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.

Put your little hand in mine lest I fall

Being a mom is hard every single day.  Sometimes, it’s hard work, physically.  Sometimes, it’s emotionally trying.   Sometimes, it’s both.   There is teaching and discipline and worry all woven together with house work, errands, chauffeuring and chaos.

But there are other moments when being a mom goes beyond being hard, those times when just being human is unbearable.  Hard is when you get a phone call and your kids won’t stop following you around, jabbering on in the background.   Unbearable is the phone call that changes your life forever.

The money is all gone.  The adoption fell through.  Your parents are getting divorced.  Your best friend was just killed in a car crash.  The storm hit your home town.   The diagnosis is Cancer.   Your beloved soldier won’t be coming home.   The baby is dead.   There were no survivors.

There are phone calls that knock us to our knees, lay us out flat on the floor, suck the last drop of air from our lungs, and yet we find ourselves there, in our motherhood, with the phone still dangling from our lifeless hands, filling yet another sippy cup, looking over homework, answering endless questions.

There are those moments in life when we know the tears should come, the tears will come, but we are paralyzed by our motherhood.  We are stricken numb, yet somehow still moving, because we have to, because it’s all we know, because we have no choice.

And yet, we are human.  The very life has been drained out of our chests; if we breathe too deeply, we know that we shall surely feel the gaping hole collapse.   We are gasping for air, even as we scream at our children, adding the tears of our guilt to the pool of sorrow collecting in our hearts - the ocean we know shall surely spill over the minute they are in their beds and we are silently praying, “please don’t let them wake up!”  It is then, and only then, when we are truly allowed to fall apart, to have one second, and then a rush of seconds, of minutes, of long, sleepless hours, to curl into a ball and just begin to process the impact of the blow.   If only they don’t wake up, you can have the rest of the night to be a person, a human being, not just a mom.

For a mom, the phrase “and life goes on around you” takes on a whole new meaning.  You can’t break down.  You can’t retreat.  You can’t succumb to the tidal wave that threatens to pull you under and bash your head against the rocks, because even then, in the darkest moment of your life, you are aware of the impact it will have on your children.

Your thoughts are racing with protecting them, from sadness, from fear, from the unknown and yet you can scarcely hold yourself upright.   There is so much you’ll have to explain, and yet so much you can’t explain.   So much you want to say, so much you must question whether or not to say.   You are so very aware of the careful wording of the Mommy language, and yet you are screaming at God from the depths of your being.   You are angry, you are scared, and you are so very very sad.

Being a mom is hard every single day.  But once in a while, it’s unbearable.  It’s cruel and heartless and a knife twisting in your back.   And yet life goes on around you.   And because today may be that day for you, I just want to say what nobody else may say.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that in the moment of your deepest pain, you don’t get to hide away with your hurt.   Don’t worry if you yell.  They’ll forgive you. They will.  They will.  

Do the best you can.  After all, even though you’re a mom, you’re still only human.  And sometimes, being human just hurts.

I had that kind of day recently, maybe not as bad as yours, but still, I know.   And I’m sorry.  So very sorry.

Life really isn't fair

It’s a strange day.   That last day before I “go all Glo-stick” again.  That’s what I call it - the radiation.  Because if I didn’t poke fun at it, I would never smile at all - ever.   Cancer can be all-consuming, the “what ifs”, the “whys”, the “it’s not fairs.” 

But it’s not fair.  It’s not fair that I have to put something into my body to help it, but that same something, if not kept at a careful distance, could harm the very ones I love the most- my kids.

So, it’s a strange day.  It’s a day of knowing that tomorrow, I will dutifully go to the hospital and let the white coats there unlock a little pill from what looks like a series of jars made of the same stuff of armored cars or bomb shelters, and I will swallow the crazy thing - not because I want to, not because I have to, but because I should - for my kids.

And yet, once I do swallow it, I am kept from the very children who motivate me to take it in the first place.   For, once I begin to “glo”, I can no longer hug my kids.  The radiation could harm them.   So, it’s a crazy contradiction on the way to a very long couple of days of not knowing.  It could either be two days of no hugs, or two weeks, but only time, and yet another yearly scan at the hospital will tell.

What am I supposed to do with that last, strange day - the day before?   It’s not like I can hug my kids all day long, squishing their little heads like soft melons, soaking in all the sweet juice as though it will forever quench my thirst.   For even as I hug them, play with them, kiss their cheeks, hug them some more, I feel the scratchiness in my throat.  It’s already getting dry.   By tomorrow morning, I’ll be completely parched.

For how can a mother ever drink in enough hugs to last - a day, two days, two weeks, a lifetime?

Every moment, our children are growing.  Every moment, they are slipping away.   We only get so many “little” kid hugs, the ones that are given with such pure, uncomplicated joy.  The kind where arms are thrown around you with reckless abandon, simply because you are “Mommy” or “Mama” or “Mom.”  The hugs that are so full of love that it fills the air between you and you are one, both breathing the same fullness of emotion that is completely untouched by time.  For in those moments, you forget that they are slipping away.  You just reach out, emptying yourself into the moment, letting their unconditional love fill you until you nearly spill over.

But for me, once a year, those moments cease.   I can not empty myself into the moment, for I’m afraid that I may remain empty.   The “What ifs” come back - first timid, then aggressive, then mean, then with  outright heinous cruelty.    What if he forgets to hug me goodbye before school - before my trip to the hospital tomorrow?   What if the little one, trusting that I always come back, doesn’t understand the significance of hugging me extra tight that last time before I leave?   What if when I come back, she doesn’t understand that now she can’t hug me, and it makes her sad?  What if a horrible tragedy strikes and this is the last time I get to hug any of them, ever?   Round and round those thoughts could go and more like a little kid than a 40 year old woman, I want to stomp my foot and scream, “It’s not fair!”

It’s not fair, God, that I have to go through all this.   The physical part is a nuisance, an unpleasant pest that pops up from time to time, buzzing around, ready to bite if I don’t keep swatting it away.  But the emotional part is worse.  It’s always there, a heavy, cumbersome clock on my back, weighing me down and deafening my ears with it’s loud bells tolling away the hours of my kids’ childhoods.   It’s a burden, too heavy to carry, but one that I’m unable to discard.  Their whole childhoods will be like this - me never completely able to relax because I’m on the lookout for that buzzing insect again - the one whose bite could take me down, permanently.  Or, at the very least, my neck tensed, ears pricked for the sound of the bells tolling - that moment that says, once again my time with them is interrupted.   Interrupted by days without hugs, nights of restless sleep, haunted thoughts.

It’s not fair.   I just want to hug my children.  Just hug them.  I don’t want to think about what it means to hug them, what a privilege it is to hug them, how much longer I’ll be able to hug them.

For as a mother, it’s all too soon that they “outgrow” our hugs anyway. 

It’s not fair.

Enter at your own risk

Sometimes I feel like I should hang a sign on the front door that says, “Reminder: I have kids.”  Or perhaps I should have a short speech prepared for those who enter my home, much like the flight attendants who are required to inform you of safety procedures before you place your life in the hands of the airline staff.

Although most of the time, you will not be at risk of physical injury in my home, there are no guarantees.  A wayward light saber, toy rifle  or not quite so plush indoor ball have been known to leave a few marks.

However, the main reason I feel compelled to remind people, or maybe educate them in the first place, as to what it means to have kids inside, is that for those of you who are childless, you really have no idea what you are in for.

When you enter my home for a visit, there will rarely be a sentence completed that doesn’t involve some interjection such as  “Please share the toy” or “Hey! Don’t do that!” or “Try me again you little maniac and you will be in time out until you graduate college!”   So, please don’t expect my full attention.

If we are sharing a meal, it will not be served on fine china, or even anything akin to your mama’s matching Corelle dinnerware.    You will receive your pizza, which was frozen until twenty minutes before you arrived, on whatever scraps of plates and bowls that are the least scratched and chipped.  If yours happens to be decorated with My Little Pony, you’re just going to have to deal with it.

The food will not be served in a luxurious dining room setting, but rather in a stress free splatter zone such as over the kitchen linoleum or living room hardwood.   I can also pretty much promise you that no two adults and children will ever be seated at the same time.   Children aren’t really geared for sitting still.

Though I have made a decent effort to clean before your arrival, damage control is a much better term for what I actually accomplished.  Therefore, if there is something sticky, mushy, crumbly, or otherwise mysterious occupying the same space as you, I sincerely apologize, but please, no grimacing mouths or rolling eyes until you are pulling out of my driveway.   You can gloat over your clean white gloves at your own house, but I don’t need that kind of guilt.   I’m already wracked with more guilt over all the ways I will screw up these small human beings, than your obsessive need for cleanliness could ever contribute to my depression.

You are welcome to move about my home freely and serve yourself whatever refreshment helps to alleviate the culture shock you now find yourself in, but be aware that there is no tutorial offered for how to operate the various locks and barricades you must maneuver to accomplish your goals.   It’s every man for himself around here.  We are lucky if we can figure out how to open a drawer or open the door to the basement stairs.   But if you do figure it out, and you happen to see my red-handled can opener, please, whatever you do, don’t lock it up again.

I really hope that you can enjoy this time of socializing, but if the two year old handing you small pieces of Play-doh, Cheese Puffs, or broken crayon tips is bothering you, you’re in for a long night.   Sure, you could suggest that she sit quietly in “that” corner of the room and look at books, but know that the intensity of your desire for her to do so is in direct contradiction to the fascination she will have with your reactions to her various little “gifts.”

And, while you are desperately racking your brain, trying to figure out where you can politely deposit  this strange little collection of stuff, instead, your hands will overflow because you won’t be able to problem solve and attentively listen to the seven year old’s dissertation on every action figure ever manufactured by Hasbro or Mattel.

You may, however, inquire as to whether we have aspirin.    The answer will be an emphatic yes, but by the time we figure out how to unlock that cabinet, it may be quicker for you to run down to the local liquor store.

All I can say is that for your sake, I hope it isn’t the dead of winter, and that your battery starts, because if you have to stay with us for any length of time, you’re going to need something stronger than that old piece of spearmint gum you found in your coat pocket.

For you will first be tortured with sleep deprivation.   Even after the natives have wound down and collapsed from their three hour pow-wow, you will have to clear a collection of squeaky toys, cookie crumbs and stray, dirty socks from under the couch cushions before you can spread your bed sheets there.   You will spend another twenty minutes or so studying the stains in peculiar places on these sheets, and assessing just how important warmth and/or absence of couch texture face is to you.

If you decide to forge ahead, you are most certainly welcome to use the bathroom for your nighttime rituals.  You wouldn’t have thought to bring a toothbrush, but we can at least offer you toothpaste for your finger tip.  However, you should know that the cap may have been licked at some point in time.   The soap dispenser will shoot some sort of green foam into your hand.  Please do not be alarmed. The color really was put there by the manufacturer.    If you happen to knock the rubber ducky, squirting whale, sifter cups, sea animal sponges or bath paints into the sink while you are attempting to reach the faucet, not to worry.  They were probably never completely dry anyway.

I apologize in advance for the lack of ease in using the toilet paper roll.   Though I know you’d like it to spin and tear off easily, instead it will make an awkward thwump, thwump, thwump as it turns and sticks, turns and sticks.   It’s no use taking apart the holder mechanism and looking for a defect.   The tissue itself was, while still in the original plastic, used as a ride-on toy by the kids, thereby crushing every cardboard roll in the 24 pack package.

If you make it back to the couch without stepping on something that rolls or squeaks, thus waking one of the natives, you might, just might, be able to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.  However, if you’re fond of the really restful sleep that comes in the latter part of the night, you may be just a wee bit annoyed to find that your eyelids are being stretched open by tiny, prying fingers well before you are coherent enough to know your own name or how you ended up here.

When you finally stumble down the front steps to meet the ride that has come to rescue you and your broken down vehicle, don’t feel badly about the rate of speed at which you exit.  Many stronger than you have turned tail and run sooner than the morning light.

And don’t worry, if we find any of your belongings left behind, we’ll put them in the mail.   All we ask is that you never, ever, tell anyone what you saw here.   We get so few visitors as it is.

Hello, I could use a little help here

Do you ever get the feeling some people are blind?  No, I don’t mean physically without sight, but rather, just so absorbed in their own pursuits that they only see what they want to see?

I will never forget the time I was over 8 months pregnant and attended school registration night for my firstborn.   Upon entering the building, you were immediately directed to follow the line of tables, making your way around until you had accomplished all the necessary steps, from meeting the teacher, to arranging for after school child care, to making sure the school nurse had your current medical information.  However, in what I’m sure was a malicious marketing manipulation, the Parents And Teachers group was placed at the first table.

They greeted me with their chipper hellos.  At 8 ½ months pregnant, I did not like chipper.   In fact, I despised chipper.   So, when these bouncy, overly enthusiastic women thrust their well-thought-out pamphlets into my face and revved up their sales pitch for all the wonders that are supposedly the PTA, it was all I could do to not envision their heads, or at least their pamphlets in a chipper - a wood chipper, that is.  I do not exaggerate when I tell you that salesperson number one rattled on for a good five minutes about all the upcoming activities the PTA would sponsor, and all the benefits of said activities to the students, who by the way, were still waiting to be enrolled, while she yammered on.   At the climax of her big speech was the hook, wouldn’t I like to be involved in these activities that are sure to stimulate the young minds of our students, reinforce the love I have for my child in the way of school spirit and hands-on involvement, and most certainly secure my child’s academic and social success for years to come?  Uh, no.

But surely I could give just an hour or two of my time to oversee any of the upcoming parties right there on her list, printed up so neatly in such pretty fonts.

Uh, no.

But....

But nothing!  Did you happen to notice, while your eyes glossed over into the glory land that is the PTA, that I am roughly the combined size of three eighth graders who spent the entire summer eating Ding-Dongs at the very least, and oh, I don’t know, the size of a beached whale at the other end of the spectrum?   Did you ever once come down off your hooray-for-involvement cloud long enough to notice that I may drop this baby right here between your bullet points if you don’t hurry this line along?  Because seriously, the longer your mouth moves, the more I’m sure I felt a contraction.

And yet, being the mature adult that I am, I bit my tongue and politely called attention to my ever expanding belly and made note that as I was due to have a caesarean soon, I wouldn’t be attending any parties or other events for quite some time.

When the rest of her face glazed over to match her eyes, as though she had no comprehension of the effects of major surgery, lactating, stool softeners, or overnight feedings, I had two choices: give her a surely unforgettable speech of my own, or slip away quietly as it would seem she would never notice anyway.   Again, being the mature adult that I am, I chose the latter.  But oh how I dreamed about the former when I was exhausted from childbirth.

Unfortunately, I've found that this special breed of blindness doesn't just exist at school.  Everywhere I go, there are people who are so absorbed in their own ideas that they fail to see past their quota sheet to the nearly depleted, barely-hanging-on-most-days mother that I am.    There was another woman who suffered from this blindness, not part of the PTA, thankfully, but in a group just as aggressive in their desperation - the rotating schedule, church nursery workers, otherwise known as the Guilt Trip Troupe.  

Now granted, I feel for these women, I really do.    They’ve got their work cut out for them because people start getting that crazed squirrel look in their eyes when they see these women coming and they realize there are perpendicular walls at their backs.   And you know they know it - nobody wants to be on that schedule.   For goodness sakes, sometimes, if truth be told, we only come to church just so we can drop those little monsters, I mean angels, off for someone else to watch for 30 minutes.    We know that it will be the only 30 minutes of sanity we get all week, and since it takes at least 15 minutes to use the restroom and stop looking back to feel like we forgot something - or someone, we’re already down to 15 minutes of free time.   By the time we sit in our pew and roll through the list of things we need to do today - without interruption - praise the Lord! - we’re down to about 5 minutes left.   And we spend that remaining 5 minutes half guilt ridden for missing the entire sermon except for bits and pieces about the Proverbs woman, and half in dread because we know it will be an entire week before we get that half a minute of anything close to pure, perfect peace again.  So, I’m telling you right now clipboard lady, do not attempt to corner me!   I will have all the tact of a rabies infested rodent.

And yet, I had one such lady boldly pass the “Danger: Not Afraid to Use Fangs or Claws” sign mounted to my forehead and actually begin to - gasp - speak!

I felt sorry for her, I really did.  I, like every other mother of young children, had the Rolodex file of excuses open and imprinted on the tip of my tongue before she even got within biting distance.    To her credit, she handled the dejection well.   But, it was all I could do not to say, “You’re just so young!  You have no idea!”

For this particular woman, this young lady, oh let’s face it - a kid herself next to someone of my age, was a newlywed.  The word “husband” still rolled off her tongue with all the delight of whipped cream and strawberries.   In other words, she is clueless.  

She has no idea that she will soon be in utter bewilderment as to how she could loathe this man, whose title just such a short time ago brought so much innocent pleasure.    Oh, she’ll still love him - very much, but she will surely hate him too.  It’s just inevitable.    And then, when the children arrive, and she’s been exposed to the motherhood virus for a while, and her immune system becomes more and more weak, she will finally begin to understand the fear in the eyes of the women who are being hunted by the nursery workers' rotating schedule clipboard.

But until that time, I nod and smile and let her live the dream a little bit longer.  She is blind to me.   She can only see me as a fellow woman, someone who would surely care about the spiritual welfare of our youngest congregation members.   She is blind to the haggard woman, standing - barely, before her, hoping beyond hope that the pastor’s sermon will run long today.   But her day is coming, so I smile again, making sure she knows it’s nothing personal.

But I think the biggest winner of all in the Blind-To-A-Mother’s-Needs category, is sad to say, my very own, well, let’s just say “relative” and play nice just this once.

It so happened that it was time for my annual Cancer follow-up and as usual, I had spent days upon days trying to secure the necessary child care for all my barrage of medical tests and hospital visits.  Unfortunately, at the last minute, one of my babysitters fell through due to illness.   So, it left me scrambling to find any possible way to keep from dragging a two year old along to my blood draw - because wouldn’t that just take all the fun out of the whole lab experience?

I thought of this “relative” first because she was not employed at the time, had no small children to care for, had no real concrete responsibilities of any kind - and she lived close. 

So, I called and asked if she might be able to fill in while I, you know, set tests in motion to make sure I don’t still have CANCER in my body.   Imagine my shock, no that’s too flimsy a word for what I was feeling, when she actually opened her mouth and said that no, she couldn’t help because she had a fun day planned with her friend and they were both just so excited about it.

For a split second I thought if the Cancer hadn’t gotten me yet, I may just succumb to a heart attack.  Did a Cancer patient with no one to care for her two year old for half an hour actually just get trumped by shoe shopping and lunch at Dennys?  Or was that a speed bump the Earth just hit on it’s way to a full, screeching stop?

If I’d been able to speak, I’m sure I would have asked her if she’d ever been a member of the PTA.

I wonder what it’s like to wander around in complete darkness like that.  Or maybe these women are so entranced by their own aura of light that they are oblivious to the rest of us, whose unmet needs are drifting further and further into the shadows they cast.

Either way, they are blind.

I am not a newlywed and I am not a PTA member, but at least you can outgrow or retire from either of those positions, whereas pure ignorance, in either definition of the word, would seem to be a bigger obstacle to overcome.

So, I beg you, my readers, open your eyes.   Let go of your own pursuits today, just long enough to look around and see the needs in front of you.    If you find that you’re a little out of practice, and you can’t really seem to see a need, I guarantee that any mother of children under the age of ten, and even more so if they are under the age of five, would craft your halo herself if you offered her a prepared or even pre-paid meal, a hand with the house cleaning, or jewel of all jewels in your crown - a nap!  You may have to wait until her children are in college to receive said halo, but trust me, she will not forget.    People who notice the exasperation, the unending exhaustion of parenting young children are never forgotten, and those who actually reach out to help, well, there is no word lofty enough to describe their worth.  They are priceless.

We mothers need help.   We need to know that somebody out there still has their vision intact.  And we desperately need a nap.   Your own pursuits can wait until tomorrow.  Be priceless today.