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The Cat in the Hat Principle
We had a whole collection of Dr. Seuss books when our kids were little. I read them so often, I could do it with my eyes shut. If you’ve ever fallen asleep while reading a bedtime story, or even a middle-of-the-morning story, you can empathize. The Cat in the Hat Comes Back was a favorite. It chronicles Sally and her brother’s second misadventure with the crazy feline. Near the climax, their yard is covered with pink snow, spread by the Cat in the Hat’s “assistants” Little Cats A to Z. Those two uptight kids are dismayed by the antics of these twenty-six imps, and yell at the Cat in the Hat to take them away. . .
I Didn’t Know
I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t know why.
It was a Sunday morning in October, 2005. Andrew had gone early to church, to one leadership meeting or another. It was my job to get the six kids into Bubba, our big old van, pick up my neighbor and her brood, and drive us all to the chapel. My neighbor’s kids would fight over who got to sit by my two-year-old and help him out of his car seat when we got there. Andrew would be waiting with a bench saved for us, primed for the all-hands-on-deck operation of keeping our family contained, quiet, and - with luck - listening, during the sacrament service. I did this every week. It was a challenge, but I like to be challenged.
It’s Not Your Job To Decide
Years ago, I attended a presentation by a man who worked in investigations of child sexual assault. The purpose of his presentation was simple: teach us what to do if we ever heard a child disclose that they had been assaulted. (In a nutshell: call the authorities. Don’t ask the child any more questions, because you might compromise a police investigation.)
I had a question for our presenter. I cringe to admit I asked this, but I did, and I needed to hear the answer.
“Suppose I get a disclosure from a child with a history of lying,” I asked, “How do I know whether or not to take it seriously?”
Good Moms
You won’t be a good mother. Not if by a good mother, you mean what I meant.
It is possible to take optimism too far. It wasn’t until I had my third baby that I really let go of the hope that I could one day figure it all out and become a perfect mother. Don’t get me wrong: I knew I wasn’t there yet. I messed up every day. But right up until I brought that third delightful bundle of possibilities home, I kept stubbornly believing that perfection was possible, and if I read enough parenting books and tried really hard, every second of every day, I would eventually master the feedings, the bedtimes, the teaching, the discipline and - voila! - produce well-adjusted, intelligent children who would never grow up to say, “My life would be better if only my mom had done X - or hadn’t done Y.”
Can’t!
What an overflowing grocery cart and calendar taught me about limits.
I’m going to share two stories, a quarter century apart, very different experiences that both taught me to respect my limits.
Story #1: I was “seventeen going on eighteen”, reveling in the adventure of living away from home and starting university. At school, I was a keener, and proud of it. My roommates were keeners too, apparently. The stereotypical student fridge, overflowing with leftover fast food and multiple milk jugs marked with their owner’s initials, would not do for us. We agreed to pool our grocery money and our food. We charted out responsibilities for cooking dinners, shopping, cleaning. We even (I blush to admit it) baked our own bread.
Between 2005 and 2008, I lost four tiny babies to miscarriage. In an effort to help others who may be experiencing similar losses, I want to share the story of that journey. If you click on the title above, and then follow the “Next in Miscarriage Journey” links at the bottom of each post, you can read through my story sequentially.