Identity, motherhood, parenting

The Sound of Shutters

My kids are hams. Crack out a camera and they strike a pose. As soon as the shutter closes, they spring forward, hovering above my shoulder to see the image on the digital display.

Please understand – I have not conditioned them to this. In fact, I quite discourage it. I am from the camp of ‘candid is king’. Plus, I don’t want them anywhere near the most expensive camera we’ve ever owned, albeit several years behind the times by now.

I don’t want them obsessed with their perceived image. I don’t want them so invested in the perfect snapshot that they don’t live in the present moment. I don’t want the canned smiles and stiff expressions.

I want to capture the true essence of who they are and the moment we’re experiencing.

Then the camera turns on me.

There’s always one member of the family who is nearly nonexistent in the family albums, isn’t there? Growing up, that was my dad. The family’s official photographer, we have countless photos of holiday dinner tables laden with full plates, anxiously awaited by full chairs, except the one he’d vacated to take the shot. The next frame might include him switched out by one of my aunts, but never the whole set unless he’d packed the tripod that day.

Now, most of the time, that’s me.

When my husband mans the camera, I’m usually focused on the children in some manner of loving gaze (and if not that, some manner of goofy face) – probably because I’ve forgotten how to pose. I can’t smile on demand. It’s too taxing, too fake. I know I’m not at my best and don’t want to capture that on film or digital download.

For all the lessons I want my children to soak up, I haven’t had a single picture of me as my profile pic on Facebook for years. There have been family portraits, my daughter unleashing a primal scream at a particularly low point, a flower I stenciled onto my wall above my writing desk – never me by myself. I honestly couldn’t find one I liked enough. Is it because I hadn’t been candid enough to capture my true essence? Or because I’d been too candid and didn’t like what I saw?

Last week, as we exited the trailhead of a hike we’d made in the White Mountains, my husband called to me and snapped a pic as I turned. I threw my arms up and bugged my eyes out and grimaced(?) – I don’t know what that was. The next frame, I smiled. When we returned home, as I reviewed the pictures, I deemed that second one as close to a true capture of me as I’d had in a long time. Was it because I was in my long-abandoned hiking garb? Because I was partaking of an activity that long ago defined me and my beliefs and was long ago abandoned? Was it because I’m sick of a caricature of myself and ready for authenticity – or acceptance – or a new perspective?

In any event, I uploaded it to Facebook as a new profile pic. It was as the comments rolled in asking if I was summoning the forces of nature or singing ‘The Sound of Music’ that I realized I’d uploaded the grimace shot and not the smile. The most-telling comment, I think, was one that said, “The perfect representation of motherhood.” I laughed out loud, all too knowingly. Whether it was the ‘come on, guys’ attitude one person suggested or the stress of packing a family of five up for a road trip or the persistent frustration of getting little people to tow the line, the look on my face pretty much is the perfect representation of motherhood for me right now. And another reason why I don’t want my picture taken anymore.

Maybe because it’s not about me and pictures just remind me of that.

But even though I crown myself the ‘Queen of Candids’, I can still artfully edit the pics I chose to focus on. I can focus on the smiles and the fun and the love instead of the grimaces and struggle and pain.

Or I can try anyway . . . until the shutter rotates open to let in more light.

anxiety, motherhood, parenting

Holiday Road

Packing for a trip is worse than the outside stimuli that necessitated the trip in the first place.

At least with children it is.

A vacation. A getaway. A respite. From everyday life and its trappings. From routines and schedules.

That requires that every stitch of clothing in the home be washed so the one pair of sweatpants your child wants is clean – and located in the bottom of a basket of clothes that had been clean to begin with.

That requires digging through bins of off-season clothes to locate the bathing suits – and then digging some more to find the perfect one with the peace signs.

That requires testing dry-erase markers till we find one that hasn’t dried out yet for the all important game of car bingo – which will more likely be used to tattoo the inside of the car than the bingo card.

Books, magnetic games, coloring pages, stuffed friends, flash lights. . . . packed, unpacked, played with, tossed about the floor where they had previously sat stacked neatly waiting for loading into the car in the morning.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Can I just leave the kids at home?

Then it would be a vacation.

motherhood, parenting, Poetry

Water for My Soul

Good Morning my family

Do you think that this rain will bring flowers?

The lovely poem that my kindergartener brought home yesterday. More of a survey, really. She left a space for each family member to respond – except the three year-old “because she can’t write yet.”

God, I hope it brings flowers. And I hope you stay as lovely and sweet as you are right now. With your sense of wonder and hope and excitement.

anxiety, Identity, Living, motherhood

Paradox

Snowflakes on lilac buds

Melting on the green back of the sandbox

Sunshine shower

Birds chirping, snow falling

Springtime in New England

My daughter wanted to set up the sandbox today. She’s been asking to hang the birdhouses outside for a month now. She and her older sister roller skated in the sand lining the edge of the road. She finally gave up when it started snowing. It’s springtime now, but the scene outside the window doesn’t look like it.

With an early release from school, I declared it a day to run around the backyard like nuts. My three year-old was the only one with me. I don’t waannnnnna go outside, said the eight year-old. Can I have a snack first, asked the five year-old. Belly full, she’s the one that hatched all those vernal equinox-inspired plans. She has a very real sense of injustice. When she awoke the first day of winter and saw no snow on the ground, she was pissed. And now? No Easter decorations up even though there’s snow on the ground? What’s up, Mom?

The snow today actually had my back, though. The first flakes floated to the ground mere minutes after her latest protestation about an empty sandbox. One good thing about a schizophrenic mood change on Mother Nature’s part. And one that I should be able to appreciate given my latest post!

There really should be nothing bizarre about snow showers two days into spring, though. Just because the calendar says it’s spring, doesn’t mean that we should wake up one morning to instantly green grass and gardens abloom. Two days ago it was winter. Two days ago snow was de rigeur. The passing of seasons is a gradual progression. Leave it to humans to expect instant results. Leave it to us to restrict the moving of the days in tiny boxes on a calendar and expect the weather to follow suit.

It was bizarre, though, to hear the symphony of birds gearing up for spring as the snow fell. They were a twitter with nest-building, bug-hunting, flit-flying from tree to tree. They seemingly paid no mind to the fat, wet flakes flying around them. Maybe I should take a page from their book – rejoicing in the expectation of spring, knowing it’s coming, instead of lamenting the fact that it’s not here yet. There is beauty amidst the cold and dark. And there is the promise of warmth and light at the other end of it.

Identity, Legacy, Living, motherhood

Iron Age

Last weekend, my husband and I watched The Iron Lady. We’d seen previews for it and were intrigued. We wanted to see Meryl Streep taking names and kicking butts, which ironically I’d never thought Margaret Thatcher had done. While she was in office, I was too young to know more about her role in history than her name and position. It never occurred to me the struggles she’d encounter not only as prime minister, but also as a woman fulfilling that role. Now, as a grown woman watching this cinematic portrayal of her rise to power and its aftermath, I was angry and heartbroken.

It starts off optimistically enough. I thrilled in her preemptive speech to her future husband before she accepted his proposal. She would not bow to society’s ideas of what a woman, wife, and mother should be. And he agreed! She would be free to do as she desired with his freely and happily given support.

Then we see Ms. Thatcher as a hard-faced deserter as her children cry at the window as she heads to Parliament, shoving toy cars in the glove compartment on the way. We see her daughter jealous of her own spotlight being stolen. We see her husband questioning her devotion to her family in favor of ambition.

Why must a woman be vilified if she desires success outside the realm of motherhood? Even more so if she harbors such desires in the midst of motherhood. Yes, there are only twenty-four hours in a day. Yes, there is always the threat of feeling as if she’s failed on both fronts. Yes, children demand an inordinate amount of growing, coaxing, and coddling. She needs to prepare a person ready to face the challenges of the next generation. But what about the challenges of her own? Why does motherhood take her out of the equation in facing and solving those?

Why is there a prevailing thought that a woman must subvert her own self in order to grow the ones that came out of her?

Even with all her success, Margaret Thatcher couldn’t completely change the direction of that stiff wind – at least in this film.

In the speech to her future husband, the young Margaret Thatcher said she did not want to be trapped in the kitchen, hands in the dishwater. The film ends with her doing just that. I couldn’t help but think that plunging her hands into that water washed away all merit attached to her ambitious acts. It called them all into question. Had she made the wrong decisions? Set the wrong priorities as a woman, wife, mother? All joy that she’d excelled in at least the public half of her life was stolen by my doubt that she felt she should have chosen the private half instead.

It shouldn’t be a choice. Or at least not a mutually exclusive one.

Iron is malleable – especially when it’s heated inordinately – which is a good thing because it looks like society will continue to rake women over the coals for the unforeseeable future.

Identity, motherhood, postpartum depression

Losing Suction

It’s been a rough few days (weeks?). I wish there was a good reason why – that might make it better, or understandable anyway – but there’s not. I’m just miserable for no good reason. Irritable because I have angst. Angst-ridden because I have hormones and a crippling sense of self-awareness? (Thank you, Virgo)

There have been days I have camped out with my laptop for hours. Stared out the window waiting for the light to change. Held myself because it was the only thing to do.

And then the strains of PBS children’s programming came to me.

The minutes and hours marked by Arthur and Thomas, Maya and Miguel rather than numbers.

And I knew I should move. I knew I should engage. I should scoop up that little wonder of a child and take her out into the world.

One day, we did. We traipsed around the yard, trekked to the mailbox, tried to imagine the garden in full bloom. But the mailbox was empty and spring was still a ways off.

Yesterday, we shut off all electronic devices and ate lunch together. We sat side by side, but I buried my nose in some manner of printed matter.

Today, we compared notes on the types of yogurt we ate; she turning her nose up at my Greek with honey, me trying to convince her she ate blue banana. green guava. purple passion.

The silly word games I remember playing with my first baby when I was a first time mama.

Learning colors through the culinary.

Exploring math while masticating.

And for the first time in a long time, my sense memory elicited a positive response. Bubbles of laughter reminding me that I know how to do this. I know how to make it fun. I know how to enjoy it.

All it takes to make it enjoyable is a little more effort. An invitation to join me as I move about my day. A question here, a comment there. Inclusion. When all I’ve been is insular.

I’ve so needed space for me, I’ve been pulling back. But all I’ve done is created a vacuum, a void they notice and try all the more vehemently to cross. Perhaps if I reach across the void, giving them what they need, I will get what I want.

Joy and peace of mind.

Being able to lay my head on the pillow at night knowing I’ve done my best and not feeling guilty at the time I set aside for myself.

There’s no sense doing a job you hate. And there’s no reason to make mothering more onerous than it is. That wouldn’t just create a vacuum; that would suck.

Identity, motherhood, parenting

It’s All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an I

Play dates are for moms. Contrary to popular belief, they are not for kids.

It is moms who drive this runaway train off the tracks. While children like to play together, they would not give a crap if they did not organically meet Suzie at the playground. They would not cry if Sven didn’t come to their house for a tea party. They would not be scarred for life if abstract murals were not painted at the museum with the ‘it’ kids in kindergarten.

The moms would lose out.

On the opportunity to:

I’m not looking for a mate – just a partner in crime

have adult conversation
to coax their ego into believing they’re doing a good job parenting
to drink wine
to make friends themselves
to keep their sanity intact
to keep the little monsters off their back for ten minutes or more
to make sure their kids are as popular as they want[ed] to be

And while all this is already over thinking, there’s even more to the psychology of play dates.

Remember, mothers are just grown-up kids.

We worry about making friends just as much as we did in our younger incarnations. What will we talk about with these new moms? Will we get along as swimmingly as our children? What if we hit it off with a mom at drop-off or pick-up and she has a child in another grade or – gasp – of the other sex!? Sometimes a compatible mom friend just doesn’t have the right kid to hide the real intent: that moms want to make friends, too. [Perhaps more than their kids because they need an ally in this crazy road trip called parenting.]

New situations make us nervous, too. What is the play date etiquette? Do I invite myself in? Do I drop-off and ditch? How much do I discipline my kids in front of this other parent? Will they follow the kids-will-be-kids approach or think I’m lax if I don’t? Will they think I’m horrible if I don’t make my kids clean up before they go? Or will they be appalled if I walk up the stairs into their child’s bedroom looking for the toy tub?

Peer pressure, though less crippling than in junior high, still exists. Do we share our deepest, darkest bad mom moments? Will she understand and share her own? Or will she judge? Will we commiserate over this shared, easier-said-than-done existence? Will we build each other up or tear each other down? Will we be able to have a real conversation as two people who happen to be mothers or as two women trying to fit the textbook model?

“Play” dates are really just a lot of work. Our kids would get along just fine if we sent them to school; if we took them to the playground and let them chat up little Sophia on their own. What intrinsic need does it fulfill in us? The need for human [read: adult] companionship? To keep them busy before their idle hands find the devil’s work? To make it easier for ourselves?

When I was a teacher, we used to tell particularly snarky students that we didn’t need them to like us because we had enough friends. As moms, do we? Are we using our kids as an excuse to make connections for ourselves? What is it that we are lacking?

And for what else do we use them as an excuse?

motherhood, parenting

You Can’t Catch Me . . .

It’s cool to run.

And, no I don’t mean that as an allusion to Disney’s lighthearted take on the Jamaican bobsled team, though I can see Doug E. Doug’s goofy grin right now.

There is a movement in motherhood right now to run. It seems to be the mode of fitness that’s all the rage. And not only do they run, but they write about it. Blogs on mothering and running are popping up all over the place.

Always one to eschew trend (or at least be snarky enough about it to try), it irritated me at first. Let’s all run and share our times and trials and how we balance that with motherhood. Woo hoo. Jump on the bandwagon.

What’s with all these fit people!? And what the hell does it have to do with mothering?

Then, I met a mother, who for all intents and purposes, was single for the next six months. Her husband was deployed, leaving the task of moving cross-country to her and their three children. I wanted to collapse just thinking about it. She did have some family support and a great sense of humor, but it still was a trying task to say the least.

She told me how one day she asked their eldest to watch the other two so she could go for a run. ‘I just had to get out,’ she said.

Suddenly, I got it.

Mothers run so they won’t run away.

I’ve mentioned before how my favorite scene in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is Ashley Judd escaping to a motel room. Maybe running – even if only around the block – provides enough of a catharsis to make coming back around the bend possible. Enough of the venom sweats out the pores and steams out the ears to return to stasis. The legs know they can propel us forward if needed, the pistons fire. We can move of our own volition.

Muscles atrophied from marathons of criss-cross applesauce; pelvises pushed out of whack from babies on hips; Lungs exhausted with wasted breath. When it runs, the body remembers another purpose. It remembers its former master and serves her for at least a little while.

I am not a runner.

I am the girl who, upon reaching junior high and meeting the kids from the other feeder elementary schools, was remembered by my performance in the sixth grade Olympics – as in “aren’t you the girl who puked after the 800?” Pacing? What’s that?

I am the woman who hates being reminded of that fact that her butt is not what is used to be by the jiggling that follows her down the hill when she does run.

But I have noticed the feeling of exhilaration when I stretch my legs and pump my arms and fill my lungs. Even if it’s only chasing my toddler down the street to the bus stop, I feel the strength and feel as if it can carry me even further. And not away – but to push my limits, see how much I’m capable of, feel some sort of strength when in all other ways I’m beat down. To shift the pain from my head and heart to the burning in my thighs, the constriction in my lungs, the stitch in my side.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start sharing my best times and workout routines. It would just depress us all anyway. But let me just say to all the mother-runners out there, I get you. Even if I can’t be you – I get you.

anxiety, motherhood, postpartum depression, Recovery

Chopping Mangoes

Is there an easy way to cut a mango?

I tried the avocado method. Cut in half, drive knife blade into pit, rotate blade quarter turn, and pull. Not so much. That pit was not having it. Didn’t budge.

I tried digging it out. That just hacked up the fruit flesh around it.

I did not have such warm feelings toward my mango.

I finally sliced the fruit away from the core, apple style.

Except my hands were completely covered in goo from the pulp most of the fruit had become.

Goo + santoku = not the optimal chopping situation

As three small children pulling at your pant-leg while wielding said santoku is not.

Giada’s fish tacos with mango salsa be damned. I was ready to fling that mango out the window or smash it against the wall. I’d have squeezed it in my fist if only it weren’t so damn slippery.

No, you can’t have fishies right now.

Mama’s trying to concentrate.

No, fish tacos aren’t disgusting.

Yes, I’m putting that green stuff in them.

How the hell do you cut a *&^%*(# mango!?

Potatoes, mangoes – whatever I’m chopping, preparing dinner is always a trigger for me.

It used to be because I hadn’t planned a meal. Countless trashed produce and late nights cured me of that. Now I plan an entire week of meals before food shopping. So that’s not the problem (well, that’s a PIA in and of itself, but that’s another topic for another day). I’m toast by the time dinner prep rolls around. I’m getting hungry myself. I’m tired. The sun is going down. Daddy isn’t home yet. That pot of anxiety boils up pretty quickly.

Revisiting the feelings elicited from chopping potatoes, things have changed. Potatoes are dense; mangoes are much softer, pliable. Potatoes are born of dirt; mangoes have a hard core with a soft surrounding (oh, there are so many metaphors for a post-baby body with that one). Potatoes are a cold-weather crop; mangoes thrive in a tropical clime.

I am a warmer, softer person than I was post-partum. I may not have tight abs, but I do have an inner reserve of power from which to draw. Like slicing through the pulpy flesh, a lot of things are easier, but not all (removing the pit).

I still get pissed off at the distraction and whining as I’m wielding a large, sharp knife, but I no longer want to cut off my fingers to earn an escape to the emergency room.

I’d call that progress.

And I’d call mango salsa on fish tacos freakin’ delicious if it weren’t so hard to chop.

* Against my better judgment, I’ve included the recipe for Giada’s fish tacos. Proceed with caution – and use sour cream instead of wasabi and crème freche, unless you like adding more stress to your life.

** I’ve also included a link to the proper way to cut a mango (There is a mango.org – who knew? Video is worth it for the entertainment value alone). I think I’d still proceed with caution.

motherhood, parenting, Spirituality

Critical Mass

Taking three small children to church is always a crapshoot.

Taking three small children to mass after a long night of merry-making and a morning of present-opening and candy-eating ups the ante even more.

Our three made it through the three readings from the Bible and the pastor’s homily surprisingly well. I’ve found, however, that it’s always the second half of mass where the clapper hits the bell.

The fidgets start: the foot-thumping, kneeler-diving, seat-switching. And that’s only the non-verbal. Then you have the inter-sibling jibes and jokes, the giggles and snorts. And the doctrinal observations and questions, which at any other juncture would be welcomed wholeheartedly, but not when presented in a stage whisper in the midst of a lull in the sound issuing from the PA system. They never make noise when the organ is grinding, do they?

My five year-old came out with some good ones this Christmas mass. When a prayer included a request for “eternal rest”, she turned to me incredulously: ‘a turtle?’ During the prayer of the faithful for the departed, I hushed her vehemently when she said what I thought was, ‘this is boring.’ Then I realized she was adding to the prayer, ‘like Grandpa Warren’, my deceased grandfather, the great-grandfather she never knew.

At what point do we as parents and parishioners expect children to behave “appropriately” at mass? There is no magic age at which they suddenly will learn to sit still and attend – especially if they’ve been excluded from mass up until that point. In my constant vigilance to keep her quiet, I nearly reprimanded my daughter for realizing the importance of a prayer and adding the memory of a loved one to it.

If we shut them down totally, we’ll miss gems like my two year-old last Christmas, who asked loudly enough for all those around us to hear, “Where’s Baby Jesus?” A woman with three teenaged boys approached me afterward and commented on how nice it was to hear her little voice, to see the innocence and wonder of the young; that she knew the true meaning of the season. At first, I laughed it off, a bit embarrassed at our disturbance, but then realized how nice it was to hear this older mother’s comment; a validation that this is how children are supposed to behave, that we need to appreciate it; and that it’s not a failing on the mother’s part to seal her child’s lips.

My favorite church faux pas by far, though, is when my eldest daughter was maybe four years old. She proudly belted out the words to the closing hymn of mass, “All the Ends of the Earth”. Only she didn’t know that was the refrain. Instead, she sang, “All the ants of the earth.” Classic. All of us can see the power of God if only we look closely enough. And watch for lessons all around us – even in the wee ones kicking the back of our pew as we try to pray.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: motherhood