i was sitting in a marriage and family therapy class a few years ago when my professor handed out a rollins and feldman  graph entitled marriage satisfaction across the family life cycle.

the graph we saw in class, which was a more detailed version of the one above, showed that marital satisfaction is at an impressive high for newlyweds. satisfaction steadily decreases when children hit the scene and begins to rise again at the point when the children launch.

the members of our class were indignant. most of us were parents whose children were still at home. “we’re happy!” we protested defensively. “our marriages are satisfying!” we argued.

yesterday, i read this recent new york magazine article entitled all joy and no fun: why parents hate parenting. sited in it are a number of studies like that of rollins and feldman that examine the stress that children bring to marriages. but the article examines many similar studies that essentially assert that parenting diminishes happiness for individuals too. in other words,

“as a rule, most studies show that mothers are less happy than fathers, that single parents are less happy still, that babies and toddlers are the hardest, and that each successive child produces diminishing returns.”

author jennifer senior proposes a number of potential reasons for the inverse relationship between parenting and happiness. one is that along with children come dramatic and momentary shifts between intense joy and intense frustration. another is that while parents love our children, perhaps we are not so in love with the day-to-day tasks of parenting. another is that our country’s less-than-stellar childcare and family leave provisions contribute to parents’ worry. and finally, perhaps the most comically stated reason is that “[children] are a huge source of joy, but they turn every other source of joy to shit.”

i cannot deny that there is spark of truth in the above musings. motherhood is not all snuggles and tender i love you’s. in the time that it has taken me to write this post, for example, my children have:

• argued over a harmonica
• drawn all over themselves with brown marker
• face planted into a cardboard playhouse (the bird)
• systematically spread my fabric collection all over the house (the monkey), and
• taken all of their clothes off.

but still, i really do love my life. i do not think i am in denial. i just think that there is more to life than day-do-day happiness. apparently, i am in good company. daniel gilbert, a harvard psychologist who is also a father and grandfather, asserts that “what children really do is offer moments of transcendence, not an overall improvement in well-being.”

sociologists kei nomaguchi and melissa milkie studied the costs and rewards of parenting and concluded that mothers are often less depressed after having children. like gilbert, nomaguchi and milkie “sought to understand not just the moment-to-moment moods of [their] participants, but more existential matters, like how connected they felt, and how motivated.”

perhaps many studies on the impact of children on marital and personal satisfaction yield such dismal results because the kind of rewards that come with parenting, like most things that are unspeakably beautiful and important, cannot be easily described, categorized, and charted. but i relish the transcendent, existential meaning that my children have helped me to recognize. and to share this experience with my husband is something that i truly cherish.

we may argue over whose turn it is to read llama llama red pajama to the monkey for the five millionth time but even as we do this, we know that we are participating in some sort of divine mystery. we are tapping into something that is bigger than we are. we have lost much of our free time, it’s true. but we have traded it for a fierce and boundless love.

the monkey fully embraced life in the mountains. he spent the month clad in silly bands, lanyard necklaces, shoes that were perpetually wet from creek walking, and a wide, sticky, ice-creamy grin. nothing spells camp like tight sweaty ringlets, the constant talk of  counselors and fellow campers, and a slew of silly songs playing on repeat inside an almost-four-year-old head.

meanwhile, the bird picked up his new favorite hobby: throwing rocks in the creek. he replaced his barely distinguishable babble with real words that actually made sense in context, and thereby joined fellow toddlers throughout time and space in demonstrating for their elders what a miracle the human grasp of language really is. he had his own pair of perpetually wet shoes and his own allotment of silly bands (thanks to the monkey). like his brother, he waltzed into clubs every day to a chorus of counselors’ welcomes.

is is possible that my children did an entire years’ worth of growing up in one month? from certain angles i took in their shaggy hair and occasional nonchalance and imagined their impending teenage years. i saw that what my friend steve says is true: “with parenting, the days go by slowly but the years go by quickly.”

or perhaps it was my own relaxed, campy persona that gave me pause to take a broader view of my children and their progress. with both children in childcare for the first time, i found myself hiking on mountain trails, practicing yoga in a local studio, and sipping coffee on the porch. this time afforded me a glimpse into a future stage, with increased spare time and possibilities.

parenting’s relentless onslaught of joy and duty seems to evoke a delayed sort of processing. there is no time to sift through the realities of one stage until the next stage is dawning. i have been a parent for almost four years now, but this recent preview of the future is the first real glimpse i have gotten of life beyond babyhood. i was able to remember what i liked to do before i had kids and imagine a life that will return me to those things someday.

but for now i am content to re-enter our memphis routine — the onslaught of  joy and duty. however, i do this with the new knowledge that though the days go by slowly, the years truly do fly by, carrying the sweet sounds of baby babble with them.

as a minister and a child of a dynamic presbyterian church, i have been a part of my fair share of foot washings. in fact, very few maundy thursdays or youth retreats have passed without the uneasy descent into vulnerability that occurs when one clumsily liberates the feet from their hiding places of leather, canvas, buckles, and laces, and offers them, in all of their clammy smelliness, to a fellow community member possessed of a rag and water bowl.

it’s too much raw humanity, yet we do it anyway. except for those times when, in the interest of time and the preservation of dignity, we wash hands instead. i have always chuckled at this modification of ritual and this attempt to clean up something that is intentionally messy. until i encountered these:

until i had boys, i did not know it was possible for the putrid smell of a post-game NFL locker room to be contained so neatly in a children’s size nine keen sandal. and i never dreamed that the still-sweet-smelling curly head of an 18-month-old could be part of the same body held upright by tar-bottomed peds. i wash two sets of powerfully smelly feet (almost) every night now. and i am here to tell you: it is not an exercise for the faint of heart.

the level of fith and sacremental beauty present during my kids’ bathtimes far outweighs anything i have ever experienced in all of my 33 years of church membership and six years of ordained ministry.  some rituals happen in gothic stone churches, and others happen in standard issue tubs. but both are grand entrances into deep spiritual intimacy — chances to make and mark meaning as we put one foot in front of the other.

i returned last night from the young clergy women’s conference, the topic of which was “leading as ourselves.” as i sat in the sub-artic environs of our candler divinity school classroom and looked around at my fellow girl preachers, i was struck by both awe and jealousy. many of these women work full time in the church or other para-church settings. some of them have children, some of them work part-time or half-time, but very few seemed to be on the piecemeal job plan as i am, stringing together a haphazard collection of part-time gigs with the trials and rewards of stay-at-home motherhood.

i learned later, of course, that i am not the only one holding my life and life’s work together with odd combinations of pipe cleaners, vestments, therapy, wine, and a steam mop. the room was full of those who long, as i did, to have children; those who struggle for balance of all kinds; those who are facing transitions; and those who are wrestling with issues of identity. 

i did not know all of this on day one, though, when one of our beloved speakers, melissa clodfelter, asked us what leadership-related topics we would like to cover in our time together. so, i raised my hand and explained that i am often trying to lead from the margins. because of my simultaneous frustration and delight with the church and my desire to spend the majority of my time with the monkey and the bird, i am never central to the church’s power structures. i often feel like an outsider, and i wonder if i can ever actually effectively lead from this position. though i felt as if i were speaking only for myself at the conference, i know that the world is full of women who feel marginalized in the workplace, whether for reasons of choice or unfair circumstance. what kind of leadership do we, the women on the fringes, have to offer?

i was relieved when melissa answered that the margins are the places from which true leadership emerges. it is only by stepping outside of the structures that rule our world that we gain the perspective needed to change things. fitting in is not a prerequisite for effective leadership, as evidenced by gandhi, martin luther king jr., and jesus christ, himself! in fact, affecting change requires an uncomfortable, liminal type of existance.

i am beginning to see that leadership, from my own personal margins might look like this:

• changing the world, by raising boys who are emotionally intelligent, compassionate, and justice-seeking. brown eyes over scrambled eggs, and all that…
• remaining on the fringes of church in order to speak from a place of perspective and insight.
• remaining connected to the church so that my perspective and insight will matter.
• writing here about what it’s like to try fashion a real, meaningful life that honors my own leanings as well as the legacies handed down to me by superwomen, fifties housewives, and everyone in between.

but mostly, i’m beginning to be thankful that i never quite fit in anywhere. in an odd sort of way, i am in good company. and there is meaning to be found in the margins and proclaimed to the world. thanks for joining me in this process — this little makeshift revolution.

my friend and boss, jarad, came up with these few lines the other day. they came just in time to remind me that my work in the home is important. i hope they do the same thing for you.

it doesn’t take a whole village
or a new paradigm
or any other grand thing
to make the world better,
not if the world is sitting across the counter-
brown eyes over scrambled eggs-
looking at you.

(the world happens
just like that.)

if you’ve ever heard the song, “one voice” by the wailin’ jennys, you know that it’s the kind of music capable of convincing people, if but for a moment, that life is redemptive and beautiful, that the human community is an ever-flowing source of support and love, and that god is the best possible kind of mystery.

so, tonight (tuesday june 22nd), kimberly baker, katherine baldwin, steve berger, jarad bingham, martha kelly, john mcclure, and virginia murphy’s playback memphis improv theature ensemble are joining me in turning this beautiful song into a worship service.

pie in the sky
gathering and pie at 6:00 p.m.
worship and kids’ programming at 6:30
5530 shady grove road (at the corner of shady grove and yates)

whether you are spiritual, religious, or somewhere in between, this service is for you. come check out what happens when beautiful music and a crazy idea are coupled with soulful voices, and improv theatre. it will be pie in the sky…

yesterday, when the monkey and i drove through kosciusko, mississippi, i said to my three-year-old-turned-captive-audience, “monkey, your great grandfather was from kosciusko.” i said this with full awareness that if  i had told him that oprah is from kosciusko, he’d have the same reaction, which was, “oh.”

a couple of hours later, when we passed through jackson, i said, “monkey, your great grandmother was from jackson.”

 i explained that he was named for these very special mississippi-born relatives, and then, in order to spark some interest where there clearly was none, i began to launch into stories about my beloved maternal grandparents.

i told him all about the time they took my brother and me to el chico’s for dinner and the waiter dropped a giant beer on my granddaddy’s head. suddenly, there were gales of laughter coming from the back seat. i told him that my grandaddy once worked really hard to build a giant tent on the beach for our family to play in. being an avid tent connoisseur himself, the monkey’s eyes widened. i told him about my spend-the-night dates with these grandparents that involved pancakes in the morning and sharing the bed with my grandmother on the nights preceding. we would stay up late, and she would tell me stories about her life and her relatives and about my parents’ childhoods and courtship. i loved these stories.

so i don’t know why i was surprised when, on two different occasions and after the passage of hours, the monkey pushed the stop button on his video and said, “tell me some more stories about your grandma and grandaddy, mommy.” and so i did.

i have read to the monkey and practiced with him his letters and numbers. i have potty trained him and tried (rather unsuccessfully) to teach him to share. but yesterday, i had the distinct sense that i was passing along something more important than all of those things. so much of enduring and enjoying this harsh and beautiful world depends our our ability to appreciate and tell a good story.

i began to understand the power of story when i read about vicktor frankl’s holocaust experiences in man’s search for meaning. surrounded by death and defeat, frankl kept his spirit alive by crafting a redeeming a narrative about his purpose in the world and the manuscript he would live to publish. we can make sense of our lives any way we want to. we can construct that stories that inform us in any way we choose. this process is what frankl called, “the last of human freedoms.”

 i experimented with this when my husband was diagnosed with a chronic illness, and i found that indeed, we can keep our spirits alive by choosing narratives that infuse our lives with meaning and purpose.

so today i am remembering with great fondness the one who sparked in me the love of a good story. what a privilege it is to pass along the last of human freedoms to her little namesake.

[the source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

these days, motherhood and technology are so intertwined that those who came before us cannot help but marvel at the advances that now equip us for the hardest job we’ll ever love. if you don’t believe me, try counting the number of times this phrase is uttered at the next baby shower you attend:

“i wish those [fill in the blank with the latest baby care contraptions] were around when i was a young mom. we used to have to [fill in the blank with the most laborious and excruciating description of tedium you can imagine] when our children were little.” 

surely you’ve memorized this conversation by now.

but when these comments filled the air at my baby showers, they were especially true. not only would my husband and i benefit from the technology behind the bouncy seat, baby monitors, and breast pump. i got pregnant by the most cutting-edge and constantly upgraded fertility technology offered by modern science: in vetro fertilization. to say that i am thankful for technology would be an understatement.

but this gratitude was tempered during my second pregnancy, wherein i was introduced to the underbelly (pun intended) of technology. my triple screen test showed an increased risk that the bird would have downs syndrome. i saw a specialist, who played around with numbers on a notepad and used gambling metaphors to explain to me the odds that the bird would have downs. my husband and i struggled with whether or not to have an amniocentesis, which would put the baby at slight risk but give us the information we thought we needed in order to gracefully welcome our little one. with uncertainty, we consented to the procedure. twice. and both times, the amnios failed. this was not among the carefully analyzed scenarios for which we were prepared. neither was the ultrasound tech’s false diagnosis of amnio-induced uterine damage, a condition which would likely end the pregnancy. i spent two miserable days in bed, under the covers of guilt and fear, waiting for various doctors and specialists to confer with one another — to interpret the data offered by technology.

it wasn’t until my baby bird was born that we learned that he does not have downs. but while i was pregnant with him (thanks to technological failings, some difficult internal work, and a miracle from god)  i eventually arrived at a place where i did not care whether he had downs or not. the point is that the same bright force that positioned him carefully inside my uterus snatched me suddenly into the shadows of truths not yet revealed.

technology has taken me to the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. yet, it has become like the air i breathe: silent, necessary, and (barring miracle or catastrophy) unnoticed. but living harmoniously with such a powerful force takes a certain daily awareness of its role in my life. it is to this end that i write. i hope to notice and appreciate with reverence the powers that be.

[speaking of technology and the air we breathe, check out i love technology  by heather at theta mom. this account of technology’s role in a family affected by asthma inspired me to write the post above.]

i think about my childhood a lot these days, as i am now in charge of someone else’s (two someones, actually). and what i remember most about being so new in the world are all of the beautiful, fun, interesting, and delicious things my parents showed my brother and me. i will never forget the first time they took us to fall creek falls state park, and we got see and walk behind this waterfall:

or the time our family spent a few nights in new orleans, and my parents took my brother and me to cafe du monde for beignets. they were almost giddy when i took my first yummy bite. now i know the feeling.

but perhaps the most recurring such events in my childhood were our trips to the gulf coast, the same coast i’m looking at now as i type and as the monkey and bird sleep. my parents started by showing us the ocean. then they taught my brother and me to ride its waves, mine if for shells, and make castles in its surf. and when we got a little older, they taught us to settle down beside it with a good book.

but what i remember most about my introduction to the world’s wonders is that it felt, at the time, as if my parents had invented all of these things just for my brother and me. whether we were wading in a creek in middle tennessee, riding the tube in london, or eating my dad’s saturday morning pancakes, it felt as if my parents were letting their children in on a set of sweet secrets conjured up merely for our benefit.

my parents didn’t invent the world’s wonders for us, of course, nor are my husband and i inventing them for our boys. but there is something so accurate about my childhood idea of my parents as inventors. the world is full of so much potential for happiness, sadness, and every emotion in between. and though much of life is spent coping and grieving those things that are beyond our control, we can continue to invent lives for ourselves that embrace what is beautiful, fun, interesting, and delicious.

being a parent is a constant reminder of this redeeming truth. it takes us back to the basic goodness of life, and while we are opening our kids to this goodness, we cannot help but open up to it again ourselves.

i can tell that the monkey and bird are already starting to become inventors. not inventors of the ocean and beignets, of course, but little people who are blazing new trails to the earth’s gifts, trails to which i hope they return, again and again.

p.s. i refrained (pardon the pun) from covering the wonders of music in this post, for reasons i have stated earlier.