PDA #3: Mirror Model

This picture was taken in 2008, on the Sunday 12-year-old Kyle received the Aaronic priesthood and was ordained a deacon in our church. Sure, he'd worn ties lots of times before, but something about spying this scene as I walked down the hall, and the import of the day, touched this mama's heart. "Ah, Mom. Don't take a picture!" Too bad.

Three years later I'm especially grateful for Jeff being an example to our son. This week the two of them had an appointment to home teach -- our church's program of establishing relationships with assigned families by monthly home visits and the sharing of a gospel message. Jeff asked Kyle to prepare the message. Kyle dug in his heels. He didn't want to. Jeff persisted, gently guiding Kyle on topics and where he could find information. Kyle pulled a message together the very minute they were to leave the house.

I know it would have been so much easier for Jeff to just do it himself, but he didn't. Thank you, Jeff, for all you do to help shape Kyle.

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Also this week, although not quite the date I had in mind, Jeff let me accompany him to Home Depot. Woo-hoo! Secretly (who am I kidding? -- it's all out in the open now!) I think Jeff hates trips to home improvement stores with me. Walking 10 untethered puppies at once would probably be more fun for him. I get so easily distracted. One clerk asked me, "Can I help you find something?" and I was tempted to say, "Yes, my husband." He was in pursuit of the task at hand (who knows what) whereas my dreaming eyes took my feet from aisle to far-off aisle. Jeff has done a TON of work in this old house, and there's much more he'll willingly do. Yay, more trips!

PDA #2: Music to my Eyes

My little experiment is already working! Knowing I've committed to write my weekly "Public Display of Appreciation" post, I'm on the lookout. I've been richly rewarded.

This week Jeff gave me flowers on Valentine's Day, but in a nod to my practicality, they were pots of lavender I can transplant to the garden in the spring. (Early on in our courtship I declared bouquets that only died days later to be undesirably frivolous. Young girls, take note: Do NOT do this.)

What meant the most to me this week, though, was a casual comment Jeff may not even remember. I tend to bite more than I can chew. This time it's a commitment I made to a violin student to accompany her at an upcoming scholarship audition. I really try to balance my obligations to my family whenever I undertake these kinds of things, and to be fair, I agreed to help her because it was a piece we'd already done together; I knew the music. But then she decided she wanted to do a different piece. Aargh!

This has meant lots of practicing, the kind where I'm trying to cram years of advancing ability into mere weeks. Thursday night she was coming over to rehearse. The house was in shambles that afternoon. Shambles! (Psst. I did have dinner in the oven.) I should have been supervising my children to whip the house into shape, but I needed every spare minute at the piano.

There I sat when Jeff came home from work. When he peeked around the corner I ceased playing and apologized to him for how awful everything looked. Not to worry, he said. "I like to hear your music when I come home."

Really? I was touched. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a musician, but music is a big part of my life. Jeff gets that. He tells me he understands that chances to perform are important to me, especially while my deteriorating thumb still allows it.

So, thank you, Jeff for putting up with all the music you hear -- and see -- around you.

P.S. I visited a photography blog that gives prompts for picture challenges. The first photo is my quick interpretation of "MUSIC." Do you know what it is? I quite like how the motion looks like diagrams of radio waves. The second photo is Samuel.

They wrote the book

The birthday boy, age 7,  holding breathy Elise at bay, Feb. 9.

I may as well write it on my calendar now: struggle with James next Thursday to get his weekly writing homework assignment done. The boy complains and sulks, hides and avoids. Then, once I do get him in the same room, it's torture to pull the prescribed number of sentences from his tensely gripped pencil. Which makes the cute little book I found this morning all the more baffling. (It was published at least 10 days ago, apparently.)

Spring time By James nathan Hatch Age 6

chapter 1

Spring is comeing my mom and DaD are happy. I'm even happier!

But I like winter too. Sometimes I don't. Because it usually has a Blizzard aaaaahhh!

So I thought I could help plant some seeds with my mom and dad. (Word bubbles: Can I help? Yes.)

"Yes" Said mom. and my dad said yes too. 

I've turned into Mr. can I help.

Mr. Can-I-Help! I laughed and laughed. Hard.

I wonder if the stick figure's blank expression represents James' own puzzlement at this development.

In less concrete ways my children often remind me that the key to successful parenting is not making them do what I want -- it's planting the desire for them to do it on their own. The writing assignment James had to do? Drudgery. But being surrounded by books, and having the freedom and materials at hand to make his own? Inspiring.

James' teacher is so wonderful that, with explanation, I know she will accept future writing assignments from him in this format, rather than the rigid lines of the handout. My trick will be pitching next week's topic to this aspiring author without him catching on, ha ha.

I've been thinking a lot lately about teaching my children to work. Removing the drudgery factor is important. I need to teach them that a job well done can be its own reward, and that work can make them happy. I also need to give them the leeway to do tasks in their own fashion, focusing on results rather than my idea of the process.  I wish I knew how to do all this.

Come on, James. I need you to write chapter 2!

Campaign promises

In my college journal I wrote of my "get Jeff to notice me campaign." Actual quote. (Oh, college journal, how I love you! I figured when I wrote in you instead of doing my homework, it wasn't REALLY wasting time, right?) Anyway, I had my eye on a cute young photographer on the campus newspaper staff where I was editor. (Did that make me his boss?) He was mild-mannered, steady, focused. He seemed rather reserved, aloof even, but I remember attending a gymnastics meet that he was assigned to shoot, and watching him suddenly turn bold behind the camera to get the shots. That intrigued this Lois Lane.

Did I mention Jeff's extreme reserve? It seemed forever before he acknowledged my existence. Just map out our different stories of how we met, should you ask. His version is about seven months behind mine. That's how memorable I was. sniff 

So it's oddly karmic that after 17 years of marriage, what I value most in Jeff is how patient he is with me. I don't thank him enough.

It's time to launch a new campaign.

I still want Jeff to notice me, of course, but this time I want him to notice me appreciating him.

When I got the disk of pictures from our family's session last year, this one was a surprise. I don't remember it being taken, didn't even recall Jeff's show of affection. How much more do I miss?


I host a constant inner debate on whether to continue this little blog, but on this matter I hope it can be a useful tool. I plan to do a weekly post highlighting what I value in my husband. Public Displays of Appreciation, if you will. I realize these posts may not appeal to everyone, but they are important to me. I really believe that as we navigate relationships, we find exactly what we're looking for. If we look for the good, it will be there.

So for this week's PDA, I'm grateful for how Jeff makes me laugh. I'm grateful that, just like when my friend took the photo below and told us to "talk dirty" to each other, our whispered "house" and "laundry" made us crack up. Jeff's a great help in that department, by the way, and this week he did the lion's share of housecleaning while I was up to my eyeballs with a piano recital and birthday parties.

I really did notice.

Happy Valentine's Day, Jeff! I love you.

My take on the Tiger Mother

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Amy Chua

This memoir about the author's obsessively strict parenting style and her children's resulting amazing accomplishments, was, for me, full of paradoxes.

Among them: I absolutely loved reading this book. But, I couldn't be like her.

Tiger mothers are, Chua says, not just Asians, but any who demand nothing short of academic and musical brilliance from their children. Chua scoffs at most Westerners for falling into the stereotypical lax parenting approach of not pushing children too hard, for fear of damaging relationships. What nonsense, she says!

Yet it seemed like much of what she did with her daughters was to please her parents, who raised her the same way. She talks about how being the harsh taskmaster will arm her daughters with accomplishments to navigate life, but also relates not knowing what to do next after she completed law school. She deferred to her father.

You cannot deny Chua's commitment to her daughters. It made me think of how much more I could do to help my children develop their talents. Just when I was reading along thinking, Wow, this mom knows how to get results! I should try this, she throws in the bit about rebuking her children for the sloppy birthday cards they presented her. They were 4 and 7. Does that break your heart too?

Whether Chua's wry satire was also at work here, pointing a finger at herself for this episode, I can't say. But that was my turning point.

The idea of a battle hymn suggests a fight. Who is rallying against Chua's tiger mother? Society? Her daughters? (Certainly the one who rebelled!)

Is the battle hymn instead the internal dialogue readers will have debating their own parenting strengths?

I said before I couldn't be a tiger mother a la Chua. I couldn't hold nightly shouting matches to complete musical drills. (First off, I'm too consumed in the laundry!) I couldn't openly compare my children to spur greater effort. I couldn't push, push, push at all costs. Ideally I want their drive to be their own.

I've learned, though, that children aren't always equipped with inner drive, a realization all the more confounding to this tiger child. Yes, I admit it. I couldn't be a tiger mother, because I was once a tiger child. (Note, not the child of a tiger mother, but a "self" tiger.)  I was very self-motivated. I may not have had much innate ability, but I worked really hard. School was my arena. When effort translated into accolades I thrived. I defined myself through my accomplishments.

When my life shifted to a different phase, gone too was the praise. I floundered a bit. Make that a lot. It took me a while to learn I am my qualities, not my accomplishments. I had to relearn, as an adult, that I am a worthy child of God. My tiger tendency of being very hard on myself lingers.

And this brings me to the chief paradox of Chua's tiger mother. She pushes her daughters to excel, but that success is measured by the world. Stellar grades, first-place competitions, Carnegie Hall performances -- these are all external recognitions. It is someone else telling you "Good job, you're worth something." (No, we shouldn't throw "good job"s to our children like the salt shaker sprinkled injudiciously, but we should be honest when we see our children trying their best, and thus further encourage them.)

It makes me wonder if the idea of worth is offset in the tiger model. Is that why parents push so hard, because they measure their own success through the vicarious accomplishments of their children?

No matter the triumphs, unless they are accompanied by a strong sense -- and love -- of one's identity, we set our children up for defeat if they depend on adulation. So I'll marvel at the work ethic Chua has undoubtedly instilled in her children (can I just say WOW!) and try to apply that in my family. But I'd rather teach my children to value themselves for how hard they've worked and not for the world's idea of a reward.

Chua sure is funny, though, and crafted a fascinating read. I only wish the book didn't shift in tone right before the end as the author, now a relenting tiger mother, limply speculates what will happen to her daughter who rebelled. What will her daughters be like as adults? Better yet, how will they raise their own children? I hope Chua will someday tell us.