Bad Biblical Dads

Why were so many of God’s chosen men such terrible fathers?

Abraham, earthly father of three world faiths, banished his firstborn out into the desert with the unwanted concubine (Genesis 21:14).

Isaac, long-awaited & much-favored child of promise, couldn’t tell the difference between his own sons (Genesis 27:21-40).

Jacob, whose very name (Israel) represents God’s chosen nation, totally played favorites with Joseph (Genesis 37:3-4); he also let his trigger-happy sons annihilate an entire town for revenge (Genesis 34).

Moses, extraordinary leader of the most defining event of the Jewish people (the exodus) apparently didn’t circumcise his son, the most basic act of declaring who he was as a Hebrew (Exodus 4:24-25).

Eli, who raised the amazing last prophet Samuel, also raised sons so corrupt as priests that the Lord killed them (1 Samuel 2:12, 27-36).

Saul, Israel’s very first king, hated his son Jonathan’s excellent choice of friend (David) (1 Samuel 20:30-33); he also raised a snooty daughter (Michal) (2 Samuel 6:20).

David, the much-vaunted “man after God’s heart” and greatest king of Israel ever – oh, man, where do you even start??? With how he favored the child of adultery (2 Samuel 12:15-23)? With one of his children raping another (2 Samuel 13:1-21)? With turning a blind eye to sin upon rebellion upon sin on the part of his son Absalom (2 Samuel 14-18)?

Geez Louise. What gives?

On the one hand, it makes me scratch my head. These were God’s chosen men of Old Testament times, these losers? You could give a TED talk: “Don’t parent like an Old Testament Dad.”

On the other hand, I find I’m relieved. These were God’s chosen people? Aw, man, apparently I’m in good company, with my legion of sins and flaws and stupid moves. Apparently the point here is not how great God’s people are, but how amazing God himself is, that he can work in, through, and in spite of them…& us.

I am also grateful for holy Scriptures that are unvarnished, honest about the greatness and the depravity of even the chosen leaders. Such stories remind me first that there is only One worthy of worship, and second that he loves even we frail and fallen children of his.

Though I do hope to be a better parent than these guys. Please Jesus.

Published in: on February 23, 2017 at 3:13 am  Leave a Comment  

Grownups slow down

A sermon to myself…and whoever else needs it

If I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a gazillion times – every parent of an infant, toddler, or preschooler has: “Enjoy every minute.” “It goes so fast.” “Oh, don’t miss a thing, they grow up so fast.”

“They grow up so fast.”blur

“They grow up so fast.”

And I believe them, especially now that mine are the ripe old ages of 9 and 7. It IS true. They DO grow up like weeds, before your very eyes. They are swaddled in swaddles one day and sporting a varsity jacket the next, yes. They are toddling into your bed entirely too early one morning, then off on a honeymoon the next morning, it seems.

I get it.

I also get what an eye-roll this causes to the sleep-deprived parent, the one who can’t remember the last time they showered before 2 p.m. Or the mom with one child in the shopping cart, one in the papoose, and one over there next to the cash register, peeing on the floor. Or the terribly gray father who just hopes his little girl (who hasn’t been little since puberty struck three years ago) is safe with “those” friends, or that pimple-faced teenage boy with the weird t-shirts. Those folks are ready for this phase to be done already, for the love.

It’s both/and, as usual. The years go by so fast – even when the days are going by so slow. Both/and.

But I have a thought:

Maybe it’s the grownups who need to slow down.

Shrug. Sure, of course, we all know we’re just about all too rushed, and we all casually throw around the pat, expected phrases: “I just need to simplify my life.” “Oh, I’m just too busy.” “Well, I’m just slammed these days.” Blah blah blah.

But – and much has been written about this elsewhere, far more articulately than I could put it, and even with that all-important thing, DATA – we have elevated busyness to a most aspirational idol. We worship it. If you have time to sit and watch the river go by, you’re obviously not a very important person.

(Please hear the sarcasm in that last sentence. Ye gads.)

Here’s my point: I strongly suspect one of the reasons “they grow up so fast” is because we are simply moving so fast we don’t notice that time is passing.

We’re up at dawn so we can get in a workout before we have to take the kids to daycare/preschool/school. We rush to work, rush through lunch (eating it at our desk, if at all), rush to get the kids, rush home, rush to band or dance or karate or soccer or church or after-school job or the grocery store or out to eat or to “run a few errands.” We rush back home for dinner (maybe), homework, a little veggie-ing in front of Hulu or Netflix, a little laundry or yard work or straightening up the room formerly known as the dining room, and collapse, dear Lord, collapse into bed hoping we can carry it all off again tomorrow.

Throw a little grad school in for fun.

Or a crisis of any size – car in the shop, kid with a cast, teenager with mono, aging parents who can’t figure out how to operate the Tivo, a friend who’s child’s just been diagnosed.

The result?

We don’t have time to snuggle with the toddler – unless he’s going to sit still long enough for an Instagram photo.

We don’t have time to play with plastic horses and dollhouses – here, let’s invite a friend over to do that with you, honey.

We don’t have time to screw up the science fair project, so just let me do all the typing for you and the Internet research (because I don’t have time to teach you how to be safe online).

We don’t have time to watch her stumble through the dance steps – show me when you’ve learned it a little better, sweetie.

We don’t have time to sit and speculate on the “elevator to space” idea – well, we have about three minutes for that, no more.

We don’t have time to read his favorite parts of Robinson Crusoe again.

You’ve watched this movie before? Well, then enjoy, but I don’t have time to sit down and watch it with you again.

We certainly, we most certainly do not have more than one minute to sit outside and watch squirrels.

Or, when we do take those moments, the phone is in hand to capture it on Instagram/Twitter/Facebook/whatever. Must have proof that we sat on the couch playing with yarn; the memory of it is insufficient. (But is it possible what she remembers is that I spent most of our “yarn” time trying to get a good photo??)

Or, and this is the hardest: the phone is down, we’re physically engaged, but our minds are elsewhere: dinner. What we need from Lowe’s. That strained conversation at work. How much the car repair will cost. Whether or not the clothes dryer has been emptied. When to go visit Mom again.

Yikes and zoiks, Scooby-Doo.

We slow down enough to binge on Netflix. And we slow down enough to linger over the wine after supper. We slow down enough, maybe, to stay up a little longer reading a book.

But maybe part of the reason our children “grow up so fast” is because we are living our lives in an absolute whirlwind, a blur of tasks and trivialities. Our children are our little planets, and we are comets who complain that we never get to see the landscape – we fly high and fast and burning, but rarely land.

The solution?slow-down

Probably, actually slow down. Sit on the couch with the kids. Set down the phone at practice, at rehearsal, for God’s sake set it down during the game or performance. Forgo movie night; sit around the table and play games together. Take a road trip and leave all the handhelds (including yours!!) in the trunk, at least for the first half of the trip, right? Go on a walk and talk. Shell butterbeans or shovel snow together. Fold clothes together. Cook together. Eat together. Sit in the same room reading books. Look through old photos together. Build something together that won’t be graded.

What’s the common word there? Together.

Drop as much hurry as you can, widen the margins as much as you can, buy less presents but offer more presence.

Maybe if we slow down, the years will seem less frantic, more reasonable, more noticed, more enjoyed.

They do grow up too fast.

Don’t compound the speed by moving so fast yourself.

Published in: on February 16, 2017 at 2:26 am  Leave a Comment  

Camping Stories

Hannah on my left, wearing a sleeveless summer nightgown and a pair of pink pants, tucked into her pink floral sleeping bag that isn’t even zipped up.

Samuel on my right, a glow stick necklace loose around his neck, sock-less because he insisted he wouldn’t need them – a decision he would regret later in the night.

The three of us squished on a queen-size air mattress that would steadily lose air through the night, resulting in my butt or hip bones being directly on the ground. I stayed warm, as one puppy stays warm squished in the middle of the litter in a basket two sizes too small…but I was rarely comfortable.


The squished green bag? Yeah. Mine.

And Daniel on Samuel’s right, on his self-inflating 2-inch air mattress, purchased that day in hopes it would be kinder to his still-hurting back.

All in all, nothing remarkable. Just another camping trip, all of us snuggled together, squirming, jostling for space and light, whining about the challenge of changing clothes lying down, fumbling for flashlights and glasses and the water bottle, thinking “it can’t get that cold tonight.”

But it felt different.

Our children are older now, though still young at 8 and 6, and the conversation this time was different even from six months ago (that November night when it absolutely did get that cold).

We talked about what we’d done that day, about the glow stick party out in the big field, under that waxing gibbous moon (which hardly one Cub Scout noticed, being all fully enthralled and fixated on bending, molding, and swinging their glowing sticks at each other). Daniel and I told Samuel how proud of him we were, for getting the next Cub Scout achievement, for being part of his den’s skit during the program, for playing with the other boys (Samuel is usually content to play alone). We asked Hannah what she and Madison did all day – and we should have known better, because she happily and energetically proceeded to give us a blow by blow account of every doll, every pretend game, every little thing she and her friend did.

Okay so here’s what I really want to get to: the part after we good-humoredly argued about whether or not to listen to The Hardy Boys on audio, and whether or not Mama should go sit by the campfire and do her writing “assignment.”

Taking a mental deep breath, I opted instead to make up a story to tell my kids. I know parents do this all the time, all the world over – stories totally made up, or stories from childhood (personal or passed down – sometimes rather “embellished”), or classic tales from their culture. Some parents, like Paul Fillmore, even make up songs, which is so impressive I’m in total awe.

So I took the loosest outlines of a story Colin Firth told to his daughters in his role as King George in The King’s Speech, and made up my own version about an Antarctica penguin who always wanted to wear a coat and tie, while all the other penguins wore polka dot pajamas. This penguin eventually learned he was a prince (I left out how, exactly, he learned this), and swam a long arduous journey from Antarctica to the English Channel, whereupon he hopped on board the Kensington Express and arrived back at the palace in time for tea. And lived – clad in coat and tie – happily ever after.

Oh, and his name was Flipperdegibt.

The kids roared with delight and approval. My heart soared with pride – a mix of the bad kind, that narcissistic constant craving for approval, and the good kind: I made up a story for my kids! I was creative to entertain them! What an excellent use of the gifts of storytelling and creativity – to delight easily-pleased children, to demonstrate to them that they, too, can make up their own stories, can be as creative as they wish.

My friend Dave says that when we create we are like God. God’s nature is to create, which you would think any half-awake fool could see (though of course many people are not even that awake…that’s another topic altogether). He says he suspects that’s what the Biblical phrase “in His image He created them” is referring to – our capacity to create.

I think he’s on to something. (Dave usually is.)

We returned to the good-natured debate about whether or not to listen to The Hardy Boys audio book. I tried to make the case that my making up a story more than offset the lack of The Hardy Boys – because of course in my mind it was an epic achievement – but they didn’t believe me.

I was saved by Hannah, who announced she would make up a story, eliciting a groan from Samuel and half-hearted cheers from me and Daniel.

But she didn’t so much make up a story as give us all extraordinarily insightful nicknames: Samuel was “Whiney Mae,” I was “Yellie Mae,” Daniel was “Bossy Mae” (a surprise to me, since I rarely think of Daniel as bossy, but apparently he seems such to Hannah?), and she dubbed herself “Party Mae.” Oh, and her Uncle Seth, my brother who lives with us, she gave the moniker “Mind Your Own Business Mae.”


The girl has us pegged.

And we all laughed at our own nicknames, made other, increasingly sillier, suggestions, and basically spent the next several minutes telling inside jokes and laughing.

That air mattress shook – like Santa’s bowl full of jelly – with our belly laughs.

And I could taste the holiness in the air. Anne Lamott says laughter is carbonated holiness, and I could practically feel the fizz on my tongue.

And then we drifted to sleep. It was a terribly restless night for me, what with Hannah’s knees jammed into my left side and Samuel’s whole body jammed into my right as he sought warmth; the God-knows-what kind of concert booming its bass line from some venue across the water, until well after midnight; Samuel cold and unable to sleep, then sneezing and sniffling; Daniel scrounging for a snack bar, all the baffling and infuriating rustling like a mouse under the floor; the slow but inexorable loss of air from our mattress.

But that half hour before we drifted – the tent was filled with delightful, memorable bonding, the kind that makes your heart swell and plasters the broadest smile on your face and makes you lose all self-consciousness in the pure joy of being Family.

And the next morning – well, let’s not go there. Let’s dwell on and hold tight to that night, the tent glowing with a dozen-plus glow sticks, and bubbling with carbonated holiness.

Published in: on October 4, 2016 at 1:46 am  Comments (1)  

Of stars and integers

Or, How my son has expanded my own universe

I rarely looked up to see the phase of the moon before I had Samuel. Heck, I couldn’t even name the phases of the moon till I taught them to my space-sponge of a boy.

I can tell you all sorts of facts about the planets, about the Big Bang, about multi-verses and quasars, the composition of our sun and the life cycles of three different classes of stars.

I’ve become reacquainted with the laws of inertia, momentum, gravity, action-reaction, and more.

I know how many bonds oxygen and hydrogen and helium atoms have. Heck, before Samuel, I’d forgotten they even had bonds. H2O=water was the extent of my chemistry knowledge.


Compounds (color-coded spice drops + toothpicks)

Granted, no small portion of this is because I’m homeschooling Samuel, and I have to at least brush up on my elementary-school repertoire of science – which, like most adults, I’d long since forgotten.

And some of this is the natural learning that happens with us conscientious parents who find ourselves becoming amateur experts on all sorts of unexpected topics simply because we listen and read and ask questions about the things our children are passionate about. (I think specifically of a graduate school professor who was an expert in French and museology (yes) – a poster child for the humanities – who found herself suddenly also expert at all things baseball, thanks to two athlete-prodigy sons.)

But it feels like an amazing blessing to me. My world has grown, it seems, far beyond the usual lessons in wonder and strength and character most kids manage to teach their parents, simply by being kids.

Samuel has opened my eyes to the awe and wonder of the birth, life, and death of stars. To the magnetic mystery of black holes with event horizons. To the tantalizing notion of exoplanets just waiting for us in the Goldilocks Zone (look it up).


Moon surface (photo taken with Samuel’s telescope)

He’s opened my eyes to the fascinating lines of geometry – especially drawings of three-dimensional objects. Even from wacky angles. Especially from wacky angles.

His boundless engineering brain leaps into imaginative constructions, plans, blueprints, and diagrams, and his boundless enthusiasm for them is contagious even for his mama who would rather read Jane Austen and talk about foreign policy or the effects of climate on ancient Near Eastern religions.

He’s even opened my eyes to the beauty of math.

And I NEVER thought I’d see that. But now I do – I actually see its elegance and clean frames and complexity as loveliness. Enough that I’ve expanded my nerd credentials into reading a couple of non-fiction books about math. Math. Math. It’s so shocking I think maybe I have actually stumbled into one of those alternate universes.

I read articles, blogs, headlines, and subscribe to YouTube channels now that never would have blipped on my radar two years ago.

And here’s the thing: it’s not just for Samuel’s sake.

I like this stuff now.

That’s what astounds me. I’m not learning space facts just to keep up with Samuel. I’m not learning molecular facts just so I can teach Samuel a subject he’s keen on. I’m not reading non-fiction books about math in an attempt to stay ahead of my student.

I’m actually interested.

My son has actually expanded my interests. He’s so passionate, so consumed, so engrossed in these things, I’ve caught the fever.

What a delightful – and thoroughly unexpected – gift!

Now, I’ll never be able to keep up. But that’s okay. I am pleasantly happy to be riding the light-tails of his comet.

Published in: on November 25, 2015 at 9:30 pm  Comments (1)  

What I Want for My Children

The woman next to me on the plane talked about how she wanted her son to be a dentist – to have, as she put it, “an easy life – well, after he’s done with school.” I only talked to her for about 25 minutes but I could gather that her life had not been “easy,” that it had been a good deal of hard work, earning her way, searching for stability. So I had an idea why she wanted this for her son, even though she didn’t elaborate.

But it’s not really occurDSCN2960red to me to want any particular profession for my kids, not really – just jokes about Samuel being a nuclear physicist or professional storm chaser.

I just want them to know Jesus, love him, serve him, walk with him, all their days, never turning from his friendship and Lordship.

Of course I think they’re capable of more than being a supermarket cashier – but so long as they are being true to who the Lord has made them to be (which is about being, and hardly at all about doing) – then I’m at peace, I am content. Just as I am entrusted with the stewardship of these children, to teach them the ways and love of Jesus, so are they entrusted with the right stewardship of the gifts the Lord has given them. He has endowed Samuel with intelligence particularly in math, and Samuel needs to be a good steward of that gift. He’s endowed Hannah with insight into people’s hearts, and with a bent toward empathy, and Hannah needs to be a good steward of that. But what that looks like matters far less than the simple fact that they are walking with Jesus.

Yes, I know, this is easier to say when they’re six and four than when they’re on the verge of high school or college graduation (with the potential and freedom to make really bad decisions)…But if I don’t get this made up in my mind now, there’s little chance of it happening down the road.

Just as I need the long view when teaching them manners, delayed gratification, the joy of learning, and how to view and treat people – so do I need the long view when I guide them toward the fullest expression of themselves Jesus desires (best as I can understand it, anyway).

My role is steward. Now I do think it’s about the highest – certainly the most demanding – degree of stewardship we can have, but it is still a stewardship. My children belong to Jesus. They always have, always will; our “formal” dedication of them just acknowledged that and stated our intention to cooperate with it.

This means it’s not about me. Not about “how proud I am.” Not about how good they make me look or feel as a parent, or how they satisfy my need to be needed.

If my children walk with Jesus all their days – what on earth could I possibly desire for them that’s better than that?? There is nothing greater. So, so long as I am their guide, so long as I have a voice in their lives, I will not aim for less.

They can be whatever Jesus wants them to be.

Published in: on June 20, 2014 at 6:15 pm  Leave a Comment  

Cozy snuggly warmy toasty Mommy eeeeee!

One of my goals for 2014 is to spend 30 minutes each weekday actually playing with my children.

I know some folks wonder why I would even make or need such a goal. To some folks that sounds like a pathetically low number because they spend tons of playtime with their kids already. To some it sounds heavenly, because it’s so far out of the realm of possibility. And to some it simply sounds like torture.

But my children are six and four. They’re still utterly adorable more often than not.

And let me just caveat here at the outset – this is my goal, and there is no judgment in it towards myself or anybody else. My goal for my life. Not in a million years would I entertain the ludicrous notion that my goal ought to be someone else’s. Get your own goals from Jesus.

That said…today I found myself actually paying attention to Hannah while we ate lunch. And when she wanted to sit in my lap and finish her apple juice I said yes. She’s still small enough to curl up in my lap and have my arms fit around her, and she’s a super snuggle-bunny who’s still young enough to squeal with unabashed delight at the joy of being held.

It goes something like this: “Cozy snuggly warmy toasty Mommy eeeeee!”

I felt like the snowman from the new Disney movie: “I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs.” Cue charming, earnest, enormous, and thoroughly irresistible grin.

Later I tried playing a construction game with both kids, but gave up when no one could find any of the four steel balls that came with the game. You know, the game Samuel got for Christmas, a whole week ago. But we tried, and we had fun laughing at the toilet piece and the flying pig piece. And it was a little bit boring, moderately frustrating, kinda funny, thoroughly unproductive…and as just right as the little bear’s porridge.

So I don’t know if I hit my “goal” of 30 minutes today, but I know I interacted with my kids – beyond watching them on the playground while I talked on the phone…beyond inviting them to “help me” with one of my chores…beyond sitting together to watch Angelina Ballerina or “Deadliest Tornados”…beyond a side trip to Krispy Kreme that I try to pass off as “quality time.”

The day will come, and sooner than I am prepared for it, when I will hear my own words parroted from the lips of my children: “Not now. Just a minute. Can I not finish this first? Can I have just a few minutes to myself?”

But at least today I held those words back. And I’m grateful for the grace of that.

So score. For me, for them, for the bonds of mother and children, for what counts. At least today.

Meanwhile the dishes piled in the sink all day long….and still got put in the dishwasher by bedtime. By Daddy.

Published in: on January 7, 2014 at 2:29 am  Leave a Comment  

Mom-to-Mom Etiquette

Mom-to-Mom etiquette:  Based on 4.5 years now of the Mom World, in three cities on two coasts, in no particular order…

  • Offer to help clean up whatever mess your children have made. Offer to clean up messes your children didn’t make, and you get a gold star.
  • Thank you notes for meals/gifts are seriously lacking these days, in my old-fashioned opinion. I’m even old-fashioned enough to think they’re best in the form of ink-on-paper-in-an-envelope-with-a-stamp – because who among us gets nice handwritten notes in the mail anymore? Not nearly enough, I say.
  • I honestly don’t expect you to tidy up the house for me to come over. Don’t expect me to, either. Don’t we both have little people as our priority? The fellow mom who looks askance at my clutter is one I’m not likely to invite over very often. (I feel the same about wearing makeup. Gasp.)
  • Don’t ever imply that a C-section is a second-class way to have a baby, or that a natural birth at home earns a gold medal. Seems to me a healthy mom and baby are what really count. (See post from May 2012 for a longer rant on this topic.)
  • Give more than lip service to the oft-spouted lines, “Every child is different,” and “Every family has to do what works best for them.” Every child IS different, and every family IS unique. I can hear the silent judgment in a fellow mom’s head way too loudly in my own, can’t you? There’s enough second-guessing about motherhood without “friends” to add to the chorus. I don’t want to be one of those judges. (I’m not qualified. Nor are you.)
  • Is it possible we could just drop in on each other? That feels a lot like community to me. Having to schedule three weeks in advance feels more like I’m an imposition, who ought to be counting her blessings she was found worthy of being worked into the schedule. (Alas, I’ve been on the guilty end of this too!)
  • It’s nice to pray for a friend – even nicer to tell her so, and nicest of all to pray for her in person. I’d like to be more that kind of friend. I’d like more friends like that. We moms live alone far too much. (Not healthy even for us introverts.)
  • Hugs are rarely inappropriate between fellow moms. They’re nice as a greeting, as a farewell, and especially great as solidarity, comfort, and strength. They’re especially meaningful if you have to overcome a socially awkward moment to give them – it means you care more about the person you’re hugging than how awkward you feel/look.
  • Me, I like phone calls and visits more than texts, unless we’re just handling logistics. It’s hard to tell a person’s heart or emotional state on a text, emoticons or no. Here again, I know this makes me old-fashioned, that I prefer conversation to correspondence. Oh well.
  • I can’t seem to think of a tenth protocol right now – Fill in the blank with your own!
Published in: on August 30, 2012 at 1:11 am  Leave a Comment  

The Childbirth Hierarchy, OR, God Made Epidurals

Picnicking with seven-month-old Hannah

The Childbirth Hierarchy……all-too-often implied, if not expressed.

As if how you have a child has any true bearing (pun intended) on the fact that mother and baby are both alive and well.

And as if childbirth is primarily, or even secondarily, about the mother’s joy and fulfillment in the experience. The word “narcissistic” comes to mind. Childbirth is about a baby coming into the world healthy, and the mother being okay in the process. Since when did it become about how the mama feels?

(I recognize some methods are more ideal than others, all other things being equal. But NO method is morally superior, much less divinely sanctioned. )

So, promised hierarchy, in order of superiority:

1. All-natural birth, at home. The ultimate. The ideal. The essence of motherhood: bringing new life into the world in the comfort of your own bed (or bathtub), surrounded by the comfortable familiarity of your own home (especially kitchen) and only the people you know and love in the room with you. What could possibly be finer? Why would you settle for anything less than this highest? Au natural, as we au know, is Mother Nature’s very best for us au.

2. All-natural birth, at a hospital. (A birthing center is allowed to be a micro-step above this.) IF you must have the help of strangers in an unfamiliar setting, at least you didn’t wimp out and ask for pain medication. You couldn’t be at home, but you managed to still be a REAL woman, by Jove. (Never mind the popped blood vessels in your face and the oath you made to God to NEVER EVER EVER EVER have sex again, as abstinence is the only foolproof method of preventing an encore performance of this.)

3. Hospital birth, with (gasp) pain medication. Well, if you couldn’t suck it up enough to grit your teeth through without pain relief, at least you gave birth in a distinctly female mammalian manner, and didn’t succumb to a…

4. Cesarean section, unplanned. Poor thing. Deprived of the glory, fame, admiration, and admission to the Club, of the Most Unique Womanly Experience. Downgraded to a plain old surgery where you lie passively while being sliced, relieved of your child, and sewn back up – as inglorious and routine as a dude getting a hernia removed. (Never mind you swallowed backwash the whole time and couldn’t sit up in bed without assistance for the next three days.) Such a loss. Better luck next time.

5. Cesarean section, planned. What, so you’d be sure to have a baby when your mother flew across the country to be with you, the only two weeks’ vacation she gets this year? Oh, because you like one date better than another? How appallingly selfish and superficial of you. I can’t believe you’re a good mother. (Oh, you mean this was per medical recommendation and availability? Hmm, well, still…)

Can we not just say, “How are you feeling? How’s the baby?” and “What’s your favorite dessert and when do you want it?” And if the new mama seems to want to talk, ask a million questions about the whole ordeal, but don’t dare imply that she failed to measure up in any way, or that she has been cheated of anything – or that she deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor for Doing It Right. The woman has a healthy newborn – is there any greater blessing for a mother? I didn’t think so. Let’s focus on this brand new baby and how we can be a blessing to him/her and the parents…and let’s quit assigning moral superiority to certain kinds of childbirth.

No one disses the mother who adopted, right?

Published in: on May 17, 2011 at 1:08 am  Leave a Comment