Doctor Wonderful

“Motherhood often feels like a game of guilt management; sometimes the guilt is overwhelming and debilitating, sometimes just a low simmer, but it always feels right there.  There is never any shortage of fuel to feed the beast, so the whole mechanism is constantly nourished to administer shame and a general feeling of incompetency.  Add our carefully curated social media world, which not only affects our sense of success and failure but also furnishes our children with an unprecedented brand of expectations and boom:  we are the generation that does more for our kids than ever in history yet feels the guiltiest.  Virtually every one of my friends provides more than they had growing up, and still the mantra we buy into is not enough, not enough, not enough.”  Jen Hatmaker, Of Mess and Moxie (she is the queen of this genre I am dabbling with in this blog.  If you haven’t read her yet, you are MISSING OUT).

I took all 5 kids to the doctor for annual physicals last week.  Doctors and other professionals usually love it when I call and ask for 5 appointments back to back to back, preferably after 3pm.  But our office is used to our nonsense, and I did call early enough to secure the very last appointments before school started (the Wednesday before the first Monday of school.  Nailed it).

 We tend to take over places when we travel as a group—we are just all loud and big and not the least bit timid or cautious.  I saw a shirt recently that said, “I’m not for everyone,” and that is certainly how all 6 or 7 of us are in tight quarters like doctor’s office waiting rooms.  Luckily, today the office seemed to be staffed with people we were “for”, and they smiled at our antics rather than sniffing and looking down their noses at us.  The receptionist was delighted at my life hack of taking the forms that are required for every blessed child and having her photocopy the form filled in with the common information (last name, address, insurance numbers) 5 times so I only had to enter first names and birth dates into each one.  “You’re good at this,” she grinned, impressed.  Not my first rodeo, girlfriend.

Our usual doctor has gotten very popular of late, so we’ve been assigned to a relatively recent hire who we liked immediately, and who after this most recent visit has absolutely completely won us over.  He follows Grace’s volleyball career on local media, “I told my wife about you,” he admitted. Grace glowed.  He told Sam and Claire he expected to see more of them in the sports pages in coming years, and he won Lucy over by telling her he’d named his 8 month old Lucy as well (not for our Lucy, of course.  But still).  The boys were sent to one room and the girls to the other, and the teenagers delighted in having the “say no to drugs and sex” talk with their giggling younger siblings in the room.  The big girls were better this time about discussing their periods with the handsome young doctor, and I supplied supplemental information and tried to keep the worst of the heresies from being believed (“Do you brush your teeth every day?”, “Oh, almost never!”) etc.

At the end of the visit, the good looking young doctor (it is only recently that I can handle having authority figures like doctors and priests be younger than me.  It just feels crazy to hear people who are the boss of things like the health of my children talk about going to high school in the 2000s.  I mean, should BABIES be allowed to wear white coats like that?) turned to me and said words that I’m guessing I’ll feed on for years—possibly decades.

“You are doing a really good job,” he said.  “They are all really healthy and even good looking.  Whatever you are doing, keep it up.”  I did not weep or throw my arms around him, in fact muttered something inane about breastfeeding (my teenage son was particularly appalled), but I’ve been ruminating on that moment for days.

I talk really tough about this whole momming gig, but the truth is this is the hardest, most gut wrenching role I’ve ever tried to fill.  I use sarcasm and humor to mask my recognition of the utter enormity of this task I’ve been given.  I mean, seriously what was God thinking?  Every day I doubt that I am up to this.  I have thought it every day since August of 2002.  Possibly longer.

It often feels like it is not just guilt that is on a slow simmer all the time.  I also feel like I am constantly just getting by, and by failing to really handle things, I’m consistently disappointing strangers and people I love.  From not knowing my account number to not having the right piece of paper filled out, to not knowing what the hell the guy at the marina is talking about when he starts rattling on about stickers and numbers and insurance documentation needed to get my boat on the water each spring.  I always seem to be standing in front of someone who sighs loudly, or the clerk or bank teller who subtly rolls her eyes when I admit that I (again) don’t know my account number or password or pin (or, in one memorable exchange, that I don’t bathe my dog every day.  Do other people bathe their pets daily?  I don’t even bathe my children that often).  I have a friend who swears she would just like to get micro-chipped with all her relevant information, so whenever someone needs yet another piece of obscure information she has filed away SOMEWHERE (I mean, even d-level parents keep all that paper) she can just roll up her sleeve and be scanned.  When she first said it, I was horrified of the big brother implications, but a few more years into this momming marathon I’m all ready to sign up.

As a recovering people pleaser who is trying like hell to get over this nonsense in middle age, I nevertheless tend to assume that people are saying something along the lines of “Why do you have so many children if you can’t keep this stuff straight?” I have friends who assume people are saying, “you don’t work so why can’t you...?” Or “why can’t you control your dogs?” or “why are you so fat when you don’t even have kids?” Or any multitude of similar insults that say way more about us and our insecurities than anyone else.  But still, people aren’t very nice about whatever their thing is.  I am the undisputed keeper of all the things, but I am only able to handle about 80% of it well.  (And by well, I mean D-level.  A passing grade, but only just).  I live by the mantra, “good enough, next thing, good enough, next thing, good enough, next thing” so while I survive and we get by, few people pause to say, “you are doing a good job” at something as fundamental as the raising of healthy, handsome children.  My love language is “words of affirmation” but in our busy, hectic paced world, I rarely get to feel that kind of love.  Who has time to say, “nice work?”

The whole world is on a “good enough, next thing” pace. 

Except last Wednesday, when an earnest young doctor made my whole year.  Dr. Wonderful, you have a huge fan in the huge Lueken family (and, given the way we reproduce across the generations, probably job security through retirement). 

PLEASE NOTE:  this is not a cue for any reader to rhapsodize over my wonderful-ness.  I have less than zero intent that that be the result of this post.  The point is that this lovely young doctor took the time to say something so kind and so obviously sincere in the course of his busy day reminded me that I need to remember to be kind and generous with my own praise.  Jen Hatmaker also wrote that, “One of my girlfriends created a text rule, which basically means anytime she has a lovely thought about someone or is reminded of them in any way or notices something delightful about a person, she immediately sends them a quick text saying so...”  I think this is a beautiful idea, and I may try to add it to my list of things I do so-so.