My kids know their mom all too well. I put it down to my good heart and not too bad communication skills. They attribute it to their excellent insight into human behavioral science. In other words, they know how to play their mom.
One day I asked my son to help me out, and he quickly responded by asking for something. I sighed while saying: “How about you do this without asking for anything in return?” He grinned: “Yeah, how about that, but then again, sin came into the world and things kinda went sideways, remember? So… may I?”
Yes, they play me. Like a fiddle.
Most of the time they willingly help. Our house would have looked a lot worse without our kids. We jokingly tell them that child labor is of God. I don’t mind them shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, if they fold some towels while they do it.
We make sure that the kids know that they are needed. Especially as they grow up, we want them to know that they are still vital parts of our family. Not hotel guests. Not customers or strangers who accidentally run into each other as they rob the fridge or to pick up their newly washed jeans. You know, the jeans that seem to magically get washed all by themselves, with no mom or dad ever being involved in the process? I’m sure you have some of those at your house, too.
We want them to know that if you live here, you contribute.
We tell our kids: this fragile ecosystem that we call our family depends on you pitching in. Our family needs you to invest. To choose us. Not instead of friends or activities, but in addition to. As you grow up and everything else seems to be more important, we need you to continuously, consciously, and willfully pour into our family; this delicate, yet durable body made up by love and communion.
This is how we model attachment. Relationship. Unity. Commitment.
Even as toddlers they were watching us cook, learning as they talked and giggled, before moving on to cooking and baking on their own. Soon after they discovered for themselves that plastic bowls melt in hot ovens, rice needs water to boil, and there is a subtle difference between yeast and baking soda.
Tiny feet would run errands, and even tinier hands would help us gather the leaves in the garden. There’s an intrinsic value to co-laboring: as practical skills are passed on, so are ethics, responsibility, and a sense of belonging.
We know that these life skills benefit our kids as they grow up, and I am determined to do whatever I can to help them survive out there in No Mom’s Land. Which is why we have endured our fair share of bacon strip pancakes for dinner. And taco. Not to forget the stuffed pitas. I don’t mind, I’m happy to be served dinner! The raw cake we had to sip through a straw gave me a bad heartburn. But still… we had dessert that day. And the antacid was on sale.
I want my kids to know that they can do it, that they someday will make it on their own. But more than that, I want them to know that they can always come and ask for help.
We have a saying at home:
The bigger mess you’ve made, the faster you run home.
We’ll help you clean up. We won’t take over, because we have complete faith in your ability to straighten out your own messes. But we’ll support you, cheer you on, stand by you, respect your decisions, and love you unconditionally. No matter what you do, no matter where you are.
We’re family.