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Independence or Inculcation

It filled me with sadness.

Hours after she’d reluctantly gotten on the school bus, I saw how she’d laid her pajamas out neatly on her bed. It was only a few nights ago that she’d asked me to ‘fix’ the mangled inside-out ball of them before she could put them on for sleep – a task she was perfectly capable of doing, but at which somehow I was better.

The magic of mom. We somehow only notice it when it isn’t employed.

But this isn’t about the unrecognized or underappreciated.

This is about the wistful movement toward independence.

Hinted at in outfits plucked from the drawers by oneself, pajamas outlining the little person who is no longer there.

She’s still there. She didn’t want to go to school. She told me by moving her little body in an angry run down the driveway this morning.

But it was paired with more grown-up concerns like math and writing and reading – but not about what we want; by two-player games when there’s a third; by recesses that are too short and far between.

All of my kids struggled during this year of school. The threshold between little and bigger; fun and hard work; learning and toil.

It’s an important step that she’s being proactive and more independent. It’s good for her and easier for me. But its gain is paired with the loss, or erosion at least, of whimsy and nonsense, carefree days and easy play.

Laying out one’s outfit for the next day is just one more lock of a cog on the wheel. I want her to run freely down the road and into life.

Poetry

Upbraided

I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm.

She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, 
her fingers working through a small section of it.

Though their eyes don’t meet, 
they are connected by this intimate act

And I want to cry

For their bond 	
	
	and bonds broken, 

For the simple 
	
	when things have gotten so complicated,

For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – 

and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it

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.

Living

Driving Force

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Before you report me to the local vehicular authorities, let me explain myself.

I have a problem with control.

As in, I strive for it far too much.

Dickens called Scrooge “a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner.” It’s not coins I’m clamoring for . . . but control? Color me an addict.

The closer I look at this penchant for control, the deeper the reasons for it I find. Abject terror of forgetting some important task that needs to be done. Absolute overwhelm at the number of moving parts in any given day, week, month. Stringent perfectionism for every task my mind or hands touch.

And yet, for all this toil and torment, I’m no closer to controlling the ins and outs of my days than I am to the bigger picture of my life. If anything, these machinations cause me more grief. In the drudgery of them, of course, but also in the false sense of security they provide. Such a system is bound to implode, always on the edge of doing so, and when it does, of course, I blame myself for not keeping a handle on everything.

I’ve been working on that.

Controlling the minutiae of my day is not only tedious; it translates to an inability to trust in the direction God is leading me. And while I am the one pulling the strings on the to-do list, I’ve lost an overarching belief in myself to craft a grand plan.

So instead of being entirely methodical (old habits die hard, right?), I’m going to try to get a little loosey goosey. Try to dream faster than my Type A personality can plot. Drift around the corners before my ass end can catch up. Which is why this quote from Stirling Moss spoke to me.

You could argue that it is the perfect metaphor for the exact opposite of what I’m proposing. To run away, get ahead of, keep a breakneck pace – and as someone with an internal tachometer often in the red, I certainly don’t need that sort of encouragement. No, what I propose is acting on instinct, on the thrill of the moment, outdriving all the self-doubt and micromanaging – leaving the bottleneck of control behind and riding free and fierce into something I’d never allow myself if I stopped to measure the possible outcomes and fallout.

Now that’s something worth losing control over.

Living, Writing

Driving Blind But in the Moment

“[Writing is] like driving a car at night: you never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

– E.L. Doctorow

A few summers ago, I sat in a writing workshop with the inimitable Kelly Easton that unexpectedly turned into a therapy session – perhaps most unexpectedly for her.

We’d been given an exercise to write a scene from our work in progress from the point of view of a secondary character rather than our protagonist. I love Ant. He’s so fun to write. His humorous and outrageous comments flow from a place that’s cheesy and cathartic at the same time. So he was my target voice.

When I read back my piece to Kelly and the others for feedback, she said she loved the energy and spontaneity of the beginning, but that lessened as it went on. It was, she said, as if I didn’t trust his voice, myself; that rather than letting the story go where it would, I clicked on that control switch, molding the plot to the overall plan I had in mind. That I was afraid to relinquish control.

The critique hit me like a ton of bricks. Not because she was wrong. Not because I can’t take criticism (at least from a trusted source 😉 ). But because Kelly’s critique applied to my entire life – not just my work in progress.

How often do we follow some preordained plan rather than functioning within and through the essence of our being? How often do we tick off the to-dos to achieve a goal rather than burning and glowing with the initial desire for it? How often do we rein ourselves in rather than galloping exuberantly forward?

For what?

Unless we’re acting recklessly, we will not crash. There’s a fair distance between joy and mania. Why are we so afraid to inhabit our joy? Are we afraid to feel it in advance of our perceived loss of it?

What’s the worst that could have happened in my story? Anthony would’ve surprised me? Would’ve taken the plot in a new and exciting direction? The writer me could’ve certainly looped him back around to my original story – or marvelled at an even-better blossoming of the plot.

The same applies to life. Long ago, a wise friend reminded me that when your dreams haven’t come true or prayers answered, perhaps it is because God has something even better in store for you. We need not see further than our headlights illuminate. Stubborn human nature makes us want to, but it’s not necessary to survival and success – and certainly not to our happiness.

Living, Poetry, Survival

Knots

Why do we not let ourselves be held?

Are we afraid of the fallout?

Of the softening
that occurs with the slightest
of pressure on the hard outer shell

Cracking the protection
we have absurdly built up

Thinking we can fool
the shadows that lurk
just out of sight

A touch, a push, a gentle squeeze
and it all comes rushing to the surface

Releasing the tension
that does nothing but tie us up

anxiety, May is Mental Health Month, Mental Health, motherhood, parenting

Why three is the most stressful number of children to have – BUT mothers of four are MORE relaxed | Mail Online

Why three is the most stressful number of children to have – BUT mothers of four are MORE relaxed | Mail Online.

Third time’s a charm. 1,2,3 – GO! The three amigos. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Celery, carrots, and onions. Huey, Duey, and Louey. The Three Little Pigs. Even the tri-cornered hat. Three is a magic number!

Unless you have three children. Then, apparently, it drives you out of your gourd.

My husband sent me the link to the article above in an e-mail one day with the subject line, “interesting article . . .” Well, the ellipses said everything.

The article, though, doesn’t give any specific reasons why, I thought – at least none I hadn’t already known. My husband and I had already joked that we’d moved from man-on-man defense to zone defense once we had three. I already told people that the only thing that helped going from two to three was that you already knew how to keep multiple balls in the air – but that, now, there was always a ball in the air. The woman quoted who said it was easy going from one to two? Yeah, no. I swear my second is still a light sleeper because I was constantly shrieking at her sister to stay away from her as a newborn (can you say undiagnosed case of some sort of postpartum something? No wonder the $#*% the fan with the third).

As far as the benefits of having four, I already reap some of those now with three. A Dr. Taylor in the article says about perfectionism that “‘there’s just not enough space in your head’ once you have at least four children.” There is no available space in my brain. Burn photos or video to a DVD? I knew how to do that once. That knowledge oozed out my ear during one of the twenty minute periods of sleep of some child’s infancy. And forget head space – what of physical or mental energy? Once upon a time I hung sheetrock at Habitat for Humanity home sites, after scoring and snapping it myself. I fought vehemently to do things around the house my way. Now if the home improvement fairy comes and takes care of things, I don’t really care as long as it gets done (with the possible exception of painting/decorating). Something’s gotta give.

And that’s where I do agree with something Dr. Taylor says. “The more children you have, the more confident you become in your parenting abilities. You have to let go.” There is confidence in repetition, practice. I didn’t worry about ‘breaking’ my baby after countless diaper changes and pulling little arms through tiny shirt sleeves. I didn’t freak out as much over breast feeding and whether they were getting enough to eat. But did I worry if I was doing enough? Not doing the damage that would land my kids in their own form of therapy someday? Heck, yeah. That didn’t change with multiple kiddos. That increased. Still, for self-preservation – and really, theirs too – you do have to let go.

A dear friend, who had her three children three steps ahead of mine, and therefore in the as-cool-as-a-cucumber phase while I was just entering the anal-retentive, told me when I had my third, that I was much more relaxed. When I relayed the story to my father-in-law, hinting that she’d called me anal-retentive, he agreed! I hadn’t seen what everyone else had. People laugh now because I’m so laissez-faire with everyday concerns. When my impatient five year-old says she wants a snack so emphatically that it sounds like she’s gone without food for days, I say, ‘That’s nice.” After the thud, I wait for the scream or wail. If my child wants to go to school looking like it’s mismatch day everyday of year, more power to her.

I could be accused of being lax. I could be accused of swinging the pendulum so far away from anal-retentive, it’s a tad too much. But somedays I feel like I’m living inside an episode of The Three Stooges.

At least my kids are cuter

I can’t be all things to everyone. I sure as hell can’t be perfect. And I’m not going to try for a fourth to test this article’s theories!

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Tag Archives: letting go