These Little Lights of Mine

Yesterday I was doing a little “research” and discovered that according to experts, “moving is one of the greatest stresses we face in our lives.,” (duh!) and that “in its capacity to cause psychological distress it comes only after losing a close relative in terms of severity, and ahead of illness, loss of employment and divorce,” which, after thinking about it explains a lot. It explains the crying (mine; not my children); the behaviours (my childrens’; not mine) and the overwhelming feeling that I’ve fallen into a well and can’t seem to find my way out. I’m hoping that it also explains why for the past two weeks all I seem able to do is observe and judge.


I’m not normally a judgmental person. I suppose my husband might argue this point because he can’t seem to let go of the fact that I criticized Tara Lipinski’s make-up the night that she was given (excuse me, “won”) the gold medal, but come on, she was like 12 and her make-up looked ridiculous. For some reason he thinks I was being too hard and that perhaps I should have given her a little credit for her skating ability. Whatever.

O.K., so where was I? Oh yes, I’m a tolerant person. My “life verse” (or the verse I strive to make my life verse) is Micah 6:8 “…and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” That doesn’t really scream “judge others!” and yet, well…

Yesterday, parked on a side street waiting for school to be dismissed I became entranced watching another mom smoke a cigarette. In the car pool lane. At school. Obviously there were smokers at Coulter’s previous school but it is completely inconceivable to me that they would have lit up on the playground waiting for their Kindergartners to emerge. Even as I write this, I think about all the smokers in my life (some have quit; others have not) and how much love and tolerance I have for them. But they’re older. They started smoking at a time when cigarettes were like gum.  Of course I also know and love smokers who knew it wasn't gum and yet I know in my heart they would never smoke during car pool. Anyway, this woman throws her cigarette out the window and emerges from her car. (And while I used the term car pool lane before, what I meant to say was a street full of parked cars. There is no lane. There is no cross walk. There is no car pool.) She is wearing leopard print flannel pajamas. She walks to the back of her jeep, pulls out a black leather jacket with fringe and lights up another cigarette on her way to the Kindergarten door. It was like watching a movie. I was stunned---especially when she was joined by yet another smoking mother. Now, I’m not at all proud of what I’m about to say especially given the aforementioned smoking loved ones, but in that moment; in that hazy, smoke filled, leopard print moment, I wondered if we had chosen the wrong school for Coulter.

BAM! Here comes the guilt. How could I teach tolerance and social justice to my children if I’m ready to bolt at the first sign of, oh how should I say, diversity? How could I claim humility in my life verse if I’m not even humble enough to consider that these are good people? I could write a year’s worth of blogs on how wrong this is and how sorry I am, but I thought it, I felt it, I’m sharing it and now I’m moving on because as it so happens, I must confess to yet still more judging.

Kindergartners soon start piling out of the building and while I was hugging Coulter I couldn’t help but notice pajama lady’s son. His head was shaved bald save for a mohawk (that’s mo; not faux) and again I cringed at what I was feeling and thinking. For 10 years I’ve lived in a neighborhood where the houses look similar and the parents look similar and no-one smokes on the playground and children don't have mohawks. When had I become so snooty?

As we made the drive home, I asked Coulter what was special about his day. “We watched a movie in music!”

“Oh,” I judged, “A movie in music? How interesting. Was it Peter and the Wolf?”

“No.” He replied. “We watched Peter Pan. We also got to watch a movie during quiet time.”

2 movies. At school. How interesting.

But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve judged the Food4Less because they don’t sack your groceries (Seriously? It’s not like I’m expecting a full-service gas station here, just a few bags.) I’ve judged the pot smoking neighbors across the street and, as I posted on Facebook last week, I judged an exercise instructor for using a Jane Fonda tape during class. Of course the joke’s on me because almost a week later I’m still sore from all of Jane’s “squeezing and lifting.”

My therapist friends would tell me that all of this judgment comes from fear; that I’m just scared and they’d probably be right. As moms, we’re always scared of making decisions that hurt our children and I’m scared that moving Coulter in the middle of the year was the wrong choice (even though I know it was the right choice.) I’m scared that Clarmar school is the wrong choice (even though I know it’s the right choice.) I’m scared that I’m always going to have to wash the dishes in the bath tub (even though I know….oh, never mind.) I’m scared of being 16 again when all the smokers in High School hated me. I'm scared that Coulter's going to ask for a mohawk. Mostly though, I’m scared that if I don’t get out of this funk, I’m going to wish a way an incredibly special time in which I have the opportunity to be at home sharing in the lives of my children.

And so that’s it. I’m finished.Tomorrow is a new day. A day to rejoice and be glad. A day to be grateful and filled with joy. A day to show mercy and love kindness and walk humbly. And who knows, I may even do it while rockin’ my own pair of flannels!