Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile

Write to Heal, Writing

Ain’t Nobody Got Time for . . .

A small kelly green hardbound book with a gold embossed border and square locking mechanism.

Even then, in the dire days of second grade, I failed to fill in the daily pages.

Perhaps the slot at the top of each page to fill in the date was where my ongoing cycle of expectation/failure/guilt got its perfectionist start. If only there were simply blank pages with no open forward slashes for month/day/year, maybe then I would’ve been free to record my thoughts as I wished, order them as needed.

But it was only this summer that it took me two entire days to write one entry in my journal. Now the pages were wide open, but my days were not. The stream of thoughts were interrupted when sports practice actually ended on time one evening and completed in fits and starts when swim lessons turned into extended splashing in the shallows. As parents beckoned with outstretched towels, I began to stir from my chair. But my little leapfrog still happily skidded her hands across the surface of the water even as her classmates began to leave. And her older sisters were likely still snoozing. So why not let her play a while longer and finish my thoughts?

Staying seated in that chair strained every productive perfect bone in my body.

Will another mom see me with my head down and judge me as putting my child in danger? (I looked up every few words and rose from time to time to make eye contact with her) Should I go home and check on her sisters? (I’d texted and only one had risen and started to think about breakfast) What laundry/dishes/errands need to be completed next? (The list was never-ending and would still be there when I got home)

Why did letting my child extend her playtime in the outdoors feel like a bad choice?

Because, in this instance, it meant that I got to fill the lines on my pages and my cup. Because in a daily schedule/vocation/lifestyle (ie motherhood) that society orders as self-less, it seems self-ish to take a few minutes for oneself. On a perpetual treadmill, it seems wasteful to sit and stare into space.

But just as it did my daughter well to soak up some sunshine and wonder in the lapping water, it did me well to off-load some thoughts and feelings onto the page, synthesize others, and start with a clean slate.

In that instant I couldn’t change the tempo of my life, I couldn’t create time, but I chose to step out it. I chose to do something that would allow a refreshed me to step back in.

And we all have that choice.

Whether we draw, doodle, sketch; list, pen lengthy diatribes, or long poems; write letters to someone with whom we’re angry, our younger or future self; discover truths buried deep in our hearts or a simply profound recognition – journalling is whatever we make of it and accessible to us all.

All it takes is a piece of paper, something to write with, and a willingness to be open.

This may be the exact diary I had! Minus the kelly green and drugstore sticker!
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Weekend Write-Off, Writing

One Pizza at a Time

Usually I use Weekend Write-off posts as a place to share an update on my own writing, thoughts on process, or an excerpt from the book on my bedside table, but today I am excited to feature a young writer with a wise outlook. Sometimes it takes the eyes of a child to put things in perspective.

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motherhood

Anger is an Easier Emotion

I just sent my first born to college. 

It went surprisingly well. 

That may be because I am as good at denial as she is. 

In the weeks leading up to go-time, there were details to attend to, failed fill-ins re her often late-night plans to yell about, dorm accoutrements to pack.  The day before and day of move-in, it was all hands on deck, shuttling things downstairs, out the door, and onto the roof of the car. 

Even on campus, it was fine, fun even.  Setting up a fresh new space.  Her younger sisters scouring the bookstore for swag. 

Then it was time to say goodbye. 

Her face shifted as rapidly as her eyes did when I suggested she walk us out.  Her eyes stayed steady on us as we crossed the pedestrian bridge, each of us turning and waving every few steps.  But as we walked parallel to the drainage ditch between us, her eyes went to her phone as I looked one last time. 

I knew she was trying to focus on something other than the tears in her eyes.  I knew she was trying to ‘act normal’ as she moved past the others buzzing around the dorm entrance.  I didn’t bother trying to act normal as I trailed along behind the remains of my troop.  I stubbornly willed my next two oldest to stop peeking backward glances to gauge mom’s reaction.  I angrily cursed the still-smiling parents who stole a glance as they moved past us in the opposite direction. 

The ride home was empty.  All of us spent.  In every sense.  The youngest’s feelings coming out as rage when she couldn’t hold the box of cheesy marine-life I’d brought for fortification. 

That first week, her father and I endured many unreturned texts.  We had dire questions about logistics and deadlines.  She had a ‘tude when I called her on it during a video chat.  But at the end of the week, she admitted that maybe she didn’t want to talk because it would remind her how much she missed us. 

I had wondered if that was the case.  I wasn’t trying to make myself feel better; I was actually able to apply some psychology to this very personal experience.  Because I’d already applied anger. 

How can she just ignore our texts?  She’s talked to her sisters, why can’t she respond to us?  We need to know she’s submitted that very important thing.

When we finally came to some sort of consensus at the end of that week, I balanced my managerial texts with silly mom ones.  And she called me for a question about laundry settings, but continued to talk well after she’d received her answer. 

While the overwrought laundry fairy in me was incredulous at her query, the part of me that missed her terribly was tweaked.  She still needed me.  She needed to talk out the goings-on of her new weird days and perhaps get a little encouragement.  But how did I support her without giving unwarranted advice?  How would I validate her struggles without making her dwell on them?  I certainly didn’t want to dismiss them. 

We talked and laughed and I felt ever more acutely the shift into a new sort of relationship.  One I’d had glimpses of, interactions with, but felt more solidly on this side of it with her on the other end of a line stretched farther than it ever had yet. 

And it scared me to hear my mother in my voice, in my responses.  The gentle way she listened to my adult woes, the unrequited caregiving brimming in her intonation, the help she wanted to give but knew wasn’t her path to tread. 

My heart ached at the way I’d inadvertently pushed her away because I now knew it was my turn.  In the long chain of mother and daughter stretching backward, that phone call that started with a question about colors and whites added a link going forward.  And even though I knew it was time, I didn’t want it forged.  Somewhere between denial, anger, and acquiescence, it had happened without my realizing. 

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Perspective

O’s Wide Open

There are cheerios in various states of being scattered all over the floor. 

Ground into the rug, skidded across the tile, tucked underneath the sofa. 

No, I’m not describing my own home floors, though we do still find errant Cheerios from time to time.

The mini oat rounds I spy today are surface-decorating the service area of my local car dealership. 

A little toddler, whose peals of laughter were as prolific as his breakfast cereal distribution, has covered nearly every square inch of this place.  He has brought employees out of their offices, joy to the face of an elderly woman sitting solo, a smile to the gruff service advisor. 

He has also brought his mother continual and constant cardio.

She laughingly accused him of throwing the Os as a distraction so he could run the other way while she stooped to collect it.  She was laughing, but she wasn’t kidding.  He was a cunning little cutie. 

There is nothing quite so invigorating to a space and/or group of people as a small child.  

Except perhaps a puppy – which we also had at one point when a neighboring businessman brought one in.  I’m surprised emoji hearts and stars didn’t start exploding everywhere when the two met. 

What is it about young life that inspires camaraderie and conversation? 

Is it the lack of pretension?  Motive? 

Or are we the ones with motive? 

Eager to feed off that pure joy and enthusiasm for life.  In simple pleasures.  Living in the present moment. 

To ‘borrow’ that parent’s precious one for just one moment, one brief interaction, since we are so far removed from the sweet innocence they possess.

I’m sure the mom doesn’t feel the innocence every day.  She does not soak in the wonder. 

And I don’t say this as a criticism.  I say this as a lived-in fact. 

The relentless running after, keeping out of harm’s way, perpetual picking up after – floods our senses when caring for a young one is our reality. 

And I’m not becoming one of those old grocery store ladies who say, ‘savor it, it’ll be gone before you know it’. 

As I said, I’m still picking up the occasional Cheerio.  But I’m picking my little one up a lot less. 

I’m one of the ones who want to soak in the wonder and the up-turned eyes. 

And there’s nothing wrong with that. 

The service areas of our car dealerships – and our world in general – could use more of that. 

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