Archive for the ‘motherhood’ Tag
November 16 2011
I was lying in bed the other morning, long before the sun woke up. My wouldn’t rest enough to fall back to sleep, because I was thinking about a basket I have. Clearly this isn’t your ordinary basket. It’s big and made of sturdy metal, a piece picked up from the previous tenants of some place I’ve rented over the years. I’m sure it would need to be cleaned, and the junk it was already holding thrown away, but I was lying there wondering if it might solve the stuffed animal storage problem I seem to be experiencing.
That’s right, I lie in bed dreaming of stuffed animal storage.
Doesn’t everyone?
But it’s a good dream to have. Kind of like world peace, and almost as unatainable. All of the stuffed animals stored in a neat, yet aesthetically pleasing, container out of the way. Instead of spilling forth and taking over every square inch of space.
The thing is, it’s boggling how we accumulated so many stuffed animals. I haven’t purchased a single one. The grandparents, however, can’t seem to pass a crane game without playing. And then they multiply. So I was trying to determine if this basket was big enough to house the many we’ve been given. Except even if it were, that might only solve one of my problems. Because then I wouldn’t know where to put the damn basket .
At which point I realized. There is only one truly good stuffed animal storage solution. And it involves packing them all in a trash bag, to donate to some other unwitting family.
November 02 2011
Just like you’re not considered a true momblog until you’ve retold a good poop tale, the same can be said in real life. Once you become a mother, the list of suitable conversation topics gets skewed. As adamant as you are beforehand that it won’t happen, you will find yourself recounting every motion of your darling’s bathroom visits in disturbing detail.
Even over breakfast.
My parents and I went out for a morning meal recently. The hostess sat us at a table next to a large family with a number of cute little kids. One of which was apparently in the throes of potty training, which of course the mother wanted to include everyone else in. While in the middle of our breakfast, I overheard their conversation shift familiar gears.
“Speaking of going number 2″, she began, “yesterday he came to me and said he needed to go poop. So he took down his underwear and starting running through the house with his pants around his ankles.” That’s when one of her other family members asked a question to clarify before continuing on, “He said he had to poop. But he never went poop…”. And on it went.
She said poop at least 10 times while telling this story.
All over a breakfast of sausage links and pancakes.
I’ve written about poop twice now just this week alone.
I wonder if that lady has a blog?
October 17 2011
Some days, they wake up bad. You feel cranky before you even open your eyes. Every breath exhaled sounds like a freight truck and makes you want to scream. On those days, I’m the farthest from present. Here’s a donut for breakfast. A cookie for lunch. It’s whatever is easiest and satiates the demands quickest. Don’t sit on my lap. I’m busy, just go play. I need some space, a quiet escape. I should have just stayed in bed.
They deserve more. Some days, I’m just not able to give it.
When those days happen, I apologize to my kids for not giving my all. I hold them extra tight when I can and hope that tomorrow will be better.
Then the next day comes and with any luck, you get out of bed with a bit more bounce. Instead of dreading what it brings, you wish your children good morning, and mean it.
On those days, I am present and aware. I play outside with my daughter. I pretend to fly to the moon with her, making silly sounds and faces, running in circles as if we’re ascending into space. We take a walk to dig for rocks without checking my watch every minute. When we come back indoors, Abby asks for markers and we sit and color together. Drawing flowers and learning letters. I don’t even care if she accidentally marks the shirt she’s wearing. After the boys come home from school, I listen intently as Jedi remarks about his day. I applaud the attempt Buzz is making. We skate across the smooth kitchen floor. I laugh instead of cry. I’m still thankful for bedtime, but I do it feeling full instead of empty.
Those days are better. They are good. I wish I knew their secret.
October 12 2011
Jedi called out to stop me as I walked past his room after putting him to bed. He was supposed to be fast asleep already, especially after complaining about how tired he was. There’s always a stall tactic, however.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes”, I whispered, not wanting to wake his brother or sister.
“So let me get this straight. Cows just have milk in their body? Like, how do they make it?”, he wondered. I had to give him credit for the inquisitive question, though.
“Well”, I considered, not sure exactly how to phrase my response for an almost 8 year old boy. “Do you remember how I used to feed Abby, with milk from my body? Cows make milk like that, too.”
Thinking a string of thoughts along, he questioned next, “So the milk we drink is supposed to be for the baby cows?”.
With my limited knowledge on the nature of farm animals, I went with the safe, flippant approach. “Yes and no”, I mustered. Then I began to worry that this may cause him to feel sad for the cows, and thus refuse to drink any more milk. To thwart this, I suggested a story of how the farmers are really doing the cows a favor, because if they didn’t empty their abundant supply they’d get sore and full. Like engorgement. A tale taken from a combined total of 5 years personal breastfeeding experience on this farm I call my life.
After we said our goodnights again and as I was making my exit, he called out one last time. “Hey, Mom? I’m glad I’m not a cow.”
I’m glad I’m not a cow anymore, either. My milking days are done.
October 07 2011
The truth is, I’m not the best mother. It’s hard to stay in the moment. There are so many tasks on the to-do list. I don’t have nearly enough patience, nor time. My temper flares. My voice rises. My back hurts, my head hurts, I’m old. I don’t play well. I’m not the fun one. The thought of doing crafts is excruciating. Some mornings I wish for the day to end before it’s even begun.
But there is one thing I do well, and I do often.
I tell my kids I love them.
Always. It doesn’t matter when or why. For no reason. Enough to where I’m not surprised if they get tired of hearing it, but I still say it again. I don’t remember a day when I haven’t vocalized it to each of my kids at least once. Usually more. A lot more. The love in a family takes many forms, but it’s the articulation of affection that carries with you. It can lift you up when you need it, or erase any negative. It is the most invaluable form of validation. It’s important to hear.
It’s said before my boys get on the school bus each morning, just as it’s included in our ritual every evening. Like when I’m tucking Jedi into bed, I’ll wrap my arms around him for a lopsided hug as his head is lying on the pillow, kiss his cheek, and say as a cap for the night.
“I love you, kiddo.”
Then he’ll say in return, my first born son. “Mom…”, he begins as I prepare for a touching comeback, “I farted”.
Love’s many forms. Many, many forms.
