2. When pressed, say Jesus.
3. When she wants to know how this actually works, have a small, internal panic attack. No one told you about this awkward moment when you were all, I can’t wait to be a moooooom! Your mom just put a diagram on your nightstand with a box of tampons when you were twelve years old. You have no home training here.
4. Politely excuse yourself, grab the books you ordered two years ago for this moment, and send your husband in to do the heavy lifting because submission.
5. Listen at the door to lots of hilarious explanations and many, many uses of the words penis and vagina. Stifle laughter as your child calls it a bergina. Scold yourself for calling it a “bird” all these years like a weirdo. You’ve ruined her chance at ornithology.
6. Mask intense concern when husband comes out asking for a dry erase board and two dolls. This tutorial is obviously terrifying, but the only alternative is you talking about “special hugs,” which was the next card you planned to play.
7. Fall flat on the ground when your daughter asks if sex “feels like a hot dog,” and your husband replies, “It’s more like a summer sausage.” She can’t unhear that. She is going to therapy. Start saving.
8. With all your might, maintain a straight face when she comes out forty-five minutes later, solemnly pats your arm, and says, “I kind of wish I didn’t know that. Thanks for going through that mess to create me, Mom.”
HOW TO MOTHER ADULT CHILDREN
1. Allow them to live past their teenage years. Congratulations on completing step 1!
2. Smile and choke back the “I told you so!” when they finally understand something you’ve been saying for years. This is really hard. Practice not rolling your eyes in the mirror. Show restraint like Jesus.
3. Resist the urge to yell, “What an idiot!” or its Christian cousin, “You reap what you sow” when they encounter hardships after ignoring your wise counsel, which they sought and pretended to listen to over homemade pie.
4. Laugh when they reminisce about your Mom Fails without citing their crazy-inducing shenanigans, as if you just spontaneously lost your crap. No, Adult Child, you sneaking vodka under the babysitter’s nose or driving your truck into a light post while dishing up an elaborate lie regarding a pothole did not at all contribute to the Mom Fails.
5. If they have children, forget that you ever raised any kids and keep your reasonable but hopelessly old-fashioned suggestions to yourself, as they likely contradict the plethora of “experts” now available on Snapchat.
6. When said adult children have teenagers, comfort them as they navigate step 1, and graciously receive any tearful apologies for their childhood and young adult behavior (see steps 2 and 3). This is also the stage where it’s safe to explain step 4, because at this point, they are finally all the way on your side. They’ve crossed over. They know the truth like only raising your own teenagers can deliver. They are here in the Land of the Knowing. Open wine and offer a toast for surviving each other. Call your own mother, and apologize again.
7. Always have the ingredients to make pie in case they stop in for a visit to request advice they may or may not take.
HOW TO GET THE PERFECT PROFESSIONAL PICTURE OF YOUR PRECIOUS ANGEL BABIES
1. Spend an exorbitant amount of time picking outfits that are just right. This should take entirely too much time, money, and energy. They need to coordinate but not match. Comb Pinterest for ideas to steal. (Southern mamas, check local rules about the age cutoff for boys in smocking or knickers. Pictures are forever. Please refrain from dressing your sixth-grade son in knee socks.)
2. Make sure they are groomed but not “I just this day got a haircut” groomed.
3. Scout out the perfect location, and time it just right for blooming tulips and late afternoon light. This should gobble up at least four afternoons.
4. Adjust naps slightly and time your forty-five-minute drive to the location so they can nap a bit on the way.
5. Load kids into the family truck not wearing their picture clothes. Don’t forget the picture clothes, and don’t forget to put the picture clothes as far away from kids as possible.
6. Play classical music on the way, meditate on a psalm, pray, promise Jesus all sorts of obedience if He will procure some goodwill. Remind Him that you are a good person and you don’t ask for much. You just need this photo shoot to work, because it is costing five hundred dollars and the only pictures you have of their childhood are on your iPhone.
7. Get to the spot, change kids in the way back, grab your sippy cups and nonstaining snack bribes, and set the angels down in just the right place. Try not to micromanage the photographer but fail fairly epically.
8. Keep your tone light and airy as the kids start fighting and whining: “No worries, everyone! Ha ha ha ha! Everything is great! You’re doing so great! You look great! Look at Mommy! This is so fun! We’re having so much fun here!”
9. Realize all three children looking at the camera at once making a normal face is a fantasy. This photo shoot is doomed. You try everything. You dance like a monkey. You promise the moon and the stars. Soon, your bribes turn to threats: “Smile right, or I’ll give you something to cry about!” You have sweat pouring down your back into your underwear. Your anxiety has permeated the atmosphere, and even the photographer despairs.
10. Get the proofs back two weeks later. They are mostly a disaster. Your children look like robots. Or like human children who never learned to smile naturally and only know how to grimace, scowl, look off camera, fake smile. They look like well-dressed, miniature serial killers.
11. Use candid iPhone shot of your family at a football game for your Christmas card.
Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.1
— ZORA NEALE HURSTON
CHAPTER 12
SANCTUARY
I have a colorful father-in-law. He grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, as a quintessential 1950s teen, a track runner and football player at UT in Knoxville, then straight into the army where he retired as a first sergeant twenty-four years later. I regularly keep my notepad handy when we’re together, because, out of the clear blue yon, Bob Hatmaker will jumpstart conversations like this:
“When I was a teenager, Bobby Tichner and I used to go squirrel hunting before school. We were always late to school, but at least we got fried squirrel that night!”
“It was 1965. I was in Germany, and I found a couple of I-talian girls . . .”