I don’t really want to talk about #metoo. It makes me sad. The stories I’ve heard and read are discouraging. I had a horrible dream last night that was totally related to this conversation.

But as hard as it is, it is important.

First of all, #metoo. It hasn’t happened often (I don’t even need a whole hand to count the instances), but there have been rare occasions that a man spoke to me in a way that made me terribly uncomfortable.

But second, I’m not sure where to place my experience. None of them should have happened. But to hear the conversation, “all the other women” experience this kind of treatment so often it’s a casual reality of their life. And I can’t figure out which of us is the unusual case. Am I strange to have so few, or are they unusual to have so many?

And where do the men stand in all of it. To hear the conversation, all men are basically Harvey Weinstein. Or wannabes, anyway. And when someone says “not all men,” they get scolded. But many, many men do not behave this way at all. So which is the strange one? The man who doesn’t take advantage of or speak inappropriately to women or the ones who habitually and intentionally make those comments or gestures or advances (or worse)?

Last of all, I fear that the entire conversation misses the real point. The way a man treats a woman–or whether, like in Hollywood, a woman might comply for some reason–is a heart issue. We can’t fix it with laws or bringing social pressure to bear. Oh, we can drive it deeper into the shadows and corners, but it’s still going to happen. Because the issue is one of making ourselves important. It’s a problem of seeing others as means to an end (MY desired end) instead of people in their own right. It’s a problem of control and power and trying to fill an emptiness that we spend a lot of time and money hiding.

And without Jesus, it cannot be changed. Yes, we need to teach our boys. Yes, we need to change the laws to protect the victims. Yes, we all (men and women) need to stand up against and call out those who choose this perverse and damaging path. But unless we include Jesus in the conversation, we have no hope of making any lasting change.

Which makes a hard topic, even harder.

Yesterday, my kids were on it, I tell you. Out of nowhere, they hit me with the real stuff. And man, I am so glad I was not so distracted or busy (for once), that I actually listened.

In the morning, on the drive to church…

Meg: (from the back of the van) “Mom, how do you do real life?”

Me: (thinking I’d misheard) “What? What do you mean by real life, babe?”

Meg: “You know, how I get distracted by my ponies and toys. How do you do real life?”

Well, then. She wanted a real answer. “Well, no one really knows, Meg. Pretty much everyone is doing the best they can. But there isn’t a for-sure answer to that question. There are certain things we know that, if you do them, will make sure your real life goes well. And other things we know about that, if you do them, will make your real life go badly.”

It was a great chance to say other important things, too. “See Meg, we believe that God, in the Bible, gives us a plan for how to do real life well. He knows what will make for a good life, so we try to learn and do what He says about life. It’s why we go to church every Sunday and read the Bible and try to know what God wants us to do. It’s because we think His way of doing real life is the best one.”

So yeah…nothing like a curveball from the back of the van on the way to church. And then it was bedtime…

I was closing down, turning off lights and getting ready for bed. Standing at my dresser, I heard little feet coming fast. It was Tim, and he was visibly upset.

“Mommy, I was siting on my bed and I told myself that you said I couldn’t be in the family anymore, and it made me feel yucky inside.”

Me: (dropping to my knees and hugging him tight) “Buddy, no! Help me understand. Did you just think that you couldn’t be in the family anymore, or did Mommy say something that made you think I didn’t want you in the family anymore?”

Tim: “No, I just said it to myself, and it made me feel yucky inside.”

Me: “Oh, buddy! That would make any one feel yucky inside. And NO, absolutely not, would you ever, ever be kicked out of our family. You belong forever.”

I felt him relax instantly and sent him to hug his dad, who, I promised, also would never kick him out of the family. And we talked about how God never kicks us out of His family either. He was all smiles again, and I walked him back to bed and prayed over him, repeating again how he was safe with us and with God. And he fell asleep.

But I was totally shocked. Who knows what made him think that? Was it a guilty conscience about something? And what if he had not come immediately to check with me? He’d have internalized that fear to immense damage.

Oh, my. I went to bed praying for my boy, and thanking God that he’d kept Tim from that kind of fear so young. And also that I was not so busy or distracted (again) that I’d missed the chance to calm a little boy’s heart.

And the thing is…we all have to listen. Not just to our kids, but to other people. I need you to listen to me. And I need to listen to you. We all need to listen more. To the mom who’s so frustrated she’s ready to explode (whether in anger or tears). To the checkout lady who’s acting bored and stand-offish but is really hoping someone will reach out to her. To the kids–ours or other people’s–who need someone to see them and hear them and take their big questions and yucky feelings and hold them for a while, too.

We need to listen to each other. Black and white. Churched or not. Democrats and Republicans. Grownups and kids. We all want to be seen. We want to be heard. We want to walk away knowing we were listened to…even if we can’t resolve every issue.

It is possible to recognize a chance to listen. I usually miss them, but yesterday, I didn’t. And I was reminded again how important it is. We have to give each other the grace of listening.

I see a lot of sports posts. The pictures of the kid whose team won their tournament. Or maybe the video of a child hitting to the outfield. We hear a lot from the parents who cheered all weekend or all season.

But we don’t hear a lot from the other kids’ parents. The kids whose team didn’t win. The kid who pitched the ball that was hit to the outfield. But we need to start talking about those kids on Facebook, too.

Why?

1. We do our kids a disservice when we don’t applaud the effort. Erin’s softball team played fall ball this year. They will move up to 10U in the spring, and the rules are changing. Kids will pitch, bases can be stolen, play continues until you get an out. All of that requires new and different thinking.

So for six weeks straight, in rain and sun, we played. Two games each Saturday. And we lost every single one. A couple were close. Mostly, though, we got skunked. It wasn’t the kind of season you ever see posted about.

BUT. It was not a wasted season. Those girls played every game as well as they could. They got better every time they went out. They were playing girls too old for our division, and they never complained. We warned them at the outset we might not win, that we were here to learn, so they threw themselves into learning. And they learned so.very.much.

In other words, they succeeded mightily.

2. We need to remind ourselves about what’s really important. My daughter knew what we  were about. But sometimes, when the other coaches put their older girls in positions that would prevent our girls from even making it on base, it was hard to remember myself what our focus was. Sometimes I was that mom. The one who groaned a little too loudly or talked down the ump for a call.

I need to tell you about the games and seasons when my kid doesn’t win because I need to remember why they play. For fun. For experience. For the chance to learn teamwork and discipline and how to show up even when it’s not fun and you know you’re going to lose again. That’s why kids play. And as much as I would love a win, they learned more in this season of losing than they would have with 12 easy wins.

Our kids do not need more pressure to become a world-class player in 10U. They really don’t. And how we talk about them–if we talk about them–when they don’t win is every bit as important as all the pictures when they win.

And I need to remember that.

Nothing is allowed to be real these days. Simple. Even boring, if it’s called for. Instead, we have clickbait titles to everything, posters and proposals for a homecoming dance, and people who don’t believe you have to BE happy as long as you APPEAR happy.

This is NOT okay, people. Why?

1. Not everything has to be shiny. My weekly roundup email from our financial site today was titled “Look how pretty your money is this week.” Wait, what?!?

What did they do? Wrap it up in spanx so it would fit smoothly into some sequined dress? Was there lipstick involved? Glamour photography? People, my money isn’t pretty. It isn’t supposed to be pretty. It’s supposed to be there. It’s supposed to be working for me. It’s supposed to be a lot of things, but pretty isn’t one of them. And my program that tracks all of that…shouldn’t be worrying about what my money looks like. I don’t mind a non-ugly site. I don’t mind useful graphics and graph functions. But seriously, treat my money as a serious thing. Because it is.

2. Appearance can be faked. My husband’s proposal of marriage didn’t involve candles and posters and videos. And I can tell you, it still happened. All these showy things for little deals like dances and such don’t really mean that much. They don’t prove anything about who the guy or girl are. They don’t prove the depth of love (or attraction or commitment or whatever). They are a competition for likes and hits, which are then equated with value or influence.

My non-showy husband asked me to marry him on a hike in the woods. It wasn’t flashy, but it was entirely genuine. It was him. It was us. It was perfect. And it wouldn’t have gotten more than a few likes on Facebook. And that’s okay. I want more of life to be like that proposal because we’ve built a real marriage on that day, and that is a very good thing.

3. We are people, not brands. The Culture Translator this week talked about a study done with teens recently that showed teens view themselves as brands, not people. So everything related to their actual name had to be positive or appear happy, in order to protect their brand. But we are NOT brands. We are people. Real people with emotions and ups and downs, and true connections cannot be made if we sell that out for a logo and in-right-now color scheme.

We can be actually happy. But it means going deeper. Loving harder. Risking greatly. Making mistakes (sometimes gigantic mistakes). Saying the wrong things while we’re learning what’s a better thing to say.

We can be real. We are supposed to be real. We were created to be real. And it’s okay to buck our culture and live real. Whoever we are and wherever we live.

I am very tired for some reason. I could barely keep my eyes open while Erin was reading me a library book tonight.

It’s already 9:30 on a Friday night.

I actually have too many things rolling around in my brain, so I’m struggling to pin just one of them down.

It’s been almost two straight weeks of blogging, and I haven’t missed a day yet. It’s been a long time since that happened.

I had to do a lot of math today, people. A LOT of math.

I waited too long to pick today’s topic. Feel free to make suggestions, if you have any.

I figure no one is really going to read this tonight anyway, so I’m lacking motivation.

I guess I’ll just wait until tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll have some good WHY to take up then.

Because she calls me a couple of times a week on her way home from school. I appreciate that more than she knows. Even on the days I can’t answer because of crazy homework circuses and whatnot.

Because she’s my teacher reference. Whenever I have a question about what the kids are supposed to be doing or how something school-related works, she talks me through it (having a 3rd grade teacher in my arsenal is pretty fantastic).

And most of all, because she’s hysterical. In yesterday’s post, I asked what exactly Alex was supposed to “explain” on his math homework. Today before we hung up, she started to answer that for me. I told her about the problem.

I said, “The question asked something like: ‘The polar bear wears 1623 pounds. About how much more does the brown bear weigh? Explain.’ There was a picture of the second bear holding a sign with his weight on it. So Alex rounded and subtracted, got the right answer no problem. But what was he supposed to explain?”

The answer we came up with: The second bear probably weighed that much more because of an emotional eating problem. Or maybe because he felt the keepers didn’t really like him.

Now that’s a math paper explanation I can get behind. 😀

Let me begin by saying that I have no problem with homeschooling. I have many friends who do it, most of them very well. But y’all. I cannot. I just can.not.

And why do I say this? Why can’t I homeschool? It’s entirely due to the daily horror that is homework.

I have always despised homework. Starting 3 years ago with Kindergarten readers (which we had to do twice, thanks to twins), I have taken a daily deep breath to steel myself against the onslaught of homework. It’s torture. It’s painful. It’s a daily test of my very last spiritual virtue (and full evidence of my utter lack thereof). And it’s not my kids. Oh no. I love them. They ask good questions. It’s the whole, crazy logistical circus that homework creates.

Let’s just use today as an example.

3:30 – Drive away from parent pickup with all 4 kids (go me!)

3:30-3:35 – Chat with my kids on the drive home. Listen to complaints about whose turn it is to play a screen. Discuss the day. Find out that Megan had a bad day because she forgot the paper she diligently completed last night and was holding in her hands this morning before we left for school. Assure her we will find it when we get home. Stop briefly for Alex to jump out and get the mail. Arrive at home.

3:40 – Give permissions for snacks. State that we will start homework. (Alex picks math because it’s due tomorrow. Erin starts with reading packet. Megan wants to start with reading, I require her to start with math because I cannot listen to her read while also helping the twins…see below.)

3:45 – Homework commences. Alex tells me he isn’t sure what to do with his math. We sit down at the table. Erin flops onto the couch. Megan sits on the floor by the big windows. (The next events happen in consecutive moments, but without my being able to watch the clock.)

• Alex and I read the instructions and work through the first problem (of 4 total questions). Erin calls.
• I leave Alex to do the problem and move to the couch.
• Erin doesn’t understand what to do on question 4. I try to explain. This takes a while.
• Alex asks me if his answer sounds right.
• Megan hands me her math paper to check.
• I ask Alex to wait for a minute, refuse to take Meg’s paper, and finish helping Erin.
• I take the math paper. I walk to the table to check what Alex has. He’s good. I set him to do the next problem. I sit down to read over Megan’s math.
• Megan did not follow the instructions. I hand her paper back. She goes back to the floor.
• Erin has another question. So does Alex. I cannot answer Alex’s question. (How AM I supposed to “explain” the fact that he rounded, then subtracted to get an answer of 2500 people? His work is right there…what’s to explain? And how can he possibly explain it on two lines?!?) We write a note to their teacher.
• I sit down at my computer to write a couple of emails regarding the Boy and Girl Scouts sell-a-thons currently going on and for which different teachers have graciously ordered from my kids. I try to disappear into Facebook for a minute. No such luck.
• Erin has another question. I go to the couch and try to explain how to write an answer describing the evidence she’s looking for in the text. She doesn’t understand. I try again. We still are barely communicating (apparently). Alex calls me back. I tell her to do her best and walk over to Alex.
• He is done with two more questions. One of them is wrong. We go over why. He finishes his math. I check them. He goes to start his reading packet. I’m pretty sure Timmy has been playing a video game this entire time.

4:30-4:50 – Erin tells me she is bored of her reading packet. It’s not due until Friday so I let her be done. She starts her math. She finishes her 4 problems and gets a promised turn on a screen. Alex comes out to say he’s going to stop working on his reading packet for tonight too. I’m good with that. He completes some of his extra math problems (Erin did hers the other night). I sit down on the couch to do Megan’s reading. Tim joins us while we read her official book, 1 chapter of her extra book, and her vocabulary words. Then he goes to watch Erin play the iPad. Eric comes home somewhere in here.

5:00 – I send everyone to DO something: play a game, go outside, play with pony figures, so I can now work on dinner.

In that 90 minutes, which we repeat daily to some extent (it is typically shorter–this week’s math and reading packets have proven unusually painful–but not less complicated), I have prayed for wisdom and kind words. I have bounced between my children, nearly flinching when another one calls my name. They have worked 90 minutes on school work after already completing an 8-hour day. We’re all tired. I cannot seem to effectively explain things to them (and I successfully taught college composition to freshman, y’all). And while I could leave it until after dinner, I cannot bear the thought of this kind of logistical ping-pong on top of baths and bedtime.

No, I cannot homeschool. The thought of being entirely in charge of my kids’ educations and on the hook for every explanation, question, assignment and assessment is just more than I can bear. It would require God Almighty using sky writing in purple sparkly smoke letters for me to even consider the idea of homeschooling. And even then, I’d be seriously hesitant.

And to all the teachers out there, who deal with this kind of distraction and attempt to explain to a child who is just not following you and faithfully do your job every single day…you are my heroes. My absolute heroes.