O
ur children were a handful to begin with. There were five of them, all home-schooled, each pursuing his or her talents through a sport and a musical activity. That’s what Steve and I wanted for them. Our home was filled with soccer balls, gymnastic leotards and ballet shoes, while the air rang with piano, violin and viola. The children and their activities kept both Steve’s and my hands constantly busy, but we enjoyed the pace. We were fulfilled watching our children grow and develop into strong, intelligent, competent people.
Then Steve died. Being a single parent of five children between the ages of six and seventeen seemed a Herculean task. My two hands were all there were to take children to lessons, to applaud at recitals, to bandage scraped knees. I was overwhelmed by the ten young hands of my five children reaching out to me. They needed their father, but he was gone. They needed me, but I couldn’t see how I could provide for all their needs.
Added to the stress of trying to be both father and mother were the mounting financial difficulties. The music lessons and sports cost money. I worked several small part-time jobs, and in between, I constantly chauffeured someone to some place. I began to feel that I was hardly ever there for my children. I began to feel lost - lost in my own neighborhood, in my own home, in my life.
I thought I could turn to Terri, my close friend, who had been a great source of strength and comfort at the time of my hus-band’s illness and death. But Terri had her own family to take care of, and I found her unable to help me now. I compared her situation to my own. She also home-schooled her children. They were involved in sports and various activities. Yet her life seemed to flow so calmly and peacefully, while mine remained in tumultuous upheaval. What was the difference in our lives? Perhaps she held the secret to running a smooth life.
One evening, I sat alone in my living room with a pencil and sketch-book, trying to find a way to express my desperation and pain. First I drew Terri’s “ideal” family, sketching two stick-figure boys reaching out for love, help and guidance. Surrounding them I drew their caring mother, their strong and supportive father, their grandmother, their aunt. I suddenly realized these children lived with four loving adults. They had but to reach out their hands and eight, strong supportive hands reached back. Was Terri’s “secret” simply having plenty of loving hands, four for each boy?
Comparing my family to Terri’s devastated me. Life did not seem fair. Worse, my children were beginning to feel like the adversaries. I felt more alone and despondent than ever.
The following evening my children and I were gathered around the table, finishing dinner. I began to talk about hands, how my hands were so busy: providing for them, helping them, and taking them to their many activities. I described their friends, Tern’s family and how many hands of support her boys received.
Then I reached out my two hands and asked each child to take hold. Ten hands shot out across the table. Each child found just two fingers to grab. There were so many of them and only one of me. We sat transfixed in stunned silence, as I realized there was no way I could meet all their needs.
A small voice broke the silence. “Mommy, if we all reach out to each other, we could each get a whole hand.”
Releasing my fingers, sisters and brothers reached out to one another. Each person clasped tightly to two other supportive and loving hands. We began to smile.
Our days are still filled with home-schooling, dance lessons, gymnastics, ball games, recitals, concerts and the like. I’m still a single parent of five active, intelligent children. But my children have had to grow just a little bit stronger. They don’t reach out solely to Mom for help; they reach for each other, as well. I still have only two hands with ten fingers.
But with those ten extra hands, our family is now a circle of help and support.
- Linda Butler