Find something small.
Stay with it.
Give it your heart.
Resonate with it.
Tell it your secrets.
Feel the urge to leave.
Trace its grooves with your fingertip.
Find its secret scent of earth and salt.
Allow your tear to drip onto its surface.
Laugh, but do not leave, not just yet.
Realize the terror in adoring something tiny and tender.
Whisper to it that which you know is certain.
Pull your hand back and continue to find the energy pulsating.
Find something small.
Give it your heart.
Do it again.
Do it over.
A friend recently remarked that she was super impressed with how much fun, enriching stuff I do with my kids. She mentioned seeing a group of photos I’d posted on social media of an outing my daughter and I took to a local farm, where we pet a lamb.
It had been an enchanting excursion. I won’t deny it. We were by the ocean and the scenery was lush and pastoral. Emily chased after chickens and we walked up to a fence to look at a bull with gigantic horns that looked like something out of a story book.
Then we got into the car to go home and Emily told me I was the worst mom in the world and she hated me because I wasn’t taking her to a restaurant for lunch.
So, I thanked my friend for her compliment of my pictures. And then I let her know Emily’s five-year-old opinion of me.
Sure I could have taken the compliment and allowed my ego to be stroked. But I happen to believe reality is important.
I also let my friend know that every photo of us doing something energetic and interesting represents a minuscule slice of our actual existence.
For every five minutes we are out doing something exotic, there are about three hours spent lolling around the house watching television, having tantrums, bickering, eye rolling, and sighing. Heavily.
I also do not incorporate photos of my never-ending laundry, toilet scrubbing, and refereeing sibling rivalry on social media. No one does. We all post the highlight reels. We post the pics that say “Look at me winning this impossible quest!”
We perpetuate our own mythology along with the collective mythology of modern day parenting.
It’s what we all do. Sorrynotsorry. No regrets. Because we are all on this seemingly never-ending struggle bus ride fraught with constant motion sickness and punctuated with momentary glimpses of something lovely out the window.
We all do it, but we all forget that we do it. That’s the problem. And that’s what leads us to compare with one another and feel like everyone else is out there having a better time. All the other moms are out there momming better, harder, and faster than we are.
Summertime seems to highlight this dynamic. At least it does for me. There seems to be this unspoken expectation that we are all going to be shiny, happy summer people, and that in addition to all the normal mom duties, we are also going to bring it in the areas of crafts, activities, and day trips to exotic ports of call like we are a deranged cruise director. Oh, and shit, I forgot about incorporating baking and sensory play. Gotta do it all.
I’m here to tell you, you do not have to do it all. I’m here to tell you, it is perfectly okay if this flurry of activity is not a realistic expectation for you. If you are tired, frustrated, or out of good ideas– it is all okay. If you just don’t feel like going outside today, also okay. Stay on the couch. Put in some Disney or Doctor Who. It’s all good. We all eventually get to the same place.
I personally don’t have the time or energy for being super creative mom of the year.
Of course it is important to do things with our children. In no way do I espouse neglect or unlimited screen time. Balance is key. Exercise is important. Hugs count. But…..
We do not need to be in constant motion and contact with our kids.
Kids need a break too. I’ll speak for me and mine. As a children of working parents, my kids have really long days– as long or longer than mine sometimes. Emily can usually be flexible and roll with the flow, but Jack needs a lot more down time. This makes it even trickier to balance their needs with my own. Societal demands, pressures, and expectations have no place in this equation for me.
It’s really hard not to let the social media highlight reels feed into the mythology of what summer and parenting is “supposed to be”. A lot of people I know have gotten off of social media for just that reason.
I’m learning to enjoy the posts of other parents without feeling threatened or pressured to do and be more, more, more. Because really, we are all already doing more than enough.
We are all more than mom enough.
It’s still a little dusky light out, and I’m lying in bed with my daughter, who’s already asleep. Tears slide down my cheeks as they usually do at this time of day. It’s become somewhat of a ritual. My crepuscular cry.
It pisses me the fuck off.
I’ve never cried so much in my life. It’s dumb. It feels shitty. Crying is supposed to make you feel better. It’s science. It releases good chemicals in your brain. I tell my clients all the time about the beautiful and sacred purpose of tears. All. The. Freaking. Time. But it never fails to make me feel like a failure and a fraud and just so fatigued.
It’s been a hard year. Probably the hardest.
I feel I have some sort of obligation to buy space in a newspaper and print a public apology to anyone who has known me over the past year. I’ve been a horrible train wreck of a human. I’ve been messy and loud and weird.
If you all could have known me a couple years ago, I want to say. If you had known me then. Those were the good days. Those were the times I bore some semblance to normal, when I could contain my Self better.
That was when I was at my old job. With E. just two doors down from me every day for years and years.
Those were the days when E. would leave me random clippings from the New York Times Sunday paper on my desk at work. She’d cut out stuff she thought I’d find interesting. I remember one about the healing power of fairy tales.
The memory of these flimsy papers brings a fresh wave of grief crashing down over my head. I’d read them and think of something pithy to say in return, then travel the five paces to her door to chat with her.
Those were the days when I was witty and reformed. If you had only known me then. Sure, I had my rough times, plenty of them. But I wasn’t broken. Not like I am now.
Changing jobs was really difficult in ways I never could have predicted, but I think I could have adapted a hell of a lot better if I hadn’t had the sudden trauma of E. up and dying on me last October.
It’s not just work and death. It’s motherhood and marriage and financial instability. It’s never having enough time or energy to brush my children’s hair and feed them breakfast. It’s all the piles of things that make me want to curl up in bed and daydream for three hours.
All the things. They have broken me.
The thought occurs to me that I might not ever get fixed again.
I blame a lot on E. and maybe that’s not fair. But seriously…
E.’s death changed me. I kept thinking I would trudge through the grief and get to the other side and things would “get back to normal” and I would “feel like myself again.” That doesn’t seem to be the case. I think E.’s death altered me at a molecular level, shifted my DNA in ways I won’t be able to figure out how to switch back.
The light is fading and I’m so tired. I consider falling asleep next to my daughter, but there is still a lot of laundry to do, coffee to set up for the morning, and messages to return to friends.
I think about going to work this week and my heart starts to race. I think about the stack of bills lying in wait on my desk and my stomach lurches. I’m no longer sleepy.
I try to think about how my five year old daughter rode her bike with no training wheels for the first time this weekend, and how my nine year old has his first band concert this week in which he will play the trumpet. What brilliant triumphs!
You see, I’m not a total Debbie Downer. I still get blissed out by these every day miracles. Life still has color and flavor and lots of sound. I take every opportunity I can to indulge in rampant laughter.
But mostly I’m adrift inside myself, lost in the space within me. I’m like an astronaut, untethered from her rocket and running low on oxygen, uncertain what will happen next.
It’s a scary image. I think of calling someone up and telling someone about it, but I can’t reach out because that is even scarier.
I’d like to go and sit in the grass with E. and talk to her. It is one of the only places where I feel at peace these days, and sometimes I feel frustrated when I can’t get there, but the thought occurs to me that you can’t live your life in a cemetery.
I roll onto my back and look up into the darkness of my daughter’s room.
I’ve stopped crying.
I know I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and panic at the brackish taste in my mouth. My mind will race back over all the things I said throughout the previous day and will try to remember if I said anything gravely wrong or damning to anyone.
I’ll get up and brush my teeth. I’ll look at my reflection and think it’s so weird to be up brushing my teeth at three in the morning, but it’ll ground me enough to go back to bed for a couple more hours.
I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I’m sorry I’m so much. I’m sorry I’m so disorganized and self absorbed. I’m sorry.
I think that’s why I tend to drift away. I get big and crazy and too intense and then feel the need to take myself somewhere else.
It’s been a hard year and I’m broken and I might not be fixable as I drift farther and farther away from things I thought I knew.