Which Mom Should I Be?

If parenting were high school, I’d be stuck in the same rut: I’d be the Good Student Mom. I do my work, mostly well and on time, I do lots of resume-building activities, I try to be nice to everyone—generally have full, “good” days. Not the class/PTA president, but an all-around solid student and volunteer.

I’m not sure how I ended up there. Perhaps I’ve never really thought much about what I want. I’ve always done what I felt like I should do. In high school, college, and into my twenties, I didn’t mind that. I had p-lent-y of leisure time for things I liked. And my thirties were all about kids. (‘My thirties were’—wow! I’m forty.) I’ve wanted to have children as long as I can remember, so the joyful work of their years of total dependence drowned out any thoughts about my life.

The nature of things demands that children become more independent all the time. And ours are, slowly but surely. As they get older, I can’t seem to get excited about what I should do—even if I can do it well, like a “good” girl does. 

An otherwise uninspiring therapist once told me that I should disconnect “can” from “should.” Just because I can go full speed eighteen hours a day parenting, working, and volunteering, doesn’t mean I should. Obviously, I never got to the session about what I want, because there’s the rub.

Life keeps showing me that time is our most precious commodity. So I am choosing to figure out what I want to spend that time on. I’m letting my mind off the leash; I’m starting to dream. What do I want to do with that irreplaceable time?

I want to be Poet Mom. I want to do odd projects, like school plays or fantastic decorations for a special event, not run committees or meetings. Meetings are my kryptonite. I can organize anything pretty well, but I don’t want to. I want to read storybooks in dramatic voices to skeptical children and make them laugh. I want to keep my house neat just because I enjoy the way it looks.

I want to bake outrageously delicate recipes—especially with my little chefs—and sew fantastic things—especially costumes for my kids. I want to go to coffee shops and beaches. I want to read books that dazzle me and make me think and laugh and cry. I want to run and kickbox and then wear hippie skirts so no one expects me to be able to lift a whole bag of dog food. I want to work with authors, spending time really absorbing their books and their voices, and helping them grow.

I want to cook elaborate meals with my husband while we laugh and listen to music. I want to have long summer dinners with friends—the dinners where the adults laugh and talk and the kids play in the pool, only coming out to grab some food. I want to go camping with my family, and sailing. I want to go on more bike rides with them. I want to go to movies and plays and concerts every once in a while. I want to do home improvement with my family.

I want my job to be what I love best—living life fully, truly being with my kids, my husband, my family, and my friends, observing the little pieces that make up the glorious whole, attempting to capture that in those miraculous black marks on crisp paper, those itty bitty word seeds that, if viable, blossom into near-recreations in the mind.

Clean for a Reason

Never, ever, ever clean anything without a darn good reason. Why not?

If you do, life will give you a darn good reason to clean it. Here’s how it goes.

You say, “Hey, my little cherub hasn’t wet the bed in two weeks. I should wash the sheets.”

You wash the sheets.

That same night, the little cherub will most definitely wet the bed.

I’ve learned this the hard way in almost every aspect of homemaking and child-rearing. If I clean the tub, the little guy has a digging day at school and gets black with dirt up to his elbows. Did you know that dirt actually does leave a ring around the tub? Little black spots on the walls, too, if someone splashes.

If I mop the white tile floor in our front hall, it rains. (The white tile came with the house. We’re not masochists.) Do you have any idea how many footprints four people and a dog can leave on white tile in ten minutes?

If I vacuum and dust for no reason, a week later--just enough time for a little dust to settle--we’re having guests. If I make a really good list for the grocery store and get everything on it, the next day we’ll run out of something essential. I could go on and on and on.

So I’ve learned—I wait until I have to clean something before I do. The odds get much better that way. Also, if you clean while the kids are sleeping, things will stay clean for, like, ten whole hours! I’m more of a keep-it-clean-so-you-don’t-need-to-clean-it person anyway. (See? I’m not OCD, just lazy. ) It’s amazing how well those work together.

And I confess. One of my luxuries is to change the sheets and clean the master bath when my husband goes out of town for business. Then I have a few days of clean all to myself! Well, guess what happened after I put on new sheets last night?

Yep, I found little A. standing by the bed at three in the morning. “A spider jumped off the wall, crawled over my hand and my face, and tried to get out the shutters!”

Awww. You can sleep here, sweetie.

Yep. He slept soundly. Wet morning.

Sigh.

Valentine Outtakes 2013

I think she has a book behind there...

Oh, the things we have to endure...

Oh, no! She's explaining things again. Watch that hand!

Was not! Were so--pfbbt!

See, Mom? We already learned how to give you patronizing smiles!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Blanket Apology

I feel like I should apologize a lot these days. Like this

Dear dog, I am sorry I’ve skimped on your walks so much lately. I know sniffing a pee-soaked palm frond makes your day, but I can’t always get there.

Dear daughter, I am sorry I snapped at you this morning. I realize that you can’t eat without dragging your teeth along your utensils every single mouthful. It’s really not that big a deal, even the 7,586^th time. Really.

Dear son, I’m sorry that I very nearly said the rude version of “be quiet” to you. I know that your emotions feel unbearably intense and you’re trying to express them in words. I applaud the fact that you’ve stopped hitting. But we’re going to have to get our minds around the idea that you must stop randomly screaming your cotton-pickin’ head off when you don’t like the way I phrase something.

Dear husband, I’m pretty sure my terrible housekeeping has not resulted in our house having sick building syndrome. But if you think so, then I am sorry.

Dear friends, I’m sorry I can’t keep up with you—literally or figuratively. I don’t know how you all do it all, and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch more. I’m terrible at remembering birthdays. But I do love and miss you!

Dear family, Did I mention that I’m terrible at remembering birthdays? That, and I haven’t sent out any pictures or updates on the kids, or asked how you’re doing…I’m so sorry. I do love and miss you all!

Dear body, I’m sorry for all the skipped workouts and all the crap I stuff in you when I’m trying to stay awake. I’m just…sorry!

Dear house, I don’t think I’ve given you sick building syndrome, but the layer of grey grime all over is my responsibility. I’m sorry.

Dear microwave, I’m sorry that I can’t LEAP over to you the second you beep about my food. I know you’re just trying to help when you keep beeping. And keep beeping.

Dear plants, I’m sorry. They said “low forty degrees.” How I could have known there would be frost on the grass by morning?

Dear everyone I haven’t mentioned, I’m issuing a blanket apology for being late, spelling things wrong, sitting at lights when they turn green because I’ve forgotten what a green light means, losing the thread of conversations, looking harried, zoning out, and otherwise not quite doing anything up to par.

And dear bed, I apologize for the way I’m going crash face first into you any second now!

Someday, when I crawl out from under this blanket of fatigue, I will make it up to you all.

PS Dear computer, I’m SORRY I tried to rename this in Word while it was open. Geesh.

Love-Hate or Embrace

I admit it, I’m curious to see how this (admittedly media-driven and unscientific) survey by Today Moms goes. They've asked (women, I assume), "Do you love your body?"

My journey through life in this body has definitely been a love-hate relationship. Right now, I love what my body does, though I'm not crazy about how it looks, especially post-kids. More on that here.

I’ve had a kind of miraculous discovery lately. My body likes training and eating well. This has become my default setting. For someone who has always struggled to exercise, this is a revelation. Kind of like pulling myself up a rope and over a wall made me realize, “I can do this.”

It’s more profound than that, even. I’ve always believed my body to be defective, sub-par. I am blown away by the realization that if I follow the formula that everyone else follows, if I do the training, I get the results. My body isn’t broken!

As far as looks go... I’m one of those people who weigh themselves twice a day. I don’t take it seriously—I know the weight will fluctuate and I don’t get worked up if I eat something salty and gain two pounds of water weight. I need to know what the weight is, though. Why? Because otherwise I will have NO idea how I look. Here’s a little illustration.

We took the kids to a fall festival two years ago and I had on a black shirt. When I glanced through the pictures, I saw a woman in a black shirt and assumed it was me. Here’s one of the pictures:

 Here’s a picture of me from that same day:

Can you see what I mean? I have never had ANY idea how I look without objective measurements. The other lady and I both look fine—just different. And, from the inside, I had NO IDEA which one was me. Incidentally, it was really hard to find a full-length shot for comparison—I was hiding behind a child in nearly every picture, reflexively covering myself.

I may be lost about how I look, but I’m starting to get an idea of how I work. I like to run, especially distances. When it comes to upper body, I like to use my pulling muscles better than my pushing muscles. I don’t start anything fast, but I do enjoy good, hard sprints or sets once I’m warmed up. I have very strong thighs. My lower abs, not so much.

Most of all, I can DO things.

And I think I'm going to focus on that for now. I embrace that!

My Baby's Book

 Remember--we're not trying to understand poetry here, just experience it.

I wrote this, heavily pregnant with my second child, as part of my own surrender to the joys and struggles of motherhood. Since then, I've worn size six clothes occasionally and even had my first pedicure and manicure. I love that women all celebrate and pamper themselves in many, many ways!

I would also love it, though, if we all could celebrate the physical signs of motherhood--of any life fully lived--as much as we celebrate the physical signs of youth. Beauty comes in the shape of laugh lines, worn arthritic hands, sun spots, and thoughtful forehead crinkles, too.

Here's how all that spilled out of me six years ago.

It’s a lot of work

To get your abs back

After kids

You can do it, but

It’s a lot of work

An anorexic, boob-jobbed

Mother of three

Said to me

Well, I want them back

Of course

Three years with ‘Captain Crunch’

And a black belt

Earned me some

Pretty nice abs

Back in the day

But I see mothers

Tanned and cured (pedi and mani)

Slimmed and toned

To perfection

In size six resort wear

And high-heeled sandals

Conceding to motherhood by

Carrying a designer tote

And I wonder

Did they rent their kids?

I wouldn’t trade the

Raw knuckles and rough nails

From washing

Kids, clothes, dishes, counters,

Cars, sea shells…you name it

I wouldn’t forego

The grey-smudged eyes

From years of late night checks

And early-rising hugs

I wouldn’t give up

The forehead wrinkle

From the years of tantrums

Or the mouth lines

From all the times I smiled

To hold back tears

From feelings

Too deep for words

I will not surrender

The intimate map of

Child bearing

The silver rings of scars

Around my nipples

The expanded belly button

Or the bikini-line fat dune

I look down sometimes

And remember

Perky bosom and flat tummy

And I laugh

My body is used—

What of it?

How sad if it were not!

No plastic, no silicon

No botox for me

My baby’s book

Is written in my skin