The Gift

In those absolutely rare flashes of clarity, that occur to few and far between, it's an amazing marvel to see my children. Life is filled with so much noise--white noise, background noise, fulsome noise, outside noise--that my life, and how it intersects with my children, is seldom quiet. But recently, the din has lessened (I know it won't last long, so I'm grasping the moments), and I found myself seeing these people I helped create.

I stand, sit, lie, and gawk in awe. 

Seeing them this way, in this brighter light (or with the veil lifted) is like being in a nature film, where, through time-lapsed photography, we watch a seed grow into a stalk, then into a bud, then into a flower, then, finally, but in a matter of moments, into full bloom. The remarkable beauty takes your breath away, yet makes you laugh at the impossibility of it. There's this sense of seeing something rare and special and forbidden, almost voyeuristic. 

How can you possibly explain to them, or someone who has never raised a child, that regardless of their age you see them as they were--with puff-ball hair, small, clutching hands, soft cheeks, and voices to wake the dead? 

My oldest son is 20. And, honestly, we struggle to find a way to communicate. I continue to be his mother, utterly flawed, yet with expectations and requirements, and he's pushing away from being my son--he's bursting out of his skin to be an adult, but he's confined by my rules, my way. So we tread carefully, and often clumsily around each other. We toss out barbs and occasionally wound each other. He's developed a protective skin to cover his sensitivities and vulnerabilities, and I hate it. I desperately miss the warm, sweet, thoughtful, gentle little boy he was, before he began to protect himself from the world, but mostly from the nasty, vitriolic divorce his father and I went through. 

I still see the slim 8 year old, worry filling his face, as he pressed one of his special, treasured keepsakes into his sister's hand as I flew out the door racing her to the Emergency room, not the tall, hairy man he's becoming.

We have constant and regular conflict. Up, down, in, out, back, forth--"we don't respect him, his needs, or his privacy." "He doesn't help out the way he should, drinks our last beer, every time, and has no direction." But, then, as things always do, something changed the other day: a shock to our family that registered on the Richter scale. And as I braced for the shaking and trembling the shock would cause, I also braced for his reaction and what it would do to him, and us. I expected the worst. I actually thought I might lose him.

But as I steeled myself, my life was thrown into the slow-but-double-time motion of that nature film, and I saw my son begin to bloom. He's beautiful, just as I always suspected he would be. 

I know that this moment suspended in time will end and that we'll go back to our see-saw of strife. It's life. But for right now I'm staring in wonder and holding my breath. The seeds of who my children are, and who they will be, were always there. That tall, hairy man is the sweet, gentle boy.

My children are beautiful. And for this brief moment, when bills and groceries and lessons and housework and cooking and scrambling to make a life fades to the background, I'm deeply grateful for this glimpse of their possibility, and their radiance. And today, to be their mother, is a gift. 

Good Enough

I'm a grown-up now, although it seems I'm still stumbling through some kind of childhood, trying to find my feet.  I'm a mother, a wife, a friend, nearly forty years in the making I might add, yet still I feel judged, unsure of who I am, of who everyone wants, or expects me to be.  I am what I am, I think, but unfortunately with that comes this perception by others of who and what they think I am.  Truly, I'm a rather simple person, not all that complex, I want what most others want, to feel loved, complete (as much as we can) and accepted for who I am, even when I am not sure I myself know.

My childhood, frankly sucked, it was tough, I'm sure like many others.  It has left me worried constantly that I'm not living up to it, whatever it may be.  Now my parenting, friendships, and relationships are couched in this fear, fear that I'm not good enough, smart enough or interesting enough to contribute anything of substance.

As a mother, it seems you have to live up to so much, you must be so many things, yet your world is gradually shrinking.  This is magnified even more now, because I stay home full time with my children.  I'm out of the loop, I have little to offer, in the way of new and interesting ideas.  I don't want to feel like I should be crucified or made to feel less than intelligent because I don't have an enormous world of current experience to draw from, but sadly I do.  I want to be brimming with interesting topics to engage others in, but often I am not.  Instead I have small snippets of my own life, my own experiences to share, and I hope that is enough.

I used to scoff at the idea, that one day my world would get small enough that I would become one of those women, who shared pictures or talked endlessly about her children, parenting and the other mundane issues that now surround my life.  But here I am.  This is what my life is for now.  It probably won't be like this forever, but for now it is what it is, and I'm more than okay with that.  Yes, there certainly are days when I want so much more, when I think back to the days when my life looked much differently, much more exciting, and I do long for those days. But as it sits today, my life is dirty dishes, and re-runs of Franklin the Turtle.  It might not be glamorous or world changing, but it's okay.

I complain a great deal, but I don't want or need to tout some sign that tells the world I'm angry all of the time.  Sure I get down about things, it gets lonely being a mother, a parent, a partner. That's just the reality of life, it's not unique or earth shattering, everyone feels these things. And yes, I might want to rip my hair out in frustration at being a mother, and what, that in turn, makes me in other people's eyes.  The truth is I just want to get through today, tomorrow, and hope that what comes later is good.  I don't want to buck the tide and fight against everything, I thought as a young woman I would, I'm just too damn tired.  

I'm tired of worrying whether what I have to offer the rest of the world or my own small world is enough.  Anything I have to share with others comes from me, what I know or feel, I can't offer anything more.  We give of ourselves what we can, it might seem insignificant to some, but sometimes that's all we've got, or all we're willing to give away.  

I guess for me it's a struggle, it will likely always be.  I'm slowly learning to accept myself, and all that I am, and hopefully not only for my sake, but for those who choose to share their lives with me, that will be enough. 

It Hurts to be Beautiful

I am going to tell you a harrowing tale. One that makes my blood run cold, and makes me wonder what we're we making of our daughters? 

Every Monday night my 20 year old son plays poker with friends. These are, for the most part, good kids (yeah, there's a little pot, a little more beer, and a lotta bad language, but there's no crack or handguns or plotting to overthrow the Man), they're intelligent, respectful young men. 

They always play in the same place: in the basement at Jeremy's* house (*names changed to protect the innocent, or not so innocent--really, I'm only protecting myself, my son would kill me in my sleep if I revealed any real names). At 22 or 23 years old, Jeremy has managed to pull himself up by his boot straps (or in this case, by his keyboard) find work in an exciting, challenging career he excels at, and buy his own house, which he shares with his girlfriend. By most standards, it's impressive for a 42 year old to excel at their career and buy a house, but at 22 it's jaw-dropping. 

Well, as I reclined after supper on Monday night, after a indulgent repast, patting my growing girth, it occurred to me that my son wasn't performing his careful preparations for poker night (throwing on his favorite crumpled t-shirt from the bottom of a laundry basket and attempting to find at least one sock that didn't expose his big toe). When I asked him why he wasn't going to the game, he told me that the game was cancelled for the next couple of weeks. Why? I inquire. His answer shocked and saddened me: 

"Well, Jeremy's girlfriend is recovering from surgery."

"Oh my God, is she okay?" I say, alarmed enough to sit up straight (which caused an immediate cramp).

"Yeah, she's okay. She's just recovering from her boob-job." 

"What? She had breast implants!! Why? How old is she?!" Let me tell you, I, who am not easily shocked, was shocked. 

Evidently, Jeremy's 20 year old girlfriend, Laura* (*names changed to protect the recently up-cupped) has been dreaming of breast implants for years. She worked through high school and full-time when she graduated, saving and saving, not for university or a trip abroad, but for bigger breasts. 

"Why did she get breast implants? Were her boobs really small? Why would she do that?" I say, becoming increasingly agitated, to my increasingly uncomfortable son. 

"Well, no," he says, "she had nice boobs, you know, regular size. She's a really pretty girl. She wasn't flat-chested. Jeremy said she's just always wanted bigger boobs."

"How big did she go, like a C-cup, or something? And how does Jeremy feel about it?" I'm not naive, in fact, just the opposite, but this was something I was having trouble wrapping my head around. 

"Well, actually, she went for a Double-D, and..."

"What!!!! What the hell!!! Holy shit!!!! Why would she do that? Why would she do that to herself!!!!?????" I rudely interrupt.

"I dunno. I guess she just wanted bigger boobs," shrugs my son.

"Oh my God. What does Jeremy think?"

"Actually," says my son, "He's not very happy about it. He didn't want her to do it. But it was her dream, and he loves her and he said he'd support her." 

"Yeah, your damn right he's going to need to support her....him and WonderBra, for the rest of her back-pain filled life." 

As a woman and as a mother I'm saddened and confused. What are we telling our daughters about their worth? What are we telling them about their value as people? What kind of world is this where a beautiful, young woman is entirely motivated by bigger breasts? What kind of world does she need to feel safe enough, special enough, good enough, attractive enough? What kind of world makes it's young women feel so imperfect? What kind of world are we making for our daughters? 

And how did we come to a place that places more value on your waist to hip ratio then on your brain to stupidity ratio? 

I feel mute. I'm so filled with rage and frustration that I'm unable to articulate how enraged I am. But the next moment, I'm so saddened that I feel weak. 

I suppose, by the standards society sets, so consequently by our standards, it's pretty simple for our daughters to figure out where they fit and where they belong. Their achievements, self-respect, and strength is sitting in their bras, their noses, their haircut and highlights, or the seat of their jeans. 

I'm not wagging my finger at others. I'm not blameless. I've created the same atmosphere in my house, around my girls. I have and do constantly critique myself, my shape, my flaws. I was getting ready for work the other day and one of my daughters said, "You look nice mom." I could have been graceful and accept the compliment. But I didn't, and I wasn't. My answer was, "Yeah, nice for a fat girl." All she said was, "Ahhh, mom, you're not fat. " Then she walked away. And she's right. I'm not fat. But I'm plagued with doubt about my 40 year old curves. I'm uncomfortable in my less than perfect frame. But it's not me that I damaged with those 6 careless words (though I certainly didn't do myself any favors). It was my bright, beautiful daughter. 

How can she learn to grow into the kind of woman who's confident in her self, her beauty, her intelligence, her capabilities, when she sees me, her role model, so unable to be comfortable in mine. 

This is hard. And I don't know how to fix it. I just know that I need to, at least in my world. I know sex sells, I know that attractive people get farther, faster. I know that there's power in beauty. But I also know that that doesn't have to be all. I know that I want more for my girls. I want their power to come from inside of them, rather than inside their bras. I want them to recognize how beautiful and smart they are. And for my sons? I want them to see women for everything they are, not for everything they show. 

Maybe I can't achieve this. Possibly, my daughters are contemplating implants. But when my son and his friends tell me they feel bad that Laura felt she needed breast implants, I can hope a little. 

 

All my ducks back in the nest

Oh I'm a sap, a real, super crybaby sap.  Today I picked up my son from camp.  He's been gone 13 days, and it was a long 13 days.  I missed him painfully, but hid it quite well, my husband would argue this though.

The drive never felt so long.  The road just kept on extending out, further and further, like we would never arrive.  Finally we arrived to see this gigantic looking kid perched on a log.  I honestly didn't think it was my kid from that distance.  He looked so big and tall, lean and tanned.  That is until he came running to meet me.  Then I could see without a doubt it was him.

I have never felt a hug that held so much in it.  He hugged me pressed his face into my chest and we both burst into tears.  Big hot sobbing tears.  I promised myself, again, that I wouldn't break down when I saw him, but this time I couldn't hold back.  He cried, I cried, we laughed, composed ourselves, grabbed his gear and headed home.

God it's good to have all my little ducks back together.  They can be such a source of angst, but I wouldn't know what to do without them all!!  

Welcome home!

Ready, Set, Go

Okay, I thought that the kids being home, having a very loose schedule to contend with, would give me oodles of time to think, write, post, draw, read and relax.  What a schmuck I am.  Of course that hasn't happened.  Instead I've been trying to invent ways of evading the kids, all of them, in order to put a few meaningless blurbs on the blog, or read a couple of paragraphs here and there.

Obviously I have not been at all successful, in fact, I feel like I've fallen further behind.  I've gotten less time to be selfish, if you call wanting to change your tampon in private, being selfish.  I don't even feel like I have the time or energy to bestow any kind of intimacy on my ever patient husband.  What is going on here?

Well I'll tell you my friends, I'm a mother, a parent, a spent, drained shell of a woman.  Sometimes it kind of hits me, that not only I, but millions, probably billions, of other parents out there, did not put in the kind of thought we should have, into becoming parents.  I adore my children, I even admit to loving being a mom now and then, but I don't know if I'd have chosen willingly to spend from mid-twenties onward, being a parent, had I the opportunity to really see my future.

It's bloody hard.  Harder yet, to admit that it's not all we thought it was cracked up to be.  From the moment of conception, in whatever form that takes.  Whether one has waited years to become a parent, or whether it was over a few bottles of wine, and a sudden, "let's just throw caution to the wind", sort of deal, it changes your life forever.  

This occurred to me again today, as I was changing what seemed like, the tenth shitty diaper of the day.  I am a mom, a real no-shit, mother.  My life has been irrevocably altered, who I am will never be who I once was, years ago.  I automatically think now about things, like, mealtimes, snack time, sunscreen, bedtime.  Those are the first thoughts in my head when the days starts, "what do the kids need?", then I can pee and have a cup of coffee.  The little sounds that are constantly in the background, you know the ten thousand chants of, "mommy?", we hear everyday, yet somehow still block out, become, for whatever reason a part of us.  

The constant thoughts that are present in our minds of our children; where are they, what are they doing, who are they with, have they eaten, what time will they be home, what time do I have to pick them up.  This is now ingrained in my person, who I am, who I have become.  I can't seem to shake it.  The sounds, the thoughts are always with me, even when I am so exhausted, drifting off into sleep.  Those thoughts are just between that moment I am conscious and dead-to-the-world asleep.

When you become a parent, your world changes, almost without you knowing it.  New parents ask themselves, "will this all come naturally to me one day?".  Oh it will become more than natural, it will become like blinking, so automatic you won't even notice.  You'll be wiping your child's snotty nose with the bottom of your shirt, or spitting on a tissue to wipe their face, in no time flat.  And the horror is you won't even notice when that change takes place.

Whether you like it or not, your life is no longer your own.  You honestly are unable or incapable of ever doing anything easily again.  Your days of getting only yourself organized are over.  Your mind has essentially been taken over, and all you can do now is run with it.

In the time it's taken me to write this, I have literally had to stop at least a dozen times, and, what is so ironic about this, is it's normal, I wouldn't expect anything less.  Somedays are easier at coping with these changes, interruptions, yet other days it's nearly impossible.  They make you want to run screaming, crying off into the sunset, never to look back.  

All of the little things about becoming a parent, makes one just that, a parent, that's all.  We're not super human, we're not able to leap over buildings in a single bound, we're just people.  Silly people, who've decided to extend our genetic pool by becoming parents.  We have our ups and downs, and at the end of the day we're just happy to have made it through another day, another year, another child without completely imploding.  

Being a parent is like running a marathon, a lifelong, achy, marathon.  You have those moments where you catch a second wind and you feel like you are invincible.  Then you have those other moments where you really hit the wall, and feel like you just can't go on.  Just take a big deep breath and carry on, we all make to the end someday, some way.

    

Fun, fun, fun

I try not to be petty when it comes to my ex-husband and his relationship with our children.  It's hard, sometimes nearly impossible, but I honestly do try.  But, then there are those moments, those that make me want to dance and sing for my kids, begging them to like me more than they like him, begging them to want to be with me more than they want to be with him.  

Hell, haven't I been the one who's stayed up countless nights, holding them while they were sick and threw up everywhere but into the toilet or bucket, wiping their tears away when they were in pain, physically or emotionally.  

I never wanted to be that mom who needs her children to tell her how much they love her or appreciate her, but somehow inside of me there is this tiny voice that wants, no, needs, the recognition, especially when I feel like I am in constant competition with their dad.  The fun guy, the man who has always remained on the perimeter of their lives, present almost exclusively for only the weekends or holidays.  

He's not ever really had to think about much, responsibility wise, when it comes to the kids.    Mostly, all he has to worry about, is what time he needs to pick them up, when their extra school holidays are, and what time he has to drop them off, dirty laundry and undone homework in tow.  I know I sound bitter, and I really don't mean to.  He loves his kids and he's a good dad to them, at least in his mind.  No, his parenting is not what I would call ideal, but he might say the same when it comes to my parenting.  I'm sure he does what he feels is best, and all I can ask is that he loves our children.

My issue is more with myself, and what I struggle with internally.  I know it's irrational to try to compete with the other parent, but that doesn't stop me feeling the way I do.  I don't ever actually do anything that indicates any kind of direct attempt at trying to win the kids over.  I just wish I didn't have to feel this way.  Like, the way less fun parent, the rule maker, the bad cop the one who always has to do the hard work of parenting.  

I want to be the one who can run off at a moments notice and make my child feel like they are the centre of attention.  That I don't have to worry about laundry, cooking, the hum-drum of daily life.  But I can't.  What's more, is I don't think I would want to be the parent who doesn't care for them everyday, hum-drum and all.  

I guess I just get a little jealous here and there.  I want to know that the kids want to be with me as much as they want to be with their dad.  Even though I may not be as exciting.  I may not be able to take them skiing every weekend during the winter, or do many of their favorite things whenever I get the chance to spend one-on-one time with them.  Instead, mostly I just sit with them on the foot of their beds, curl up on the couch to watch a movie with them, or talk with them about their day.  It's not all that glamorous, but it's pretty damn good. 

Apparently life can't always be a carnival, that is, unless you have an ex-spouse who takes most of the heat when it comes to raising the kids.

Me, lonely?

It's been all of five days and I thought, well convinced myself anyway, when I dropped him off at camp, that I wouldn't miss him all that much.  I've been away from the kids a number of times (product of divorce), and to tell the truth, it's not ever been as bad as some have made it out to be.  Honestly, most times, it's been great, I've always needed the break and they've also needed a break from me.  Of course the house always seems so much quieter, and cleaner for that matter, but there is always this little part of me that wonders how their days are when they are away from me.  

This time it's been different.  I've been achingly lonely for him.  I imagine his big toothy smile, his freckled happy face, and I get choked up.  I miss the kid like crazy.  I worry whether I've packed enough warm clothes, sunscreen, bug spray, underwear.  I told myself  not to act like a blithering idiot when I left him there, standing alone looking so proud to be going to camp for a whole two weeks.  I didn't.  I asked him if he was alright, made sure we had a look at his accommodation, gave him a hug a kiss, another hug and kiss and left him. 

I know he's alright, but it's really weird sending your child off when it's not to his other parent.  Especially for this length of time.  I know he'll come back, feeling more grown up, looking taller, browner (well, pinker in his case), and happy, happy that he had the chance to have this experience.

I hope he remembers to brush his teeth, floss, for his braces sake, and have a shower often, so he doesn't horrify the other campers with his stench.  I hope he isn't afraid to use the outhouse at night, and he hasn't been eaten alive by mosquitoes, and that he uses his sunscreen regularly ( the poor guy needs it).

I, on the other hand want to spend the remainder of his trip imagining that he is having the time of his life, and push away the terrifying thoughts that he might be mauled by a cougar or a bear, or worse, that he gets lost alone in the forest without repellent, sunscreen or clean underwear.  I know I sound like a complete nut.  I just needed to vent in order to get through the next seven nights.

  

The Motherhood Gene

Oh my God. 

I've just had a bone-clattering revelation. I'm sitting here, with my mouth hanging just slightly open, eyes glazed like donuts, with the slightest sweat beading on my brow. I've become the one and only thing I was determined never, ever, ever, in infinity, ever to become. It's a shock, and a little hard to say out loud, but, I've become my mother. 

The transformation was so creeping and insidious that I didn't recognize it until it was too late. I didn't see it happening--and now, (insert high pitched, quavering scream here) it's done. 

When I was a teenager, and then a new mom, being anything at all like my mother was my greatest fear (next to being abducted by aliens and anally probed). I mean, come on--she always looked tired and in need of a haircut, she didn't ever take the time to paint her toenails or try new makeup styles, she'd fall asleep, upright at the table, after supper, she constantly had a pencil behind her ear and a never-ending list of things to do, sure she spent more money than she could afford on nice jeans for me, but did she really expect me to go to the mall with her in the pair she'd been wearing since the 70s? She was forever worried about where my brothers and I were going and who we were going with, and, geesh, just try to leave home to back pack around Europe, and she was a burbling, snotty mess. It was down-right embarrassing. Didn't she have any self-respect?!

I vowed to be the exact opposite of womanhood and motherhood. I was going to be liberal, cool, calm, unrushed, and sophisticated. My philosophy was simple, intuitive, and intelligent--every person has their own path to walk, and their feet are firmly planted on that path the second they're born, so all I had to do was give the people I brought into the world a place to live and grow, spread a little love and warmth around, and the rest was up to them. If they made mistakes, it was part of their growth, important to where their path was taking them, not my concern. I was free to live my life while they lived theirs, and yeah, our lives would intersect, but sometimes that might be kinda nice and fun. In fact, after my first child was born, and I was moving with his father to a small town, where I likely couldn't work, I asked my mom (and this is a direct quote), "What am I going to do all day? I'm going to be so bored. It'll only take an hour to clean the house, and then what?"

Well, I know you suspect what I'm going to tell you next. Mmmhhmmm. My philosophy imploded about a week after I had to put it into practice. And it wasn't pretty. 

I was a bloody mess. 

Twenty years later? Still a mess. I constantly have a pencil tucked behind my ear, dirt under my fingernails, I still manage to wear t-shirts with breast milk stains on them (my last child stopped nursing 3 and a half years ago), my hair occasionally looks like I've dragged a brush through it, and as for the lists, I can't keep them organized. I keep losing them, so consequently I can't keep track of what I've done, what I'm doing, or what I'm suppose to do (in fact, before I owned a cell phone, I actually lost one of my kids because I misplaced the field trip notice that told me where I had to pick him up. It was a harry couple of hours!) When I wear toenail polish, it looks chipped about 15 minutes after I've applied it, and worst of all, I spend every waking (and often sleeping) moment of my life in a state of perpetual worry about my kids--I'm a snotty, burbly mess. In short....I'm my mom. I'm starting to look like her--my small, perky boobs seem to be getting bigger every bloody day, and sound like her. I find her voice coming out of my body at a startlingly regular rate. Just the other day, in a fit of frustration, I inadvertently used one of the well-know gems I heard regularly throughout my youth--"If you keep acting like that, I'm going to drop kick you in the crotch." 

The transformation is complete. And now, after the shock has worn off, I realize it's not as bad as I imagined it would be. She wasn't perfect. She blew it sometimes (lotsa times). But age is the great equalizer and I see things differently. She wasn't deplorable. She was a mom and woman doing everything she could to make our lives, and her life, work. She encountered struggles, successes, joy, vomit, and interminable Christmas concerts, just like me, just like you. 

From here, where I sit, right now, it seems to me that the things I reviled in her are the things I've become (though honestly, I'll never be as organized or tidy as she is--I mean, she never once lost one of us). As it turns out, the reality is nothing like the fear. It took me alotta years to figure this out. 

And what about her? What about my mom? Twenty years later, she's become everything I intended to be--well put together, sophisticated, cool, calm, and unrushed. 

Maybe if I'm really, really lucky, someday, I'll get to grow into that part of her too. 

Takin' It Easy

Today I just want to sit and be.  I don't want to run through the day, lists abound, rushing to get everything done.  I want to enjoy the smallest one.  Watch her laugh and be silly, sit with her endlessly, not worrying about the beds, laundry or dishes.  

Today I want her to feel I am here, present, available.  I don't want to quiet her, hold her off, make her wait.  I want to be her best mommy today, her playmate, her friend.  So I pack our ragged backpack, with our towels, our sunscreen, our snacks.  And love the day with her in it.

Will I Always be Broken?

Sometimes it hits me like a slap in the face.  You know, the kind of slap in the face that comes when you're not expecting it?  Well that's how it feels once in a while.  When the realization creeps in that I'm pretty alone in the world.  Here I'm supposed to be this brave strong woman, mother and wife, but more often I'm left feeling like a small scared child, abandoned at the bus station with no where to go.

I have a loving, wonderful, warm husband, three beautiful children, not much missing really.  Aside from that feeling of belonging, somewhere and to someone.  I know, this is so old already, but I keep coming back to it, running through all of it.  The reasons, the fears, the what ifs.

Mostly it hits me when there are events in my life, or my children's lives, that I would love more than anything to have someone who I am, we are,  connected to through blood to share it with.  I had my last child without having my mother in my life.  Our beautiful baby was born and the event was shared with only a few, my mother not being one.  

I wanted throughout my pregnancy to talk with her, shop with her, laugh with her.  But it's just a big fantasy, one that I keep reliving.  One that I keep alive by imagining the kind of relationships I will have with my own children when they are grown.  One that I envy in others when I see them with their mothers, or fathers for that matter.

I'm not a heartless callous daughter, who doesn't speak to her mother because I am simply making a point, or pissed off about years of misunderstandings.  You know the mother daughter complex, "she just doesn't get me."  On the contrary, I' ve spend many, many years trying to get this relationship to work, or at least make in manageable enough not to put me in the nut house myself.  But it always falls flat, the rug is pulled out from under me and I'm left, most times, in complete shock.   

I' ve had all sorts of advice, like, "forget it, put it behind you, it's brought you too much pain as it is."  It's good advice, especially from those who have seen me through much of the pain associated with the relationship with my mother. But I am not sure they can understand the complete aloneness this decision brings.   I've also had plenty tell me, "You've only got one mother, and when she's gone, you'll have regrets forever.", this stings more than I can explain.  As I am a mother, and I can't tell you what it would do to me to lose my children.

What I can tell you, is that not having my mother in my life grows more difficult each day.  We all need a place to belong, meaning outside ourselves, without that we're wander, and wonder. What happens when where you come from is too disastrous a beginning to ever want to go back?

So here I sit, a few years later, the same place I was when this all began.  

Today I go for a test.  I'm not happy about it, and I would like more than anything to talk with her about it, but how?  I keep running it through my mind, what if something is really wrong with me, will she ever know, what if something terrible happens to her, will I ever know?  I don't have any answers, and I know it seems it should be just as easy as just picking up the phone, or writing a letter.  It is not.  Letting her back into my life, our lives, comes at such a high cost, and I'm not sure I am prepared to pay.  

So I live, for the moment anyway, with my decision.

Stellar and Stupid Parenting Moments of the Week

Welcome to week one of a new weekly feature here at Motherhood Bytes (In fact, I only just thought it up--it's fly-by-the-seat-of our-pants week here.

Stellar and Stupid Parenting Moments of the Week

By all that is sensible and logical in the universe, I should have introduced this on Friday, or Sunday--those being the typical end of the week days, but being the madly irrational woman I feel confident I have proven myself to be, I've left it 'til a Monday. And as the creator of this column, I figured it was only right that I kick things off, and really, since none of my compatriots even suspect I've invented it, I have no choice. So here goes. Here are my monumentally stellar and stupid parenting moments of the week:

Going for Gold: This week, I went in to work at the ungodly hour of 6:00 a.m. so I could work nearly a full day and then pull a fast-excape. I wanted to spend the warm, sweet, sticky afternoon with my kids. It was worth it.

Supreme Underachiever: My 6 year old son has never been in organized sports. I have lots of excuses--he's too young to even get what's going on, he's an artist not an athlete, all the poor little buggers do out there on the soccer pitch is chase the ball like a bunch of lemmings--and we can do that in the backyard (and the backyard doesn't have a registration fee). Really, I'm just lazy. Well, the other day, as we were playing a miniature game of baseball in our registration-free backyard, he got fed up, threw himself down on the patio with his legs splayed and his arms hanging limply at his sides, and shouted, "You NEVER register me for sports!!! I just wanna play sports! You never let me play!!!!!"

Job well done, Sloth-Girl! Job well done. 

But after baring my parenting faux-pas, I thought you should hear a real doozy, courtesy of newsoftheweird.com

The reputation of the Japanese for being humble is falling to Western norms among primary-school parents, according to a June dispatch from Tokyo in The Times of London. "Across Japan, teachers are reporting an astonishing change in the character of parents" as they push for their children's "rights." In one school's performance of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, "there were 25 Snow Whites after "monster parents" bullied officials into admitting that it was not fair to have just one kid in the title role. [The Times (London), 6-7-08] 

Have a moderately sane, occasionally indulgent parenting week!

It's a Perfect Day for Bananafish

I have a confession to make. Yes, another one. Another shameful, dirty, secret, secret. It's the reason I've been so remiss in writing (it's been plaguing my thoughts and making me about as fun to be around as a pube-speckled bar of soap):

I don't know who I am. 

That's it. That's all there is to it. I know--big fat stinkin' deal. You were hoping for a salacious shameful, dirty, secret, secret. A great fat juicy one, like, maybe, I slyly channel Mrs. Robinson and exploit my own Ben Braddock on the third Thursday of every month, or that I have a clitoral piercing that tickles when I walk, or that when I say I'm just running out to Home Depot to get a washer for the drippy tap, I'm really getting away from the house to conduct my side-business as the Madam of a high-cost escort service (politicians and professionals only, naturally). 

Sorry to disappoint. But I'm not that fun. The best and most revealing thing I can tell you about myself is, I don't know who I am. Who does, really, other than Seymour Glass, Arjuna, or the Dalai Lama? 

But I can't really model myself on one of them: one's fictional (and dead), one's mythological (and dead), and one is fully booked up into my next life giving keynote speeches (after which time, I'll be dead). So, outside of saying: this is how many kids I have, or this is how many times I've been married, or this is the job I go to every day, or this is how old I am, or this is my astrological sign, or this is what color my hair is, really, I have no way to define myself. Except, that I'm a desperate, confused, conflicted, raging maniac. 

And so I smile--most of the time. I pretend I am what I imagine other people see in me: smart, attractive, brave, kind, snide, flippant, standoffish, and haughty.  And I pretend to be the person other people see me being: a mother, a wife, a writer, an editor, a daughter, a sister, a friend. Sometimes. Today. The weight of these things is, at one time, heavy and ethereal. All at once, I feel the full weight on gravity pushing me deeper and deeper into myself and the ground, and then in an instant, I feel like smoke, formless and drifting and unable to grab hold of anything, anyone, myself. Sometimes, I want so desperately to throw this, them, everything off, and disappear so that I might discover who I am, what I am, why I am.

But what does this have to do with you? For that matter, what does this have to do with me? It's just philosophical navel-gazing, right? Yet everything I touch is touched by this, every person in my life grazes up against this crazy black hole. And what does that do to the people I love? These are people I chose or got stuck with, and people who chose or got stuck with me. I want so desperately, like most parents, for my children to have a better life than I have. I sometimes desperately wish that I could restrict that desire for them to having a bigger house, a nicer car, a fatter bank account, or a slimmer ass, but I'm saddled with this constant searching that makes me almost obsessively crave completeness for my kids. To have the real, true gift of knowing themselves. But now the crux: how do I teach them, or model for them, how to be whole when I'm so unsure myself. 

So where does this leave me? No where new. No where different. Where does this leave them? Sadly, but honestly, on their own. It's crazy really. I love them madly, insanely, and often, madly wish they'd leave me alone--maybe so I could find a way to just be with them. Maybe so I could find a way to just be with myself. See, what I tell you about being a desperate, confused, conflicted, raging maniac. I've been here before. It'll pass. But right now, it's sad. I want so much to be so much more than the person who buys their groceries, cooks their meals, goes to their parent-teacher interview, hold their hands. I want to be the woman and mother they deserve (and the woman and mother I deserve too). But for right now, I'll just keep pretending. Fake it til you make it, right? 

I suppose we really are, at the end of the day, only a light unto ourselves. We are what we come into the world with, and the only thing we leave the world with, but it doesn't stop me thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking and wishing and wanting to be more. 

My grandmother used to say, "If ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise." Sweet Jesus, what I wouldn't give for a nice dose of ignorance right now. 

I'll just have to settle for a Scotch. 

It's Lonely At The Top

It's lonely at the top, of the food chain that is, well in my house anyway.  It's eat or be eaten, and I tend to be the big drooling T-Rex that is terrorizing the rest of the innocents.

Seriously though, we've all been subjected to those ridiculous sayings, "If mom ma's not happy no body's happy", and the likes.  Well sad but true, much of that rings true for many of us.  Like it or not somehow we've been thrust to the top of the heap, willing or not, we are standing on a pseudo pedestal, and man it's a lonely place to be.

Suddenly we become to the go-to-person for everything, from what the entirety of our family is going to eat, to what we will do as a group.  Not only that, we also become the know-all of too much else in every body's personal lives.  It's just too much for one person, we're supposedly the most enlightened in our household, and sometimes we just want to catch a freakin' break.  Sit there with drool pouring down our dumbfounded chins, and just be still and quiet.

I am not sure I was meant for an entire group of people to follow, obligingly and sometimes blindly.  For God's sake sometimes I don't even know what I want to wear, eat, drink or think for that matter.  Yet, I am given the task of doing this for others.  How can they have this much faith and trust in me, especially when, for the most part I fall flat on my face, or fail miserably at a lot of it.

Oh it makes us moms tired and frustrated.  I am sick to death of making decisions, I want to be told what, where, when we are doing something, and follow along like a lemming.  I don't want to be asked, after being clear about wanting to do something, anything, what it is I had in mind.  Humor me, do whatever it takes, just make a decision that doesn't involve me having the final word.

I seriously don't want the rest of my family hovering around me like bees in a colony, I want them to be free, independent decision makers.  I want them to take the initiative without being told, exactly what that initiative is.  Because, my friend, if I have to tell you then I might as well do it myself. 

All of this being said, it's hard to give up one's throne.  Especially when our faith in those under us is constantly called into question.

My Babies

I watch my little girl grow, she is changing incredibly everyday.  I am amazed at what a tiny little person, and her ever growing mind can do.  Each day I'm afraid I am becoming increasingly more forgetful, struggling to remember the simplest of things, the placement of keys, a parking space, a common word.  And here this small wonder whisks through life, gathering, storing and using enormous amounts of information, always hungry for more.

What happens to us as we age?  It's scary to think, it wasn't too long ago I felt as hungry for new information as she is now.  Now I feel a low fog creeping in, stealing away that hunger, making me tired and complacent.

I remember gathering new things I' learned, as though they were tiny precious stones.  Putting them deep into my pocket to take out and admire, and brag about later.  Now I watch a small little girl, with wonderment shining in her big blue eyes.  Forming words from what she hears repeated to her.  Taking my hand to show me something that has intrigued her.  She stumbles over the new words that fall from her perfect little mouth.  She savours each of her new words like a delicious treat, running them over her tiny tongue.

It's a beautiful thing to watch your child learn, and grow.  For some reason, maybe it's denial, I forget that it happens everyday.  That each day she'll continue to change right before my eyes.  Still I am stunned when she does something she has never done before.  When she says a new word, or makes huge physical leaps and bounds, I'm left feeling proud, a little sad, and unbelievable happy, all at the same time. 

I am so excited to see what her future holds.  To watch her become more independent, stand on her own two feet, to grow into a girl, and then into a young woman.  But there is always the tiny ache that makes me forget the sleepless nights, the frustration of temper tantrums, and the sheer exhaustion of being the parent of a small child. 

 I've watched two other children grow up and away from me, becoming real, live people.  They no longer need me to wipe their noses, or their bums, thank God, I can never be grateful enough for that. But, they'll no longer crawl up onto my lap, hold my face in their hands, tell me they want to live with me forever, or marry me because they just can't leave.  Instead they've become these wonderful (although exceptionally annoying much of the time) people, who are separating, ever so slowly from the clutches of their mother.

I guess that's the thing with the smallest one.  I float between wanting to get my own independence back, yet wanting to hang onto the remaining moments of my last and youngest child being small.