Category Archives: motherhood

Mental Health, motherhood

Her Journey – Not Mine

I sat in on my daughter’s therapy appointment.

I was invited. I did not force my way in

in helicopter fashion.

Perhaps my daughter didn’t want to be in the wash of the rotors by herself.

And I am fully there for that

despite my own second guessing about . . .

the optics? I felt the need to tell the therapist it was requested.

the process? Is my presence inhibiting personal growth?

It is hard as a parent to let go of the idea that we know our child better than she knows herself.

It is dangerous to hold, though.

The process of separation began as the fourth trimester ended, as infant realized her own personhood.

There is no sense in cinching the ties now.

It inhibits the self-actualization we want for our children.

After the hours of my own therapy I’ve put in and countless readings and writings, I look at things differently from my end – even though we’re both sitting on the same couch. And knowing her as well as I do, I can offer a perspective she may not have even considered herself.

But that doesn’t mean she won’t. And that doesn’t mean she won’t learn a ton in the journey to get there.

Because it’s her journey – not mine.

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Canva Witsanu Patipatamak
motherhood, Survival

Exposed

I’m always late.

Not because I’m an asshole.

But my best intentions to leave and arrive in a timely fashion just never seem to progress as intended.

Sometimes a progression of stuff that you just can’t make up stacks up and against and over each other and makes for a royal shit show.

As I breathlessly explained to my daughter’s Girl Scout leader why we were late to one activity last year, “it’s been one of those days”.

She said, “I feel like that’s everyday for you.”

I felt my face stiffen. It often betrays that initial ego reaction you’d usually like to keep under wraps.

She said it with a warm smile and a laugh. She did not mean it as a dig.

My face was more my own sober realization that, while our life may not be, very often our logistics are a shit show.

I do often rush into a room, feeling (and quite possibly sweating) as if I’ve just run a marathon. More pressing than my pulse is the urge to explain. If that old woman with the disapprovingly dipped eyelids knew the gauntlet we’d just run to get here, she’d be impressed we were only x minutes late.

There was the teen who refused to get out of bed. The kid who hid the hairbrush. The one who needed help with socks.

A forgotten book.

You didn’t get my coat?

Shut up

Stop it

I don’t know what to wear

We’re leaving in five minutes?

And that’s when we’re all headed to the same place.

Forget multiple work schedules, sport schedules, driving abilities and available cars.

And compliance is always on a sliding scale with six bars.

I have always been such a good control freak. A logistics queen. Responsible. Trustworthy. With follow-through like we the people. I was never the harried hot mess mom with a shoe full of kids.

Now it seems like everyday is one of those days.

As I said, this woman had not remarked in judgement. And I should not be concerned with the opinions of others. And we do deal with a lot on a daily basis.

I guess I just didn’t want my struggle to be so public.

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motherhood, Perspective

Full Circle

My big kid is home from college.

While her younger sisters have all returned to previously scheduled programming (albeit sleepy and missing vacation), she is still home for a few more weeks.

Most of her days are filled with making back money spent on tuition and checking in with friends from home, but she found herself with an open weekday yesterday. I had already scurried off to an oil change appointment when she awoke, receiving a text as I packed up the work I’d brought with me.

“When will you be home?”

“15 min. Why?”

“I’m bored.”

Having her home, even as a grown woman child, has brought me back to the younger days: of mine as a mother and her as a kid. When home was truly home base. Where we spent a majority of our time. Possibly in pjs – or maybe princess dresses. Where the living room became ball pit, blanket fort, vet clinic.

When it was all on me to occupy and entertain them – and fight to find time for myself.

We ended up clearing the living room floor to lay out yoga mats, her muscles tense and tight from standing all day at work (and yes, I realize the irony as I type that about a 20 year-old, but I will not one up her discomfort with my old ailments. My tongue is clamped between the teeth of my allowing her own experience in her own body. With age comes at least the attempt at maturity. And it is important to maintain our musculature at any age. I digress . . . ). She doesn’t usually do yoga on her own and I have a Pinterest board full of yin yoga routines, but I wasn’t sure she’d want to do the slow reflective yoga of middle age. I knew I was not all in for an energetic round of sun salutations. (God, this says so much about our stages of life). We popped on YouTube and I selected a Flow for Beginners video. Figured we could meet somewhere in the middle.

I was amused to find that both of us grunted and groaned as we assumed different poses.

“I got your Ujjayi breath,” I thought as I exclaimed.

Bones popped in their sockets and muscles shredded tension as they screamed.

“I didn’t realize how tense I actually was,” she said.

“Looks like you could’ve used yin yoga,” I said.

Ironically, I had a scheduled free online drawing class immediately after our session. Always my sketcher/doodler, I figured she could do that with me like we’d done yoga together.

And here is where it really became like the good old days.

While I collected my materials, set up the laptop, and grabbed a cup of tea, she took up residence on the couch with her phone (instead of a tablet of old) and watched videos at full volume. First, I entreated her to come draw. Next, I told her to turn down the volume. Finally, I fended her off as she bugged me.

Here’s how that went . . .

It wasn’t as bad as doing yoga with toddlers (yes, I’ve done that, too), but it certainly brought back memories. And while she certainly got my goat, as she’s wont to do and you can tell by the look in my eyes, the whole evolution told me a lot about where I’m at.

That I’m still learning how to make time for myself. That I’m better at it than I was. That it’s a continual process, not a height to be achieved. That kids can be annoying at any age (yours or theirs). That kids will still need you at any age. That I can look back at that time I found incredibly tough and realize I did things right, we had fun, and they felt love.

All because my twenty year-old first born got bored.

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Photo by Lisa Fotios: https://www.pexels.com/photo/yellow-black-pencil-sharpened-above-the-white-paper-in-macro-photography-109255/
Living, motherhood, parenting

Will I Graduate?

Ten years until I graduate.

My dad used to say that the start of a new school year was his favorite time of year. It meant crisp yellow pencils, a bright pink eraser. A fresh start.

I do recognize the importance of cycles, their ability to restart or refresh us.

But I feel like I’ve been in school f o r e v e r.

Thirteen years of my own. Four years of college. Eight years of teaching. Then herding, leading, prodding my own for . . . fifteen?

There was a time when the sight of a school bus would spark anxiety in me. On weekends away from the classroom already too short, I needed no reminder of that place that triggered so much in me. And perhaps it is residual tension from those teaching years that bubbles up as I cycle through the start of each new year with my own children.

But I feel like a prisoner in this academic calendar.

Last year I had a student in every educational environment.

Elementary, Middle, High School, and College.

All represented.

It was a cool factoid. A sign of our wide-ranging and crazy family. I named the blog post I never wrote: All Ages and Stages.

Now as I anticipate walking another child through the college gauntlet, when I don’t even feel I’ve recovered from the last go-round, I’m tired.

I will support the homework and the lunch-making, the pick-ups and drop-offs, the reminders and subsequent nagging, the atta-boys and better-luck-next-times.

But I look forward to the day I finally graduate.

Yes, I am singing Third Eye Blind as I type the title . . .

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motherhood, Perspective, Spirituality

Preparing – in Patience

The Advent Wreath.

A holiday symbol already rife with metaphor.

  • Evergreen boughs = God’s ever-present love and care
  • A circular shape = love unbound and never-ending
  • Four candles representing the four Sundays – and weeks – leading up to Christ’s birth
  • The flames of the candles representing the light that Christ brings into the world
  • Three purple candles representing the majesty of the most high, our Lord
  • One pink candle, for the second to last Sunday – Gaudete Sunday, meaning we’ve almost made it! Our savior is nearly here; the darkness is nearly over!

All amazing, meaningful symbolism.

And then I took my children to an Advent wreath making workshop – or forced, if you asked my teens.

I had the golden ring to use as a base; my husband had gathered the wire cutters, I’d grabbed my pruning shears; our church was supplying the greens – we were good to go!

The six year old was quickly out. She spied a friend from class and joined in on a raucous game of hide n’ seek.

The sixteen year old picked out a few shell decorations and then retreated to her phone.

The fourteen year old stuck with me, which was a bit of a surprise given some snide comments. But even as we stuck ourselves and fought over holding the ring, we began to form the green wreath.

Ironically, though I’d strong-armed everyone into attending the ‘family fun’ event, I had to turn off some of my independent tendencies. I love to create and often have an idea of the finished product in my head. When one kid threw seashells into the mix and another wanted to affix the greens her way, I found myself fighting. Fighting against my fleeting vision, against my tendency to control, against dreaded yet pined for perfection.

And whether it was the soft flame of Jesus kindling in my heart or mom muscles that slowly, still strengthen a bit at a time, I felt myself pull back. I felt the slow wash of knowing it was more important to be close to my prickly teen than push the prickly needles into submission. I appreciated seeing the two sisters working together to adhere the decorations they’d picked out to our wreath (especially when the shell-picker-outer put down her phone). It was fun seeing my husband and the girls untangle and trim floral wire.

In the darkest depths of teen snark is the young person who just wants to connect. In the asymmetrical and untamed shapes of nature comes order and beauty. In the confusion of sorting out the useful from wasteful comes clarity.

Every Advent – every day – I have to work at preparing myself to receive Jesus into my heart. This year, on its eve, I received an unexpected new metaphor in its most familiar symbol.

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pikiwizard
motherhood, Poetry

Unseen Web

We imbue our mothering with the ghost of our other children

The empty embrace of the one we just sent away
causes us to cling ever tightly to the one in front of us

The overflowing vessel of a love we never got to pour
floods the existence of the next to come into being

It is never only about the child in question

Our actions are the answer to all 
the worries
       hopes 
       fears 
       attachments 
       neurosis and 
       emotional stability within us.

It is a web
we can only see 
when the sun 
alights
on the tips
of frozen blades
of grass
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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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motherhood

Telling the Truth about Motherhood

The other evening, as I lay in my seven year-old’s bed waiting for sleep – hers, though my own comatose mini-nap usually comes first – an unexpected thing happened.

No, it wasn’t my questioning whether I should still be or have ever even started lying with her before bed without: a. spoiling her, b. impeding her sleep progress, c. prolonging this nighttime ritual until we’re both old and gray. That’s been a constant since she first balked at sleep as an infant.

As they usually do, an important revelation snuck out in those twilight murmurs.

“When I grow up, I don’t want to have children.”

My heart instantly hurt for so many reasons.

Sadness for her, that she wouldn’t experience the wonder that is mothering. The fierce, warming, all-enveloping love that it is to raise a little human into a big one.

Regret for me, that I somehow portrayed motherhood to my children in a poor light. That I did them a disservice by not loving it enough or not showing them enough love.

But even as I type that, I can’t believe that I don’t show my children enough love. Surely, they know they are loved. Does my fault lie in my sometimes less-than-joyful servitude?

As beautiful a sentiment Mother Teresa of Calcutta shares about washing the dish because you love the person who will use it next, that doesn’t make me more likely to wash dishes or to do so without complaining. Perhaps you’ve seen the list of things your mother never told you.

@sweetoakgallery

While many of these ten things are true on some level, I cannot subscribe to this level of subterfuge. Sacrifice and selflessness certainly have their place in parenting, but to sacrifice to the extermination of self is something for which I cannot get on board. Perhaps that means I am not destined for sainthood, but I also believe God created each of us as a special, sacred self to be celebrated – not obliterated.

I also feel it is disingenuous to serve with a smile when anger and resentment broil below. Why can’t we be authentic with our partners and children about how hard this path is? How we serve with love, but also appreciate being appreciated and, even more, equal distribution and support.

By speaking truth about my struggles in motherhood, I hope my daughters will see the inequalities in expectation and systems of modern motherhood. I also hope they will realize the hard-earned worth of fighting for a connected, loved, valued family.

Because while I stand as a symbol of the greater mantle of motherhood for my children, I am also human.

I hope the toil I am totally transparent about will not dissuade my daughters from becoming mothers themselves, but make them realize there is no perfect ideal – except perhaps love.

I also hope that my seven year-old’s proclamation didn’t stem from Cookie World C’s unnecessarily medicalized version of a plastic horse giving birth she viewed earlier that day.

In any event, I have some work to do, but tomorrow’s another day . . .

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Identity, motherhood

Your Strength Comes from Within

Flashback to that time in prenatal yoga. The first time you were pregnant and had no other job, maternally anyway, than growing that tiny human and channeling all your energy into it. When you could go to a class once a week by yourself, surrounded by other expectant mothers. Where you could bask in the beauty of rounded bellies, orbs in profile as your fingertips pointed forward. The potential energy of abdomens and archetypes. Muscles taut and ready to tense, to push a new soul earthward. And while intuition and multigenerational muscle memory take hold in the throes of labor,

it is you

who fire the muscles

who isolate the exact ones at the precise time

who activate the strength within

and gasp the first lung-filling breath.

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motherhood

Growth and Girl Scouts

Any Girl Scout leader will tell you a troop is born of one girl’s total insistence – and that girl is usually her daughter.

That’s how they get you – the girl and the Scouts; they know you are wholly dedicated to her growth and will do anything, including hundreds of volunteer hours, to facilitate that.

So how did that commitment ten years ago land me in the same church hall last night leading a workshop for mothers?

That, too, is all about growth.

When I trained to be a troop leader, I did not know with whom I’d be working. Ironically enough, there was an existing troop at my daughter’s elementary school so both my daughters joined. Fresh-faced and grateful for all the two co-leaders were doing, I eagerly attended each meeting, offering whatever help they needed. I knew these two moms, their oldest girls in the same classes as mine, but not closely. As the girls bonded over ‘Simple Meals’ and ‘First Aid’ badges, I got to know and enjoy crazy times with these women. Overnights and hikes, crafts and camping. When I went to Troop Camping Training with one of them, we found a whole crew of women dedicated to the cause and having a whole lot of fun doing it.

The circle of women I got to know only grew as my girls progressed through the levels. My younger daughter started as a Daisy and a new crop of girls and moms came in. Leader meetings gave us a chance to ease the commitment we’d taken on by sharing ideas and resources and they almost served as a troop meeting for the women themselves. Very often, the speaker had to deal with unruly ‘kids’ just as a leader did. The leaders of the ‘mega troop’ of many levels all three of my girls eventually joined even went on a scavenger hunt scouring three towns.

It all started with a desire to empower our girls. But I wonder what other motivations kept us dedicated. Was it the thrill of recapturing a lost girlhood? Carefree and fun and sequestered? Or did it speak to a longing that grown women, especially mothers, don’t often find fulfilled? Companionship, camaraderie? And was it also a safe way to seek this out, without guilt, within an activity that also served our children?

Even though I took on a troop when my fourth was a newborn, I eventually ‘retired’ from leadership. I remained a registered member and assisted with my youngest’s troop, but I was too tired to lead. Still, there are times I miss the sisterhood of women bonded by the girls they serve.

Now that newborn is old enough to insist I bring her to Girl Scouts. I did. Our service unit hosted a ‘Learn about Girl Scouts’ series for parents and girls. Over the course of three meetings, girls experienced troop-like activities while parents learned all the stuff I already knew. My former service-unit manager outed me to the Council member running it, saying ‘she’d be a good leader’ with an elbow to my side. I admitted I was a ‘recovering leader’. But as she explained to parents how leading her troop for thirteen years gave her her own set of friendships with women as they nurtured the girls, I was wistful.

A mother seated next to me, who may indeed end up being the leader for her daughter’s troop, said, “I want to do Girl Scouts! Can there be a Girl Scouts for adults?”

I think it’s safe to say that most adults yearn for the simpler days of their childhood. Not the growing up all over again, but the chance to do things just for the fun of it. To play with friends. To not have to be the one in charge. To feed our soul with things that feel good and light us up – not alienate us and drag us down.

As I packed my things last night in preparation for the workshop, it didn’t escape me that it was same as setting things down into the tote bag I used to haul Scout supplies. I loaded the trunk and drove the same route. I parked by the ramp and unlocked the door with the same key I borrowed for meetings. As I set up in the rosy glow of sunset slanting through the blinds, the quiet excitement with which I laid items out on tables, shifted chairs into place, had the same feel as preparing for a troop meeting all that time ago. It was oddly satisfying and soothing to be preparing for this new type of meeting in that same place. It was like coming home.

But this time, it was for the moms.

A meeting to discuss putting ourselves on the schedule. Where our motherhood ends and our self begins. Or the jumbled up place in the middle where they intertwine. About taking care of others and ourselves.

I’m not saying my meeting was Girl Scouts for Adults, but it was a chance to sit uninterrupted and think about what we, as women, as individuals, want from our lives. With like-minded people experiencing the same things, facing the same struggles.

Because no one wants to be lost in the shuffle – girl or woman.

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