Don't Let Their Size Fool You

Other than peaceful solitude in nature or the amicable silence between my mother and I when we’re getting along, there are few things more healing to my soul than my naked child resting on my chest. That slight weight, the smooth chubby skin with it’s sweet sweaty smell, the body born from mine imparting a sense that all is well with the world. I treasure those moments and they seem more and more rare these days as the kids are so active now. I steal snuggles in the hours after they have fallen asleep when their bodies are slack and giving and I listen joyfully to their murmurs and sleepy dream talk. Although I object, I secretly love when they come into my bed in the middle of the night and I get to hold them in the morning when it's still quiet, before the other comes in and all hell breaks loose. These days the fighting seems endless and it’s maddening. Top five things they fight about: If one of their hands or legs even slightly touches the other which ends with my daughter screaming, one won’t follow the exact rules of a game and threats are made to never play with the other again, my son has a problem with my daughter getting out ‘his door’ of the car so he endlessly slams it in her face at which point she starts screaming, my son won’t let my daughter finish a sentence and acting like a big know-it-all, finishes the sentence for her at which point she starts screaming, my son doesn’t like my daughter’s singing so he’ll start a chant which ends with me or my daughter screaming. Today during a particularly grueling session of ‘don’t touch me’, I actually threatened to pull the car over and leave them on the sidewalk. Now I’m not a big fan of making threats like that- especially when they are so young- it’s just asking for nightmares and separation anxiety. I’m not proud but man did it fly out of my mouth with great speed and volume. While typing this my daughter came into my room to tell me that my son had threatened to punch her in the face if she didn’t lick his butt. Fun times let me tell you. This is how my days are defined- refereeing dumb fights all day long. All day. This is why I need my glass of wine at the end of the day.

To make up for it, these small spawns of mine ply me with a virtual open- bar of love. No matter how many times I’ve raised my voice, or if I’ve threatened to leave them on the sidewalk, there are constantly little arms around my legs and juicy smooches on my cheek, pats on my bum and a never ending string of “I love you so so so so so so so so so so much mama”. On my toughest days when I can’t wait for bed time, when I am considering checking into that psych ward, when I can’t bear to hear one more whine or ear piercing shriek, my hands will find their hair, their warm backs, their soft cheeks, I’ll pummel them with smooches or our eyes will meet and I’ll croak out “I love you sweetie”, so overcome with the emotion I could weep on the spot. Checks and balances. They deplete, they fulfill. They break me, they inspire me. They bring out my best as well as my worst. They miraculously accept me when I have failed them and unreasonably reproach me for not allowing them to run around outside in a lightening storm. I don’t think I could ever be so forgiving, or so in love with a man. There is no spoken vow between mother and child yet this is the strongest, no bullshit sort of love and it ends only with my last breath. They don’t talk about this stuff in the birthing classes. They don’t warn you how much you stand to risk by loving another being so fiercely. They don’t warn you that some day your kid, your beloved baby could break your heart more thoroughly and completely than it’s ever been broken before by dying, disowning you, murdering someone, choosing to live with their father after the divorce. No, we just go blindly into the whole child rearing thing thinking only about diapers, onsies and names and worrying about such fleeting things as colic, teething and nights of lost sleep. None of us are guaranteed safe or complete passage through this life and none of us are instructed how to enjoy what time we are lucky enough to have. It seems terribly unfair but isn’t it just like our species to bitch and wine about mortality instead of marveling about this day, right now, how we are moving, breathing, loving, hurting, and thinking our way through every minute, every hour that we are lucky enough to have. My children are a burden and that may sound harsh but fuckin A- life is harsh so get over it. My children are also my greatest boon, my ship come in, my hearts desire and my gurus. Little stinkers.

Writer's Block

This is a letter I wrote to Maya Angelou on a recent bus ride to NYC. This was during the first extended period of alone time I'd had in four years. It really sums up some of the things I have been wrestling over in my mind.  

Dear Maya,

I have been finding much solace, inspiration and a feeling of kinship in reading biographies lately. Namely the fourth volume of your own and the first of seven books that comprise the diaries of Anais Nin. I am a thirty-one year old stay at home mother to a four year old and a two year old. Lately my life has centered around two strong words, yearning and struggle. I am yearning for myself and struggling to find the way there, yearning for freedom and struggling with the word 'Selfish', struggling with balancing my familial obligations with the obligations to my own heart and autonimous life. Before I continue however, let me make it clear that I have a lot of love and wisdom in my life from a pretty amazing collection of friends and family so this is no pity party. I am just reading of the time in your life when you joined the Harlem Writers Guild and you have just promised to read your first short story in two months. I am a writer, and not because I have published anything or even tried to, hell I have never even finished a body of work but I know I am a writer like I know how to breath. I was born with it. I have a gift but pulling it out of my head and imparting it to paper is like trying to move a boulder. I have felt as of late, that I am almost ready to jump in, to make the commitment but for some reason I am so scared to commit as you were then. I'm scared that if I jump in and abandon myself to the creative process, that I will lose my marraige. I have a rich inner imaginitive life but I am not fully satisfied to live vicariously and I write at my best when I am surrounded by creativity and genius and have my finger on the pulsepoint of life, when I am heartbroken, or caught up in the exhileration of first kisses. My life with my husband won't include much of the above and it's something that I feel I will have to seek out on my own if I am to go as far as I think I can with my writing. How fully do you give yourself over to writing and did you find that you had to arrange your writing around your life or did it become such a part of you that your life and family had to arrange themselves around your writing? And why do you think it's so damn scary to go for something that is already inherent? How do you validate the decision to nurture something in yourself that may never make you famous or recognized, that may cost you an intact family? How do you trust that maybe instead of taking those nursing classes so you can bring in a steady, reliable income, you should be writing, should be surrounded by other writers. And the average person's response would probably be that you take the nursing classes and find yourself a local writers circle.... But that doesn't satissfy me because I worry that if they are not gifted writers themselves that their criticism won't be gifted. That I won't learn and grow as a writer without the proper guidance and inspiration. And what about the pulse point? I'm not exactly sure what it is that I need to hear from you or that you'll feel moved to write me back, just that I felt moved to write you suddenly on this bouncy bus ride to New York in between chapter 2 and 3. I guess anything will do, any ruminations or a word of encouragement.

Pacing the Perimeters

Being a stay at home mother has been the biggest challenge I've faced yet. Motherhood alone is by far the hardest job I've ever undertaken but the rewards are immeasurable and well worth the sacrifices. The stay at home part however doesn't hold many rewards for me and I find it confining and frustrating.  Women friends of mine have told me to just wait it out- it's hard at first but you get into a groove and they were eventually able to find great satisfaction in it.  I am done waiting for that day and am coming to peace with the fact that I love baking my own bread and filling the house with the smells of a home made soup but I detest cleaning and being judged by how orderly my home is or how stained my kids clothes are.  When I close my eyes at night I see myself riding my motorcycle down endless New England back roads not mopping the floor that will look disgusting again in half an hour.  I'm sure there are countless blogs out there about stay at home motherhood and the sacrifices and sorrows we all are so intimate with but this little blog is intended mainly for me to work through what comes after the recognition that things aren't working, when you find yourself at a crossroads and all directions hold painful consequences. This is about my search for self reclamation and finding the balance between Selfish and Selfless. I am a mother lioness pacing the perimeters of her life.