I am far from saintly, imbued with a weakness for the profane, for excess, and more than my fair share of debauchery. However, when it comes to my health I am the model of good intentions: I exercise mindfully every single day. I eat healthy foods, meditate, pray, and hug people all of the time (which we know thanks to science hugs help you live a longer, happier life. The more the better!). Hell, I even stretch after exercising. I even stretch after sleeping! However there is still the nagging fact that I am imperfectly made in my human design. All those ounces of prevention do me a world of good, but are no immunization for aging and genetics and general “well that’s life-ness”. Still I soldier on cheerfully. Mostly cheerfully. Ok, I get monstrous at times. It makes me appear mysterious and keeps my family guessing. This morning I had 4 more injections into the base of my spine, just four weeks after having the same procedure done, with the same flat on my ass, nausea filled recovery. My kids are awesome. They know mom’s not ever down on the mats like this easily or often and they nurture my peaked spirit with such tenderness and love. They stepped into every role plus their own, and made giving in to a long day of fitful sleep, guiltless and easier. I know my hubby longs to be here to be superman for me but he is currently taking the capital by storm with our 4th son and the entire 8th grade class on a week long field trip. Somehow I feel I got the easier deal, but he really loves stuff like that. So I am curled up with pillows and ice packs, and treated to snuggles and whispered stories of the day in my cool, darkened room while it spins slowly on towards tomorrow, and one more step closer to healing.
“Mamma said there’d be days like this, there’d be days like this my mamma said”. Truth. That’s what just dropped my friends, TRUTH. Every single one of us has had that moment when the fates conspire against you. When you smack your little toe against the table leg of life and before you can call your words back, out they fly like a boomerang that is DEFINITELY going to come back to bite you. Well, when it happens, (and happen it will, I promise you this) just breathe deeply and try to recall these sage words, these pearls of wisdom, these nuggets of gold I am sharing with you now:
1. Unless your rage fueled moment of weakness left a body to hide, it’s going to be fine. It will pass. Probably like a kidney stone, but this too shall pass. Your kids won’t be scarred for life, they probably won’t even need all that much therapy. Your partner may occasionally look at you like they just woke up in the twilight zone, but that’s ok, they’re probably a bit freaky too. Hey, look at it this way, your moment of human imperfection has provided them with a great ice breaker story for later in life at the very least. Probably a bit of fuel for your commitment hearings, but a hell of a story too. If there is a body, you’re on your own.
2. Everyone boomerangs in life. You’re not alone. The entire human race has had their own private Idaho moment where better judgement did not prevail, and that action, those words came flying back. Remember recess? Hell, not a kid on that playground escaped middle school without the requisite poor judgment skills that go neatly hand in hand with the acne and the rapid, awkward body changes. Spilled secrets, terribly chosen alliances all are the hallmarks of our adolescence. It’s probably where they got the idea for “Survivor”. My point is, you and a couple billion unique individuals exactly like you (yes, that was intentional) all struggle in moments of weakness and sometimes we lose. Pick yourself up, dust your self off, clean up your mess and then move on. Leave the boomerang analogy there. Plainly put: don’t keep coming back to your mistake. You got your mess cleaned up? Lesson learned? You’re good.
3. Here I’ve saved the best for last. Be the first to tell your story. Don’t let fear of your past keep you hostage. Be brave. Let others see your strength by seeing that you wade through the same stuff everyone else does. Laugh at your self, at your real person status, and then feel good that you aren’t cloaking yourself in shame at your startling lack of awesomeness at times. That’s what makes you great. You really ARE amazing. You’re messy and lovely, and complexly put together. If you’re going to keep boomeranging anything, let it be your light.
If you still have that body we talked about earlier, give me a call. I might know a guy. Damn. I sure hope that doesn’t come back to bite me…..
Our wee little chicks have out grown their kitchen based domicile. Being still quite small compared with those big boned gals in the coop-de-ville, an interim base camp was needed. With hubby away, and the itty bitties bursting at the seems inside, I headed to the local hardware store armed only with desperation and a half baked, hair brained idea taking form. Lacking a working knowledge of the tools in our shed, strong spacial skills, basic math abilities, and solid upper body strength, I decided to rely solely on materials I could tie together and drag around the yard myself. The plan was simple: construct a basic rectangular box out of PVC pipes and 3 way joints to connect them, at which point I planned to wrap the entire thing in old chicken wire, held to the form with the 3 zip ties I found rummaging around the house, a 5 foot length of wire I found stumbling around the poorly lit shed, and a huge pile of twisters I usually reserve for tying Christmas lights to the eves. It was fool proof! A kindly gentleman at the store, blessed with the patience usually required by parents of 4th graders the night before a science project is due, listened while I used wild hand gestures and vague descriptions to communicate my “blueprint”. Amazingly he understood enough of my native language (utter hooey) to help me gather the required supplies, even cutting the pipes to my non specific, arms stretched out to indicate lengths, directions. I was on fire. Upon arriving back home I enlisted the help of the two unlucky children not otherwise engaged, and used the same eloquent articulation to convey the plan. Less than half an hour later, I stood proudly gazing at our handiwork, my hands and arms covered in a multitude of tiny cuts because I refused to use common sense and wear protective gloves to handle the chicken wire (a hellish mistress with a devil of a temper), pride swelling in my heart. The result is a fantastic, inexpensive , light weight and portable “mini coop” that can even fit into the big coop at night, and most impressively, is so simple to assemble, even a team of reluctant monkeys can do it. Success!
*For anyone facing a similar dilemma and as apt at “construction” as I am, the PVC pipes are 1/2″, are sold 10 feet long at less than $3 a length. The one I made is 5 feet long by 3’4″‘s wide, 3’4″s high. The odd measurements are because I had the guy cut 2 of the poles in half (5′ each half), and three other poles equally in 3rds (hence the strange 3’4″ lengths! A side note: you only need 8 of them so you end up with an extra 3’4″ length). I used eight 3 way connectors (4 at each end) to make squares and then connected the squares with the 5’ poles. One roll of chicken wire will cover 4 sides and the top. I HIGHLY recommend coughing up the extra money for a big bag of zip ties, way faster and easier than twisting a million actual twisters all around the thing to hold the wire to the frame!
I am happy I have crows feet around my eyes that tell everyone immediately at a distance that I laugh. I laugh A LOT. Laughter makes everything so much more manageable and the unmanageable stuff, well slightly better. I am happy I have a belly that hangs a bit over my pants, and bulges a bit at the hips like a delicious doughnut that proclaims I break bread with my family and friends on a regular basis. I may not grace the covers of swimsuit magazines, but I happily salute any woman comfortable enough in her own skin that she lets herself shed layers and revel in sunshine and water in a bikini or even a one piece if that’s daring enough for her to manage. It took a while but I made my peace with the silver hairs that sprout by the dozens around my temples. They testify that I have lived long enough and interestingly enough to have earned them. Truth be told, I am more than a little amazed to have made it so far. ❤️
Edit If you could see what I see. If you could look through the lense of my eyes and see yourself, see your worth, see your light and your beautiful soul, you would know that you are worth waiting for. You are worth getting to know. You are worth long conversations and equally long silences. You are worth walking with. You are worth crossing a room for, crossing a street for, crossing the universe for. You are worth the wait.
You are in a hurry to grow up, to fall in love, or even wildly in like, and to be wildly liked and loved back. Your passions sweep through you like wind through the trees, waves on the ocean, and fire through brush. Please take your time, please savor the moments and relish the days and don’t hurry so. Believe me when I tell you that the someone’s that matter, the ones that are meant to be, are also worth the wait. They will look at you like I look at you. They will see you as I see you. They will feel the rush of passions as you feel them and they will wait for you, because you are worth waiting for.
Dignity. Ever dignity. That was my father’s motto, and like the dutiful children my siblings and I were, we endeavored to strip him of it. Every chance we got. Our good fortune lay in his tireless patience and humor.
My own sojourn into parenthood lead me along much the same path. The eternal lessons in humility, panic, patience, and the art of field stitching wounds, finding lost items, locating public bathrooms for pea sized bladders, and cultivating a level of civilized behavior in my offspring suitable for general audiences. It’s a bumpy road, to say the least. To say the most…well, entire libraries of books on the subject already litter the landscape. I will spare you the unabridged version.
I love my children. I am continually amazed by their brilliance (which they get from their dad) and their keen sense of humor, sliding often into the dark, irreverent side, which I am certain they get from me. At every opportunity I have thrust upon them to become cultured and refined, they have proven time and again that my genetic contributions to their proper sensibilities has won out. Shenanigans and tomfoolery ensue.
I have, maybe, 3 or 4 pictures over the past 20 years in which my children are looking at the camera and smiling nicely. I have thousands more where not a single one of them was able to master the self control necessary for a 20 second photograph.
My albums, the records of my beautiful children, read like a year book for the local insane asylum. Why does this make me ridiculously proud?
On the way home
“On the way home” is a phrase that most people consider to refer to a point on the map between a starting point and a final destination. You know, like “I’ll stop for milk on my way home from work”, or “I’ll pick up your kid on my way past your house for basketball practice”, because those things are conveniently place in between point A and point B. “On the way home” is a small favor to do, not even a favor really, since your going pretty much right past that thing or kid to get where you were going to go anyway, right? You really only need to break a little, maybe even stop the car so the extra kid can dive roll in and buckle up as you rev the engine and bring the car back to top speeds with out skipping a beat. My friends and I do it all the time for each other, mostly because while we like each other, it is pretty much ON THE WAY, so why not? If your kid lived across town and I had to drive in some crazy triangle just to get your kid before driving in a totally opposite direction, I certainly wouldn’t consider it “on the way” and while I would still do it for you, it would ABSOLUTELY be a favor. I might even grumble on occasion, as I’m sure you would. Muttering under my breath as I add extra time to do this THING for my friend because it meant heaving my lazy butt off the couch and into a cold car on a dark night that much sooner. I mean, I love you all, really I do, and I will always help you out and I won’t even complain out loud. I don’t need to since having a continual internal dialogue going on in my warped brain anyway, that would terrify most sane people.
I’ll talk and rail at myself in the privacy of my brain. No need to expose you to all that. Anyway, the point is while I will do this for you anytime, I don’t consider it “on the way”, that’s all. Here’s the thing that amazes me though: My parents are always saying this to me. “Honey, we thought we would just stop by on the way home from your sister’s.
My sister, it should be noted, lives two and a half hours south of me, and my parents live an hour south of me so I am most definitely NOT on their way home. They’ll stop by “on their way home” from points across the globe, and always with arms full of things they picked up shopping (that they will never use) that they figure we can use/need/like.
They are amazing. It hasn’t mattered how long their flight back from a sojourn somewhere wonderful was; still they will call and say, “We thought we would swing by on our way home…” They have logged more out of the way miles than that guy from “Dumpsters, dives and diners” has and all in the name of coming to me “on their way home”.
When my Dad and Mom say “on the way home” what they are really saying is “I love you”. Like Wesley in the Princess Bride movie who’s “as you wish” was really “I love you”. My parents have ways of saying this that at first go unnoticed for the expression it really is. I am not “on the way home” for them, not by any stretch of the imagination, but for my mom and dad, I will always be “on the way home. And, you know what? I love them too.
A dare. That’s what most of motherhood is: one, giant, everyone’s watching DARE. Actually, it’s the ultimate dare. The DOUBLE DOG DARE, the dare from which there is no backing down, no saying “pass”. It’s the dare to end all dares and everyone is watching. It’s you against the unknown challenge. You somehow know instinctively that it will involve being outside of your comfort zone, and also, probably, a little humiliation for laughs.
It’s worth it, don’t get me wrong, but you WILL be the subject of many, many blackmail worthy pictures your kids are probably assembling into a final presentation for your commitment hearings. Don’t worry, you’ll have your day in court. Two can play at this game after all. I mean your average teen will melt in horror at any public demonstration of your singing…and your choice in outfits? Go for flamboyant costumes and I guarantee you will walk across that parking lot ALONE.
If anyone had been completely upfront with me about the huge leaps of faith, the near constant blindfolded trust walks, and the outright make-it-up-as-you-go-along technique required to shepherd those adorable, pudgy, toothless babies through their teen years and beyond, I might have run the other way.
But then again, I would have missed out on the best ride of my life. Go on and try it. I DARE you. Slap on your war paint and get ready to get down and dirty because being a mom is many things, and I wouldn’t trade a single one of them. Bring. It. ON.
Fairly in control
I am, most days, a fairly in control person. On those other days, the fearsome ones during which the illusion of control over life that I cling to seems like so much water slipping between my fingers, I am a terrifying, whirling dervish of frantic energy. My kids, who I adore more than life, who I in point of fact labored to bring INTO this life, run my calendar with activities and school work and affairs of the heart (or at least transportation to and from play dates, and romantic dates, and dates that escape description). In short: I am a free, glorified taxi service. I am at the beck and call of adorable tyrants, minions who managed to take over the kingdom, demanding supplies, sustenance, last minute accommodations, all of which I squeeze between the constraints of my actual, full time job coordinating education programs for a few hundred other adorable tyrants belonging to other harried, glorified taxi drivers. I try to keep everything straight from who needs to go where, to who needs what and when. I try to hold onto the times and locations and people I have meetings with, the myriad details, the minutia. Some times I succeed. Sometimes I fail SPECTACULARLY. When I do, I feel less and less like the one at the helm and more like the one in the brig. Sticky notes are a favorite visual planner for me. I post them all over my office, my books, my house, my car in an impressive variety of shapes and colors all coded to specific tasks and persons. I can be found at times amidst a flurry of falling notes peeling away and floating down like a blizzard of duty. I have noticed how reluctant others are to approach me during the heights of my crazed organizational chaos, backing slowly away from me, uttering placating words, smiling nervously before they turn and run. This confuses me since clearly I am in control. At least. I am fairly in control. For now.