the power of a carol — mothertalk blog bonanza: parenting beyond belief

Today’s MotherTalk blog bonanza is inspired by the new book, Parenting Beyond Belief: On Raising Ethical, Caring Kids Without Religion by Dale McGowan.

I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to post today because my struggle with faith is one of the main narrative threads of my book, and I’ve been mulling that thread for the past few weeks. I have to admit that I’m a little burned out. But I just couldn’t stay away.

I should come clean: I’m a PK. Not in the actual, father-in-the-pulpit sense; my dad was a professor rather than a preacher. But still, he’s an ordained Presbyterian minister, and this fact undoubtedly shaped me.

I have two sisters, and we all went to church with Dad growing up, but they’re both atheists now. My older sister was an unwavering atheist even as a preschooler. When she was four, she told Dad that she didn’t want to pray to a man who had long hair and wore a dress and never got married. (Who knows from whence that came.) When she was eight and we were told that we all needed to get shots because we had been exposed to someone with hepatitis B, she said, emphatically, “This is why I don’t believe in God. Jesus wouldn’t let this happen to little kids.”

She had a point, but nevertheless, I did believe in God. I was active in my church youth group. I went on mission trips. I prayed regularly. It was only when I was in college and experiencing a severe depression that I decided I agreed with my sister. Sounding like an eight-year-old, I screamed: This is why I don’t believe in God. If God existed, I wouldn’t want to die.

My faith didn’t return after I emerged from the depression. I would go to church occasionally with my dad, and I found that I still loved the music, still loved to stand in the darkened church on Christmas Eve with a burning candle in my hand, surrounded by illuminated faces and the low strain of “Silent Night.” But I could not fully return to church. I just didn’t believe anymore.

But now I have a three-year-old. So now what? Should I take her to church even though my own faith is so shaky?

One evening last December, when my dad was over for dinner, he turned on a PBS Christmas special. I was in the kitchen, and when I came out, Stella was tucked next to my dad on the couch, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her lips moving slightly. A blue-robed choir was belting out “Joy to the World” on the television. Stella was mesmerized.

I had been worrying that I was depriving Stella of some sort of foundation of biblical (and musical) knowledge by not taking her to church, and that night, her beaming face seemed to agree with me.

My dad left the house promising to take Stella to church. I even threatened her with it once: “Get back in your bed right now, or we’re not going to church with Grandpa.” Seriously, did I say that?

We found a book of Christmas carols, and D. and I sang our way through it dozens of times. By the time we went to church, Stella knew all the words to two verses of “Joy to the World.” She was up early that morning practicing.

The church was crowded, and Stella had to stand on the pew to see the pulpit. She alternated between saying, “I can’t see. I can’t see.” and “When are we going to sing ‘Joy to the World?’”

Of course we didn’t end up singing “Joy to the World.” She seemed interested in “Angels We Have Heard on High,” one of my personal favorites, but it just wasn’t the same.

When D. asked her later whether she had had fun, she shrugged. “We didn’t sing ‘Joy to the World.’” Enough said.

Honestly, I was relieved that Stella hadn’t loved church. If she were clamoring to go every week, D. and I would be forced to make a decision I’m not ready to make yet: to go back to church or not. The best I can do right now is to continue to sing Stella her favorite carols and just see what happens.

her turn to climb - mothertalk blog bonanza: dangerous boy friday

Today’s mothertalk blog bonanza is inspired by The Dangerous Book for Boys, in which Conn and Hal Iggulden lament over the loss of more carefree childhoods, and outline ways to bring the fun and adventure back into boyhood. Now, I am not a boy, I don’t have a boy, and the brothers Iggulden are obviously not mothers, so you may be wondering why I’m writing about this book. I’m writing about it because it touches on something about which I often worry: how to let my daughter experience the world and take risks—have fun—when all around, I see disaster. How do I balance my own fear and ultra-tuned sense danger with Stella’s appetite for climbing and jumping from high places?

When my sisters and I were young, we loved to make potions. We would set up bricks, build a fire, and, in a coffee can, boil grass and water and sticks and berries. Sometimes, the fire engulfed the can. Sometimes we burned our hands.

Other dangers: we rode in the way back of the station wagon, no seat belts; we raced down the street on our bikes without helmets. (Did helmets even exist back then?)

But though we did things that I wouldn’t allow Stella to do now (No seat belt? I’d have an apoplexy if she weren’t strapped in a federally approved car seat!), these activities were always tempered with my mother’s warnings.

We often heard the general “be careful,” but Mom warned us about more specific dangers, as well: never play on a huge mound of sand because you might sink into it and suffocate; never climb into an abandoned refrigerator or you might get stuck inside and suffocate (suffocation was huge); never walk into an elevator until you're sure that the elevator car is really there. (Mom had heard of a woman who hadn’t been paying attention; she fell to her death in the elevator shaft.)

These were the warnings at which we rolled our eyes. Seriously, how often does one come across an abandoned refrigerator? It’s not as if we were playing in a landfill.

We took her other cautions more seriously: never take candy from a stranger; never go anywhere with a stranger, even if he says he knows mom and dad; never approach a car, even if the person inside is asking for directions. And these warnings may have actually saved us. Once, my older sister was walking home and a man pulled up in a station wagon. He whispered something and my sister, with my mother’s admonition ringing in her ears, refused to move closer to the car. She stood on the sidewalk, yelling, “I can’t hear you. Talk louder.” Finally, the man asked, more loudly, where the nearest gas station was. My sister pointed, and he drove off. Hmmm, was he an evil-doer? Perhaps.

There are times when it is better to be safe than sorry, and there are real dangers that exist in the world. But how do I balance wanting to keep Stella safe with wanting her to be strong and brave and believe in herself?

There is a huge climber at the park near our house. The city removed the metal rocket climber that had been there for generations. (I played on it as a child.) In its place they put an equally tall rope pyramid climber. I’m actually not sure that the rope climber is any safer. Can’t one fall just as hard from ropes as from metal bars?

Of course Stella loves this thing, and she loves to climb up high and jump into the sand below. When she does this, other mothers at the park often look at me, their eyes wide. They seem to be saying: wow, you’re brave to let her do that, or, wow, she’s a dare-devil. Then I puff out my feathers, proud of my strong girl and proud of myself for not hovering. But all the while I’m biting my tongue to keep from yelling, “Be careful! That’s too high! Let’s go home!”

My mom probably bit her tongue a number of times, as well. Her warnings were there, of course, but she also gave us a lot of freedom to explore and experiment. She hit a fine balance, and really, other than being a little neurotic, we turned out fine. And I wonder: can I manage to do the same?

Check out the other Dangerous Boy Friday posts at MotherTalk.