The Shirt

I find it interesting that it doesn’t matter how early we get up, we can always be in danger of being late to school.  The switch can flip and suddenly we’re facing down one of those mornings.  Full of angst and resentment and heartbreak that they didn’t get to eat a second pancake.  Never mind that they didn’t get that second pancake or bowl of cereal because they took 15 minutes to put on their shoes, it’s still my fault and I am wholly to blame.  Because I’m mom.  And apparently nothing happens in this house that I don’t control. 

Or sometimes everyone will get dressed and shod and fed but then decide to play instead of packing up. And now we’re late and it’s all my fault.  Because I’m mom.  And apparently nothing happens in this house that I don’t control. 

Or sometimes everyone will just be slow.  “Mom, do we HAVE to go to school today?  But it’s raining so I shouldn’t have to go.”  And since I make them go, I’m being unfair and am to blame for their bad moods.  Because I’m mom.  And apparently nothing happens in this house that I don’t control. 

Often I’m fighting a bad mood because the goal is just to get them OUT.  If we can get in the car, then 80% of the battle is won.  I can deal with traffic or people who ignore the rules of a 4-way stop because at least we’re all in the car and heading toward our goal.  And honestly, at least twice a week I’m either lecturing about getting out the door faster or apologizing for yelling that ‘we have to get out the door right now!’

But sometimes?  Sometimes we’re late because I need to pay attention, stop, think, and control the lessons of my house. 

This past Wednesday we had the annual Trunk or Treat Block Party at our church.  It was great.  We had decorated trunks with candy, games, and food trucks.  Even a DJ.  And we had kids. 

Some in costume and some not.  Some with the super cute ‘trick or treat’ bags and some with wrinkled plastic sacks.  Some with parents following behind, snapping photos.  And some on their own.  As I assume, they usually are.

 I was a teacher long enough, and now a parent longer than that, that I know the signs of a child in poverty.  What their teeth look like.  What their hair looks like.  What they can smell like.  And what their eyes look like. 

Defiant and challenging.  Or fearful and disbelieving.  Or purposefully carefree yet heavy.  Or even hopeful.  But this one is rare. 

We handed out all our candy and ate grilled cheeses and danced in the parking lot with our little Shazam, Skull Dragon Ninja, and Darth Vader.  And then went to bed.  After brushing our teeth of course.  I’m mean, I’m still mom.  And nothing happens in this house that I don’t control.

The next morning my oldest walked out of his room wearing the exact same outfit he had worn to school the day before.  Well, not EXACT same.  He assured me he had put on new underwear.  But everything else was the same.  I told him to change his shirt.  He protested, got disappointed, said ‘yes ma’am’, and then asked why. 

I was halfway through the sentence “because it’s not good to wear the same thing everyday” when I saw those children.  The one’s who would put on the same thing that morning, maybe trying to hide it with a sweatshirt.    

I changed tack, almost saying “because we don’t want people to think you don’t have enough shirts”.   I saw those kids again.  Who couldn’t help it.  And I saw their parents.  Those working themselves to death.  So even if their kids don’t have multiple shirts, at least they’ll have a roof.

I started to say something else and stopped.  Really stopped.  Not trying to explain away but really thinking.  Thinking about the lesson I wanted my son to learn. 

Did I want him to learn that it wasn’t okay to wear the same thing to school every day?

Did I want him to internalize the idea that we have to make sure people know we have multiple shirts?

Did I really want to create in him a seed for classism?  For judgment?  And derision?

And bless my son; he just stood there, watching me think.  Waiting for the answer. 

“You know what, it’s okay to wear the same thing to school.  It’s alright.  Go ahead.”

He wasn’t aware of my shift in thinking.  He didn’t see the change.  He just smiled and ran off to get his shoes. 

I’m mom.  Despite what my children think, or even what my husband sometimes thinks, I don’t control everything that happens in this house.   But despite my inability, I still try.  And I’ll keep trying.  Because even if I can’t control getting us out the door on time every day, I will fight to control the lessons my children learn.  The unconscious thinking that I help implement in them.   The biases I might accidentally create in them.

I know I can’t control it all.  I know it.  I really do.  But I’ll keep trying.  And when I fail, I have grace.  And prayer.  And forgiveness.  And God’s love. 

I’ll apologize.  Explain.  And talk about why it wasn’t okay. 

And things will change.  I’ll change.  This house will change. 

Even if it means we’re late getting out the door. 

We’ve gotten better.  And we’ll keep getting better.  We’re only two months into everyone needing to go to school.  I’ve got another eleven and half years to really figure this out.   

Feelings will still be sensitive, folders will still get lost, shoes will still take WAY too long to put on, and life lessons will unknowingly pop up.  And I’ll still get blamed for stuff.  Because I’m mom.  And they feel safe assuming that everything in this house is under my control. 

But I pray I’m never so focused on keeping that control that I miss the opportunities.  I miss the moments that matter.  Those times when the Holy Spirit is knocking at hearts and minds and opening the door to change. 

We just have to get out of it.  Even if we are a little late.