the serious. Of taking myself too seriously. Of making life too serious. Of chasing off fun to be responsible. And you know what? That’ll make you sharp and tired, friends. I extinguished there.

Matt Chandler, pastor of The Village Church in Texas, says in his study Recovering Redemption, “I believe with all my heart that God delights in the laughter of Christian homes.”

I have really messed this one up, but my people and I, we are trying to make up for lost time.

We cackle on the regular.

cawthon humor

4) Don’t try to protect them from God. I snagged this one from the Big Guy Himself. God is always more concerned with who we are becoming than what we’re doing. Well, that’s true for our kiddos too, and it doesn’t start when they’re adults.

Unfortunately, adversity is a great character builder.

I have found myself standing before God with my gals metaphorically tucked behind me. As if to say, “I’ll tell them what You say, and I’ll help them grow into who You want them to be.” We only delude and terrify ourselves when we think we have the ability to protect them from the work He wants to do in them.

The great news is He loves them more than we do.

5) Be a student of your child. I first encountered this idea from a Sunday School class corporately studying The 5 Love Languages of Children. To me, learning my offspring – their passions, their personalities, their gifts, their wiring – is how I can be most efficient and effective in my parenting efforts.

Carson, my oldest, is an introvert whose love language is gifts. This summation informs a lot of my interactions with her. When I pick her up from cross country practice, she doesn’t want to talk. She’s been “on” all day and is ready to quiet and withdraw. But by dinner, she’s ready for questions about her day.

And buying her a new book or her favorite snack sends her into her own self-described love cocoon.

the fam.

Campbell is 10. She’s an extrovert whose love language is quality time. This past Friday she and I picked up a couple of birthday gifts, grabbed dinner, and carried it home to eat and watch a movie. I could give away all of her favorite possessions – bow and arrow, BB gun, legos, puzzles – and she would only notice if she realized they were missing.

Which she wouldn’t because she’s an extrovert and never spends time in her room.

6) Be guilty of being demonstrative. I recently read this in a book about raising teen daughters. Hug and say “I love you” a lot, even when they feel they have outgrown it. I’ve never heard an adult with parent issues complain, “My parents were too affectionate and harassed me with ‘I love you‘s.” And if mine do, I’m striving to be guilty as charged.

7) Allow your children to make choices you disagree with. Okay, we’re gonna revisit why I allowed the 10 year old tadpole to wear shorts and a t-shirt to school when it was 55°.

My husband and I once attended a PTA meeting where a school administrator challenged us to allow our children to face the consequences of their choices. If they refuse a coat, allow them to be cold. If they forget their homework, don’t bring it.

I took his advice, recognizing school as a safe place to allow my girls to exert some independence and feel the consequences of their choices. We don’t return home for forgotten ID’s, and we don’t require coats. If they don’t do a homework assignment, they pay the piper. Did I try to convince my child to wear jeans instead of shorts? I did. But I didn’t mandate it. Luckily for her, Mother Nature was feeling gracious later in the day.

8) Resist settling conflict for your child. One day I was driving, listening to a parenting segment on the radio. The speaker lauded the value of allowing our children to navigate conflict, especially sibling clashes, on their own. Once a disagreement takes a trajectory of escalation, put the siblings in a confined space, she suggested, for a specified period of time to resolve the issue. If they have not reached resolution at the conclusion of the time frame, they are assigned another block of time for forced togetherness.

cawthon humor

For years since, our girls are relegated to the bathroom for 15-minute intervals when they can’t tame the tongue or rein in the rage. They may paint their nails, scream, apply make-up, cry, play a game, but they aren’t allowed out until the altercation is no longer active. More than anything it removes me and my ire from the mix.

9) A family dog eradicates the food-on-the-floor impasse of parenthood. Speaks for itself, but yes and thank you. #ThreeCheersForObadiah

I would love to hear from you, fellow soldiers in the trenches. What has been the parenting advice that changed your parenting?

[Feature image: Kevin N. Murphy]

August

Boogie Shoes and Boat Paddles

Today we’re hosting a little Throwback Tuesday on the blog (I know that’s not really a thing; work with me, friend…). With an article I wrote for She Magazine six years ago…for their Celebrate Your Age issue.

I think it’s my favorite.

Lots of life has happened since then. Not all of it pleasant. By the time you’ve lived forty-two years on this spinning ball, there’s bound to have been some trips around the sun that have left you dizzy, dusty, and flat on your butt.

At least, that’s been the case for me.

I could definitely add more stops to this piece…and maybe I will at some point….but as for now, I can still echo its closing sentiments. Six years later.

boat paddles

All of this talk about age has me headed for the hills to reflect and ponder and ruminate and cogitate (one can never have too many synonyms, huh?). I’m going to my reflection place – my mental destination for reflecting. It’s a lot like my happy place. Well, truth be told, they are the same place; I am just reflective AND happy there. I digress.

As the wind tousles my hair (the ceiling fan greatly assists this effect) and the noonday brilliance knocks the chill off the breeze, the sun stands behind me and my back is perfectly warmed – compelling goose bumps to stand at attention on my arms.

The sky is cloudless, revealing a rich blue that is rarely replicated in nature.

There is no noise.

No fear.

No other people.

I am the population of my happy place.

The lake perfectly mirrors the flourishing hills that surround it. The dock is rocked ever so gently by the movement of the still water. It is a place of solitude. It’s here that I can revisit the shores of my past and stake my claim to my current season.

I remember.

I launch and paddle intermittently – gliding more than working. I steer in a general direction – unable to see my first stop. It is across the lake – the farthest distance from the dock, but time is easy here – smooth and fluid and painless.

I hear it before I see it and excitement bubbles in my tummy. It’s my fifth or sixth birthday, and I am dancing like nobody’s business.

A campground borders the seam of the land and the lake, and festivities are well underway. I am sixteen minutes shy of sharing my birthday with Independence Day, so the camp residents are in full celebration.

I’m pretty sure that I know the party isn’t for me, but it feels like good times all the same.

The band cranks up, and my insides get the jitters. At the encouragement of my family, I go out to dance with an aunt or some cousins. And if the party wasn’t for me before I started dancing, it is after those folks see my moves. They cheer and clap for me, and I dance in my bare feet for hours, unwilling to stop – covered in dust and sweat. It was my first dance.

I slip back into the boat with dirt creases in my elbows and knees and paddle to my next stop. Once I make land and tie up, I find myself bedecked in cap and gown, preparing to speak at my high school graduation – a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday. It is indeed a time for reflection and anticipation.

As I articulate in my speech, I have observed a remarkable phenomenon at work within my class. The tumultuous times of adolescence have bowed and submitted to the fear of the future; drama is deflated and uncertain days lie ahead.

I am blinded by the beam of the stadium lights, and the echo of my voice makes my delivery awkwardly timed, but I savor the memory. It was my time to be heard.

reflection

I find the gown a little too cumbersome for paddling and the tassel from the cap keeps tickling my nose, so I stow them away under my seat. While studying the soft ripples of my interruptions, I quickly arrive at my twenty-fourth birthday.

I’m seated for dinner at a swanky restaurant – feeling quite out of place and anxious – enjoying the experience and loathing it all at once. I unceasingly ask Chris about silverware and etiquette and how to order, for Pete’s sake. At this restaurant – on this day – dessert comes with a proposal on the side. Oh my, it was my turn to be loved.

With some bling on my finger, I stroke on. I lose my bearings a few times – so distracted by the ring and how the sun catches its many surfaces.

One more memory on the itinerary, and it should be just around this bend, tucked behind some brush along the sandy shore.

It’s me and my two girls. We’re lying in a hospital bed welcoming the newest member of our family. I wrap my arms around them both – the three year-old and the newborn – and I try to convey the most complex of emotions through my squeeze – reassurance, confidence, unconditional love. I was almost thirty-two. And it was time for me to give on a whole new level.

A little sleep-deprived after that stop, I’m done visiting. I’m ready to return to the dock, plant in a comfy chair and plug my ears with some tunes. I make quick strokes across the lake and see my destination up ahead.

I step out of the boat onto the dock and unexpectedly look straight down the barrel of my thirty-sixth birthday.

No fear here.

I reach around and disarm it.

I am not afraid.

My past makes me passionate about tomorrow. I want to dance ‘til my body gives up. I want to be heard. I want to love and be loved like crazy. I want to rise continually to the challenge of giving on a whole new level. It’s a glorious day to be me, and I say – bring it on!

[Images: Thomas and Dianne Jones]