Life beyond the splinters

In this day and age of Oprah, Tyra, Dr. Phil, and a host of other tv talk shows, you hear such a range of shocking confessions, that it can make the average mom feel a bit lacking if she doesn’t have something dicey to tell.

But the fact is, there is a “dirty little secret” that many moms have and are afraid to share with anyone.

Boredom.   That’s right.  Nothing juicy.   Just plain, uninteresting, nothingness.  Boredom.

But there is a never ending list of things to do.   So, how, you ask, could a mother ever be bored?

Well, back up a minute.  Read what I wrote - carefully.    

I did not say she wasn’t busy.  I said she was bored.   There is a huge difference.

As a mom, we have long lists of things to do.  Sometimes we are actual list-keepers, dutifully checking items off, then rewriting the remainders of the list on a new sheet of paper  for another day.  Others of us just fly by the seats of our pants and do as much as we can in a day, sort of reorganizing our to-do list in our heads as we glance over our shoulders to see the wake of what’s already been done.

No matter which method is more your style, no matter how busy your day keeps you, from time to time, maybe even daily, it creeps back in...that little secret that you’re so afraid will find its way out.

Sometimes it comes up when you’re invited to a party, or gathering of some sort.  The panic strikes you as real and painful as the sudden scorch of your curling iron.  What on earth will you talk about?  When the other people there are prattling on about their careers, investments, vacations, hobbies, church functions, sports teams or bridge clubs - or even the extra curricular activities of their children, you can already picture yourself shrinking back, silently praying that they won’t ask what you’ve been up to.  After all, isn’t that the standard question, “We haven’t seen you in so long.   So, tell us, what have you been up to?”

Gulp.   

How do you possibly make laundry, bill paying, chauffeuring and cooking sound exciting?  Um, let’s see, I tried a new laundry detergent this week because I had a coupon, but I found it didn’t really perform as well as my previous one.   LOSER!   Those high-interest credit cards are tough, huh?  BORING!   Little bit’s sporting events and ballet classes are killing my gas tank, but uh, no, they haven’t won any games, trophies, medals or had any real accolades for me to brag about.  WELL, NOW THAT’S JUST AWKWARD!   We had lots of pasta noodles to use up, so it’s been nothing but spaghetti and mostaccioli  for us this week.  FASCINATING STUFF!

Other times, that little secret is just there, nagging only you.   How long has it been since the phone rang?  Why don’t people call me anymore?   How many times have I checked email and Facebook today?  Good grief, get a life already!  How many hours until hubby gets home?  What does it matter - what could he possibly see in me anymore anyway?

Boredom, for all it’s nothingness, is a very big something for a lot of us.

We love our kids.   We love them more than anything.  But we are well aware that even if we spend most of our time doing things for them, they are not our whole life.  They may require a lot of our time, but they don’t necessarily fill us up.  

Before motherhood and beyond motherhood, we are still women.  We are still human beings, longing for purpose and a sense of accomplishment and worth and self-respect.

It is so easy to become a mother, and nothing else, that by the time the little secret starts to reveal itself, you are so entrenched in your daily duties that you have no idea what to do about it.  And you certainly can’t tell anyone.  

Well, unless you’re a blogger, that is.

All blogging aside though, you’ve got to break outside that boredom box before you suffocate.   The problem is we spend so much time thinking that we “just need a change”, but we either don’t know what that change should be, or we mistakenly think it has to be some big event akin to busting the sides off that box we’re in, like a stick of dynamite roared through it.   In reality though, sometimes the only way out of that box is to peel back one little splintered piece of wood at a time. 

It’s been said that you will never see anything change if you do everything exactly the same.  There is so much truth in that!   So today, do something differently.  It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant that something seems.

Put a different kind of syrup on your morning pancakes.  Wear your hair up instead of down.  Drive a different route home from school.  Peruse the library shelves or online catalog, browse the craft supplies store, paint one small daisy on your kitchen wall, join an online game group such as Scrabble or Chess, type something into Google that you’ve never tried before.  

The smallest tweak in your daily routine could prove to change your entire life.   Sometimes the smallest steps can lead to the biggest inventions, a whole new business concept, recognition of a need in society that isn’t being met, or your own personal makeover.   You just never know where inspiration will come from.

Even if your little tweaks don’t lead to huge, world-changing events, they are sure to lead you into, at the very least, a different outlook on your otherwise boring life.    You may discover a new hobby, a new group of friends, or a new passion, but you’ll never discover anything if you keep tuning in to the same daytime tv and eating the same bag of Oreos.

Wipe those crumbs off your mouth and get out there.   There is a whole world to explore and a whole new you to create.   Stop being afraid of the splinters in the box.   Break out.  Today.

Then, the next time you’re invited to a party, your splinter-bandaged fingers will be a reminder of just how far you’ve come and how much you have to talk about.

You can do it.  But you have to start - somewhere, anywhere.   Today.

Little sponges

I’m all for children being little sponges.  Go ahead, soak up that knowledge.   Become so sopping wet with it that by the time you’re of college age, the possibilities will spread before you like the ocean and the learning will lead to earning -  big bucks to take care of Mama in her old age, that is.  Oh yeah, and a few nice little amenities for yourself, like not living paycheck to paycheck or worrying how you’re going to pay the mortgage every time you buy a cheeseburger.  Yeah, that too.

But for crying out loud, while you’re soaking up all this knowledge, visit many different bodies of water.  Mama is only one small, bubbling brook, and you’re drying me up!

I don’t know how I got one overly curious kid from our gene pool, let alone two, but it’s enough to drive a person straight up mad some days.

I distinctly remember when this stage hit with my big kid, around age four.  I couldn’t walk through a room carrying a Dust Vac, envelope, tape measure or post-it note without getting the third degree.

What you got, Mama?
Where did you get it?
What’s in it?
What does it do?
What are you going to do with it?
Why are you doing that?
What does it say on it?
Who made it?
Why did they make it like that?
Where did they make it?
How did they make it?
Do you have another one?
What color is it?
Can I see it?
Where are you going with it?


Good grief!  It could be a rock from the yard and the child would think of a way to ask 52 questions about it.   And around, oh, the fifth one, you just want to scream, It’s a rock! Get over it already!

Now that he’s seven, the questions are still there, they’ve just become more intelligent, and filled with lots of frustration in his voice as the two year old interrupts twelve times per question.

And why is she interrupting?   Because, God bless her smart little brain, she has decided that she can not wait until age four to get a jump on all this knowledge.   Her vocabulary is already five times that of her brother’s at this age, so it’s no wonder she’s two years ahead on the barrage of questions as well.

But really, how many times can one woman answer “What, Mama?” in a day and not just come right out and ASK for a padded room.  At least there, it would be quiet.

I open a cabinet.
“What, Mama?”

I retrieve an object.
“What, Mama?”

I place said object on the counter.
“What, Mama?”

I move a second object.
“What, Mama?

I sigh.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to sound just a wee bit irritated.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to pace like a caged animal.
“What, Mama?”

I get out the Yellow Pages.
“What, Mama?”

I pick up the phone.
“What, Mama?”

I program the asylum into speed dial.

So help me, if she says it again, my finger is poised above the button...


Oh, but wait.... she’s distracted. Thank you, Jesus!   I turn to see what the distraction is, but before I can even spin the full 180, I hear her brother say, “Mom, can I ask you something?”


Whoever said children are like little sponges never had mine.  There are sponges and then there are alien creatures sent here from the planet Why with the sole purpose of sucking every trace of moisture from your brain.   Oh, but just between you and me, be careful who you tell that to.  The white coats will be here in twenty minutes...

Outnumbered

I remember walking through a hospital corridor several years ago and seeing a woman pushing one baby in a stroller, while a young toddler walked alongside.  I didn’t have children of my own yet, but I somehow knew, in that instant, that having children that close together would absolutely drive me mad.

I’m just not cut out for it, the constant changing of diapers, the trying to bottle feed one while spoon feeding the other, the overnight feedings combined with teething woes, hoping beyond hope that they will both take a nap at the same time, so that I could cope through the rest of the day. Day in day out, needs needs needs.   It just wasn’t for me.   I have got to have some down time or I won’t be very pleasant to live with.

And thus, my children are five years apart.

Little did I know that there would be a whole different set of challenges with an age spread.  The first of which was just agreeing to try to get pregnant with the second one.    Going in to motherhood, you have no idea that by the time you have survived the sleep deprivation, the weaning from breast or bottle, not to mention pacifier, security blanket, and numerous annoying habits, potty training, bouts of crying when you leave them at preschool for the first time, tantrums, discipline, getting them to go to sleep by themselves, the year or two when they insist on waking you in some bone-jarring fashion, and five birthday parties full of sugar-hyped screamers, the thought of starting all over again at square one sounds about as enticing as standing in front of a freight train.

And yet that sucker is barreling down on you with its big biological clock plastered right to the front of it in plain view.

So, after a few weeks of either feeling renewed newlywed bliss or more often, the freakiness of being the subjects of some carefully-watched clinical research study, you find yourself staring at two pink lines, saying, “Yikes! There’s no going back now.”

Oh sure, you calm down, you smile, you rest your hand on your belly and think, wow, there really is a little one in there.  But then the nausea sets in and you begin to recall the so-called bliss that got you here and begin to seriously question whether it was worth it.   If you’re lucky - if he’s lucky, and the nausea goes away in a few weeks, he’ll begin to look like your Prince Charming again.  But if that nausea decides to stay the entire nine months, or, in other words - it’s a girl, that man better find a really good place to hide because if your paths cross again there’s going to be a whole different kind of fireworks between you.

But then, as life happens, that nine months is over before you have fully accepted what you’ve gotten yourself into.   You see them place that baby in her Daddy’s arms, a love in his eyes that takes your breath away, and the hostility of the last nine months drains away in the time it takes her to wrap his heart around her little finger.   

Later, when big brother caresses her little cheek and softly sings to her with that same adoration, you finally relax.  You just know that all will be okay.

Then she learns to crawl, then walk, then run, then worse....jump.   And it’s not until you’ve rearranged the furniture to accommodate the hamster Habitrail of huge indoor toys to keep her entertained, or just somewhat contained, that you realize what you’ve done.    When the entire family sits glassy-eyed, tazered to their spots like blue silhouettes on a downed electrical wire, just watching her bounce off the furnishings like a squirrel whose acorns were laced with something a little nutty, you just know that surviving the first five years with this child will pale in comparison to what you thought you’d survived with the first.

And no matter how vastly different the older child is - or maybe because you realize how different they are, there is a moment when it hits you like a lightning bolt between the eyes, oh my goodness, there are TWO of them now!

I’d venture to guess that moment came when the little one started talking, in our case, paragraphs, entire dissertations, a full eight months ahead of where her brother was when he uttered a few grunts that could pass as “airplane” or “train”, and from that moment on, your previously quiet, joyful house, was filled with whining, arguments and eardrum-piercing screaming matches that were surely the cause of the rash of For Sale signs going up in your neighborhood.

Ohhhhh, the headaches of having an age spread.   The repetitions that you are sure you could continue to recite without interruption, even from a comatose state.   Please try to remember that she is only two.  She really will outgrow this, I promise!  Seriously, I can not take another minute of that whining - just let her have the toy already!  I know it isn’t fair, just do it anyway.  What is going on in there?  She was happy a minute ago, so what did you do????   Leave her alone.  You have got to stop trying to be the parent.  We are standing right here.  We will take care of it.   What on earth is wrong NOW?  Okay, that’s enough! Just stop!   No hitting.  No pushing.  No grabbing.  No throwing.  No, no, no, NO!!!!  If you keep whining and fussing like that, I will put you in time out.  I didn’t ask you if you wanted to, I’m telling you to.   We are NOT going to start our day like this!

You would think that by now, after all the hard work you put into “raising” the first one, that they would have some iota of self control, some inborn first born thing that tells them how to deal with issues the same way you do, but nope, as it turns out, they are still just kids themselves and now, on top of everything you thought you’d already perfected in this parenting thing, you’ve got to learn the toughest performance of all - the balancing act.

It’s hard enough to figure out how to care for their individual needs when they have similar personalities, when they are both compliant, quiet children who smile pleasantly  and have little imaginary hearts and halos floating around their heads at all times.   But when that second child comes along and sets ablaze everything you ever thought you knew about motherhood, and you now know how deceived you were by that first child’s quiet nature, keeping your balance between them is like walking a high wire with a purring kitten strapped to one leg and a bucking bronco strapped to the other.  All day long, you try to shift your weight so that the whole act doesn’t come crashing down.  

With each step, you are trying to manage opposing forces - Logic and reason versus simple commands, moral lessons versus basic etiquette, encouraging independence versus total dependency, quality time versus quantity time, paying attention versus the center of attention, reassurance of your love versus acceptance of your love.     It’s dizzying on a good day, a long way down on a bad day.

For on those days when it all comes crashing down and somebody winds up in a heap of neglected tears, you remember the original lady with the baby in the stroller and the young toddler walking alongside, and suddenly, you’d give anything to be able to just toss a couple of squeaky toys in their direction and watch them both giggle with delight.

Reaching up and falling down

Every day, I ride a unicycle on a wooden board.  That wooden board is balancing on a ball.  That ball is balancing on a bigger ball, and that one balancing on one even bigger.  I am destined to fail, but I am trying so hard to keep it all upright, because the moment it all comes crashing down, I know somebody will end up crying.

Today, I fell.

Sure, I felt the wobble, I knew I had to shift my weight, but I tried to ignore it.

While I balanced on the 32 balls it takes to feed, clothe, diaper, clean up after, discipline, teach and monotonously entertain a toddler, I had rolled right past the big kid, not even able to see him from the height I was at.

But it was alright.  I knew he was down there, and I knew he was okay.  After all, he’s so big and independent now; he could pretty much take care of himself.   And he certainly didn’t need to play with his Mommy anymore.  He had moved on to more high-tech toys long ago.   And of course, there was Daddy, whom he seemed to prefer anyway.

So, I went on, adding another ball and another, until I was so high in the air trying to maintain it all, that I could no longer see the bottom.

But today, the big kid and I collided and the bottom rushed up to meet me at panicking speed.

I could see the tears, hear his words, but flailed helplessly, unable to say anything profound enough to help us emerge from the pile of balls we were now buried under.

For that tower I’d been balancing on so tediously may be in ruins, but the remnants of it were still there, keeping me fighting to find a way out of the rubble.   It was all there - the full time care of the second child, from time-consuming infant to the energetic toddler she’d become, the marriage imperfections, the year of battling Cancer that I could never get back, the mountain of debt, the uncertainty for the future, and every little worry and setback in between.

All of it, each distraction, each new responsibility, each trial had become one more thing to balance.  I climbed higher and higher, trying to get above it all, not realizing that the whole time, he was still reaching up.

So, today I found myself in that rubble, very much aware that even though all the problems were still there, I couldn’t balance them all, and now here they were, not only weighing down on me, but on my big kid as well.    I remembered, in an instant, how much I loved him, and knew I had to reach out, find his hand, and help him stand on solid ground again.

It took some time, but eventually, he was able to see through the clearing I’d made.   And as I moved that last piece of fallen debris, I began to see more clearly too.   For in that instant, with his forgiving arms wrapped around me, I realized that sometimes, falling is good.

Beauty in the breakables

Ceramic and porcelain.  Tin or resin or glass.  It is amazing to me that these raw materials, once moldable in someone’s hands, can come to shape the memories of our lives.  Their final sculptures the embodiment of our hopes, our dreams, our losses, our joy.

We all have them.  They are there, on a high shelf, away from little fingers. Or tucked inside a curio cabinet, securely locked.   They are the sacred things that have so marked the journey of our lives.  Small fragments of their creator’s imagination, and yet monumental reminders of our milestones.

We can look at them and instantly be transported to a moment in time - a wedding, a dream fulfilled, a birth, a death.

And that one small cross, that oval frame, that figurine can wrench more emotion from us than the best Hollywood screenplay or award-winning novel.  For this isn’t the stuff of fiction.  We have lived it.

We know each plea of the heart, each drop of blood, sweat and tears, every prayer whispered.  We know which prayers were answered and which paths God chose for us instead.   And we remember - the heat of the kiln, the darkness of the forest, the glory of sunshine on our face in the morning.

In my home, I can stand in one spot, and take a journey through decades in just an instant.  A lover’s gift, a sweet grandmother’s words, the birth of a first child, death of second.   Sorrow turned over to God, hope born anew.  New life.

It’s not just about motherhood; it’s about life.   The life that formed you before motherhood, the life you thought was preparing you for motherhood, the birth and death and kiln and forest and sunshine that really is motherhood.    It’s who you were, who inspired you, who you aspired to become.   It’s what you dreamed, what you never would have chosen, what you do with all of it in the end.

It’s an endless collection of crystal and china, silver and gold,  blown glass and porcelain memories. Breakable and delicate, strong and withstanding all together in one sweep of your eyes.   This is you.

It’s your journey of motherhood, your journey of life.    It’s not perfect; it’s not always easy, but it’s yours.   This is your story.   And though at times, it seems mundane and other times too painful to bear, there are also sprinklings of joy, lessons learned, glimpses of God. 

With each new piece, you are given a gift, to know more of what it is to empathize, to comfort, to endure, to inspire, to love.

When you use these gifts as God leads, someday, others will stand back and look at all the keepsakes you placed upon your shelf.  And though to the outside eye they may be lumps of silver or porcelain or glass, the people with whom you shared your gifts will smile.   For your story will now be part of theirs.  It won’t be perfect, but it will be beautiful.

The love songs before the lullabies

It’s a beautiful day outside.  Well, at least, through the window.  The sun is shining, casting shadows of the bare trees on my neighbors homes across the street.   Dry leaves add texture and color to the barren grass.  The Winter sky is even blue. If not for the small hint of snow covering part of our walkway and the dreadful temperature if I dared to open the door, I might think it was Spring.

The little one is tucked in for her afternoon nap and the big one is downstairs, happily lapping up Daddy’s attention without interference from the little sister.   And so I find myself alone.  Wow!

I’d been listening to some wonderfully romantic songs as I made lunch and attempted to make headway on the trail of toys that would surely have to be, at the very least, parted like the Red Sea, to get through to the crib.   I could easily sit here and replay those same songs over and over again.  But that seems a little indulgent, when I’ve told myself again and again that I must write.

But oh to dream of romance, the kind that only songs are made up of.   The kind I only wish my husband would think of.   Well, that’s not entirely true.  He’s been very romantic over the years.  But somehow the recent years and the change from one child to two, and the doubly fast rate at which our energy is spent and our patience exhausted, leaves little room to think of anything but survival.  I could tell myself it’s the, ahem, few, extra pounds I’ve put on, or the fact that oh, I don’t know, I’ve had poisonous radiation in my Cancer-fighting body from time to time, but let’s face it, he’s a man, and those things really don’t matter as much as I blame them.  It’s the kids. Pure and simple. 

Let’s face it, when two people are in love, we’re kind of like the postman - come rain, come shine, come snow, sleet or hail, we’ll always deliver the “mail”, but somehow, when you’re carrying children, rather than love letters, the burden seems so much heavier.

Oh, it’s not their fault.   And we love the little buggers.  But it sure would be nice to remember what it was like to think of something other than them.   Somewhere, in the far recesses of my brain, I remember the stars in my eyes.  Heck, I even remember stars on the ceiling one time, but that’s a romantic story for another time....  But now all I think about are the bags under my eyes and the stress in his.

I’d like to think we’ll get back there someday, to those stars, but since we’re “older” parents, it’s a bit scary to think how much we might have to squint to see those stars by then.

Then there are days when I wonder if the battle scars of not only motherhood, but fatherhood as well, will be too many, too much to overcome.   You always hear how you have to work at a marriage, and you think you are strong enough to do it.   And sure, you think you know how much children are going to take out of you, how they will become your primary focus, but there are ways in which they affect your marriage that you never think about going in.  

For when you have children, you start to see each other differently.   At first, it’s with those same stars in your eyes, only brighter.  The stars that caress that tiny baby in their arms and say, wow, look what we made.  Look how beautiful this is.  But then there are the comets, the flames that come shooting in and leaving a trail of dust you didn’t count on.   Because when you become a mother, your allegiance shifts to those children.  It’s not a conscious choice; it just happens.    And even if you love your husband with a ferocity that is unmatched by your peers, you will still cough a bit on that comet’s dust, and sometimes, you’ll even find yourself choking.

It’s that argument that you know your little one overheard, the manner of discipline that you wouldn’t have chosen, the habits you wish he’d abandon already, the lack of tenderness in his voice or nurturing in his manner.  It’s your reaction to him - the sullenness, the defensiveness, the protectiveness, the tearful withdrawal. 

And you lie awake at night wondering what effect these events will have on your children.  What kind of people will they become?  Will they grow into people who can love and be loved? Will they be responsible with that love?  Will they be committed and faithful - even when their own children come?

And yet you turn on the romantic songs from time to time and you look toward your husband and you remember.  His eyes on your wedding night.  His sneaky smile as he planned your romantic surprise.  His arms around you as you danced.   And you long for yesterday.   Before you were divided, yet forever bonded together by these children.

Somewhere deep in your heart you know that you will have to let your children go, let them fly and discover love and all that it entails, for themselves, and you will have to forgive, maybe a lot, of your spouse.

Sometimes the pain is great, sometimes it seems there is no way back.  But then you turn on the romantic songs, the ones of your youth, the ones that you grew with through the decades, and you hope.  And who knows, maybe the love you find won’t be the same one you left behind, but maybe it will be like this sunshine on the barren trees today - some new and different kind of Spring.  Maybe it won’t quite be perfect just yet, but it will hold the promise of warmth, of color, of discoveries to be made, and maybe, just maybe, it will be the best season ever.