Parenthood remains the greatest single preserve
of the amateur.
Alvin Toffler

I come from a very competitive family. We’re not super-outdoorsy or athletic, but just try to come between one of us and a piece of fried chicken! At our annual family reunion, we have horseshoe and ping-pong tournaments for kids and adults, complete with poster-board tracking systems and trophies.

And while I’m not in the least bit athletic, I do love to watch the Olympics. From the opening to the closing ceremonies, I’m glued to the television. (I guess my hubby is an “Olympics widower.” Poor guy!)

So I got to thinking: if this parenting thing were an Olympic sport, perhaps I could be a medallist—or at least a contender. See if you can identify with some of these sports my friends and I practice:

• Weightlifting – Sure, those big guys in spandex can bench press twice their body weight, but can they carry a thirty-pound toddler, a purse full of the latest Happy Meal toys, and a bag of half-melted groceries?
• High jump – My buddies have hit the ceiling so many times after their teenager came home an hour past curfew that they’ve started wearing bicycle helmets while waiting on the sofa.
• Long jump – There may not be a regulation long jump course in my living room, but I can cover the distance from the couch to the television in less than a second in order to shield my son’s eyes from a suggestive commercial.
• Curling – This event doesn’t involve a broom and a funny-looking puck, but does require you to raise your upper lip at the gross dinner conversation your teenage son is having with his father. Extra points are awarded for not making gagging sounds.
• Hurdles – Any parent is a pro at this. It comes from years of experience going to the bathroom in the middle of the night without stepping on clothes, backpacks, or small living creatures.
• Balance beam – I may not be able to do a back flip on a four-inch piece of wood, but I’d like to see any Olympian juggle kids’ practices, church obligations, work, marriage and family demands without getting dizzy and taking a dive.

While parenting is not actually a competitive sport, we moms are champions at comparing ourselves to others, and measuring our kids against impossible standards. We want our children to be as fast as Michael Phelps, as photogenic as Shawn Johnson, and as focused as Nastia Liukin. Unfortunately, that usually doesn’t happen–and we feel like the competitor who just missed the bronze medal.

Before I became a mom, I read all the “right” parenting books, attended classes, and decided that I would never spank, yell, criticize, or use television as a babysitter. I thought I was being realistic: after all, I didn’t say that I would nurse for two years, use cloth diapers, or sew my son’s clothing out of recycled draperies.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting the best for my family. But I need to remember that I’m human, and my children are, too.  I’m the queen of unrealistic expectations–I have the crown and sceptor in my closet to prove it–which only sets me up for disappointment.
So I’m slowly learning to let go of my unattainable goals and simply enjoy the sons God has given me. If I can eventually achieve that sense of contentment, it will be worth its weight in gold.

©2008, Dena Dyer

I cooked dinner last night. Too bad my oldest child had already done his science fair project—the remains of my culinary escapade would have made a great display. My darling hubby was sick, and wasn’t in the room during the ordeal—which makes me eternally grateful. He already has more kitchen stories against me than he can shake a spatula at.

Here’s how my little science experiment went:

Purpose: To cook dinner for the family.

Hypothesis: I will burn, break, or bandage something before the night is over.

Procedure:

1. Defrost the meat, after throwing away some which had been in the freezer since the Clinton administration.
2. Start the water for pasta, for once remembering to turn the burner on. Open a can of fruit cocktail (or as it’s called in the Dyer house, “nectar of the gods”) and chill it in the fridge. Place the chicken in the oven.
3. While helping Jordan with his homework, forget that the water on the stove has changed from a rolling boil to a roiling bowl. Place the pasta in the pan just before the last few cups evaporate. Let the pasta cook and then drain it, setting pan aside and forgetting to turn off the burner.
4. Take the chicken out of the oven and set it on the still-hot burner on top. After dishing up dinner, hear something sizzling and realize I’ve set the glass dish on the burner—and the last piece of chicken is still cooking. (At least that was the one piece that wasn’t really “done”!)
5. Turn off the burner and put the dish in the sink; after turning on the oven fan (or as it’s called in the Dyer house, “the dinner bell”) to get rid of the smoke, pour cold water into the glass dish.
6. After cutting Jordan’s chicken up, hear something exploding. Turn around to find the glass dish in a million tiny pieces. Then vaguely remember that “extreme cold and extreme heat don’t mix.” Redeem the meal by showing Jordan the remains of the now-famous  exploding glass dish, to which he replies, “That’s awesome!”

Result: While cleaning up the mess in the sink after dinner, I cut my hand. I have therefore broken a dish, burned a chicken, and bandaged a finger—all in one night.

I am culinary-challenged, to say the least. And sometimes, to be honest, it makes me feel like a less-than-stellar mommy. After all, what child doesn’t need a home-cooked goodie now and then to really feel their mother’s love, all the way down to their cute little toes?

But you know what I’ve realized (and finally made my peace with)? Cooking is not my thing—and that’s okay! I can do a lot of other things well, and my guys like slice-and-bake cookies as much as the homemade varieties. I know this because they’ve had the other kind at friends’ houses, and never once complained about mine. Either that, or they’re too sweet to say anything!

Sometimes we moms put so much pressure on ourselves—pressure that God never intended for us to feel. We look at the mom next door, or at the gym, and she seems more put-together, confident, and adept at multi-tasking than we’ll ever be. And we start to feel insecure and totally inferior. (The problem with that kind of reverse-naval-gazing is that the other mom is probably looking at you the same way. Pretty much every single mother has doubts about themselves.)

Add in the constant proliferation of information we’re subject to through ezines, newspapers, magazines, and television shows, and the simple answers the media gives us (“lose ten pounds in twenty minutes!” and “organize everything in your house today!”), and it’s no wonder we feel overwhelmed and under-qualified.

The truth is, God made us all unique, and our strengths (and weaknesses) are part of His design. Each of us does a few things pretty well, and we stink at the other stuff. There’s no one who’s good at everything. (Otherwise, why would we need each other—or God?)

And take it from me, ladies: if we try to do it all, we’ll be done in.

So here’s my “Resigned, yet Joyful in the Gifts I do Have” conclusion to the aforementioned experiment. For the Dyer family, it is not only wise, but physically safer, to have Pizza Hut, Olive Garden and Applebee’s on speed dial.

Because when it comes to cooking, there’s definitely a science to it.

©2008, Dena Dyer

My four year-old is not toilet trained yet. This makes me embarrassed, frustrated, and flummoxed—sometimes all in the same minute. I really think he might be the first kindergartener to go to school in Pull-ups.

We’ve tried everything:

• the encouragement technique: “You can do it!”
• the peer-pressure technique: “Doesn’t everyone else in your class wear underwear?”
• the shaming technique: “Only babies go in their diaper.”
• and finally, the bribe technique: “If you go number two in the potty, we’ll buy you ANYTHING you want from the store.” (By the way, the price limit of said reward has escalated in recent months. He could ask for a live pony now and I might say yes!)

Nothing has worked. I’m not Catholic, but this sure seems like Purgatory–or at least, one of Dante’s circles of Hades. According to my extensive (okay, two-minute) Wikipedia research, there is actually a level where people are covered in human, well, never mind.

The other day, I sat in the bathroom across from our little man, doing my best to affirm him. He seemed to really try, and I felt the slightest glimmer of hope. “You can do it!” I said.

Then I got so desperate for victory that I started chanting, “Push it out, push it out, w-a-a-a-a-y out!”

I’m on the edge here, people.

I know it’s just a stage, but I’m glad he’s awfully cute. Otherwise, he might spend all his waking moments in time-out.

Or I might run screaming out the door.

Better yet: I’ll leave, and let Dad handle the potty challenges. If I kept score as to who’s changed the most diapers, he’d be waaaay on the losing side. Maybe I should “cash in” all that mommy-duty capital now.

(Okay, I’m back now. I had a temporary break with reality.)

I know in the big scheme of things, potty training is not a world-shattering event. I also know that one day, the hubby and I will look back on this time in our lives with nostalgia, saying “why did they have to grow up so fast?”

Still, it’s hard. And it feels like it will never be over.

That’s why it’s so nice to know that I’m not alone.

Today, I read an online article called “God Sees.” The author, Mary DeMuth, wrote: ‘When we attempt to potty-train for the umpteenth time, having given up on M & Ms, begging, and tears, God sees…He sees what we’ve hidden and is especially fond of rewarding what we’ve done for Him secretly (Matthew 6:4).”

I ask You, is God’s timing perfect, or what?

He used Mary’s words to remind me that even the smallest, way-out-of-the-spotlight details of my days matter to Him. Perhaps the unsung moments of life are truly the most important of all.

So I’m praying for patience, gritting my teeth, and shelling out hard-earned cash for glorified diapers.
And I’m encouraging myself with the fact that if the boy doesn’t have a breakthrough soon, at least we’ll gain an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records.

©2008, Dena Dyer