One Sunday after mass, my family was headed out to brunch. We had to stop home to grab something, but were soon on our way again.
Hubby had left his seat belt undone. I fear freak accidents, so as we approached the one busy intersection on our two minute drive to our favorite cafe, I reminded him to buckle up.
"We'll be there in, like, one minute," he protested.
I looked at him and calmly replied, "We both know that there are so many things in this life we can't control. Why not control the things we can?"
"Good point," he said as he buckled up.
Yes, control is good.
5.25.2012
5.24.2012
I. Am. Enough.
Summer is officially here at my house, and even though I've written about how much I love spending time with my boys, I dread it, too for reasons that have nothing to do with bored, fighting siblings.
I dread it for the simple fact that during summer more than ever, wherever I go I am constantly comparing my body to other women's.
And feeling incredibly insecure about myself. Seeing other women in short shorts and bikinis and sundresses and tiny skirts makes me want to hide myself away covering every inch of the body I think is not good enough.
Why?
No one has ever told me that (no one important anyway).
So why do I compare myself to someone who is not me and feel like I am not enough?
Because I am a woman, and it's what we all do. I have been surprised over the years at how many different sizes and shapes of women have found fault with themselves.
I once read a blog called Just. Be. Enough (*No longer linkable). Its mission was to
"empower, inspire, and remind women, parents, and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves. We must. We must carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on our shoulders instead of allowing the burden of our flaws and imperfections to push us down."
The burden of our flaws and imperfections...
Are they saying everyone has flaws and imperfections?
Yep.
I think that is one lesson we women have always been taught that never quite sank in. No one is perfect. Even that woman with the kick-ass bikini body, a hot husband, and three adorably well-behaved children has flaws.
Even that woman at work or on the PTO who has fifteen balls in the air and juggles them with unflappable grace has flaws.
Some people are just better at hiding them. Some people are better at faking confidence (I do it sometimes). Some people are just better at denying their problems.
If we know this, then why do we compare ourselves to other women? Why do we let our flaws and imperfections push us down?
We are all beautifully flawed. It is our flaws that make us wonderfully unique. I have big hands and feet and a big nose and lips and broad shoulders matched with a small head and tiny eyes and short legs and small breasts with big hips and thighs.
But my husband thinks I am beautiful.
And some days, I do too.
Because I look at all of those mismatched proportions and I think about my wonderfully sweet and loving parents and which parts they gave me. And which I gave to my darling sons.
I think about which parts make me just like my sister or my nieces, and which make me different. I think about what I have that is unique.
When I get depressed I remind myself that I have a supportive family, I have an adorably funny and sweet husband who has never treated me badly, I have five very unique and special children, I have friends who laugh with me and drink wine with me and challenge me to be a better person. I have a talent for writing that people enjoy and want me to share.
I am never going to think I look good in short shorts or a bikini or a backless dress. But there are several other things I look good in and feel good in.
Dresses and platform heels.
Running shorts and tennis shoes.
Boot cut black pants and a cute top.
Jewelry.
My children's arms.
But I tend to think too much about, "If I can just lose ten pounds."
"If I could just organize my house."
"If only I could run farther."
"If only I could get paid for writing.'
I should stop thinking that I need to fix myself. I should stop defeating myself and start caring for myself. I should just start being enough me and stop trying to be some other woman.
I should carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on my broad shoulders for I have done some amazing things. I am most proud of the fact that I have birthed babies and nursed them, and that I held my child and stayed with him when he died.
We have all done something amazing. We just need to give ourselves permission to admit it and be proud of it.
Maya Angelou, that phenomenal woman with a gift for telling it like it is, said, “You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.”
We don't have to prove that we are thin enough, fit enough, smart enough, mom enough, woman enough, good enough, anything enough.
We alone ARE enough.
That is going to be my mantra every time I go to the pool and look around at the perfect bikini bodies. If I can truly get myself to believe that, I think I might make it through the summer with my sense of self intact.
Tell me, what are you most proud of about yourself? What do you like most about yourself? How do you convince yourself that 'you alone are enough?'
Summer is officially here at my house, and even though I've written about how much I love spending time with my boys, I dread it, too for reasons that have nothing to do with bored, fighting siblings.
I dread it for the simple fact that during summer more than ever, wherever I go I am constantly comparing my body to other women's.
And feeling incredibly insecure about myself. Seeing other women in short shorts and bikinis and sundresses and tiny skirts makes me want to hide myself away covering every inch of the body I think is not good enough.
Why?
No one has ever told me that (no one important anyway).
So why do I compare myself to someone who is not me and feel like I am not enough?
Because I am a woman, and it's what we all do. I have been surprised over the years at how many different sizes and shapes of women have found fault with themselves.
I once read a blog called Just. Be. Enough (*No longer linkable). Its mission was to
"empower, inspire, and remind women, parents, and children that the time has come to celebrate ourselves. We must. We must carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on our shoulders instead of allowing the burden of our flaws and imperfections to push us down."
The burden of our flaws and imperfections...
Are they saying everyone has flaws and imperfections?
Yep.
I think that is one lesson we women have always been taught that never quite sank in. No one is perfect. Even that woman with the kick-ass bikini body, a hot husband, and three adorably well-behaved children has flaws.
Even that woman at work or on the PTO who has fifteen balls in the air and juggles them with unflappable grace has flaws.
Some people are just better at hiding them. Some people are better at faking confidence (I do it sometimes). Some people are just better at denying their problems.
If we know this, then why do we compare ourselves to other women? Why do we let our flaws and imperfections push us down?
We are all beautifully flawed. It is our flaws that make us wonderfully unique. I have big hands and feet and a big nose and lips and broad shoulders matched with a small head and tiny eyes and short legs and small breasts with big hips and thighs.
But my husband thinks I am beautiful.
And some days, I do too.
Because I look at all of those mismatched proportions and I think about my wonderfully sweet and loving parents and which parts they gave me. And which I gave to my darling sons.
I think about which parts make me just like my sister or my nieces, and which make me different. I think about what I have that is unique.
When I get depressed I remind myself that I have a supportive family, I have an adorably funny and sweet husband who has never treated me badly, I have five very unique and special children, I have friends who laugh with me and drink wine with me and challenge me to be a better person. I have a talent for writing that people enjoy and want me to share.
I am never going to think I look good in short shorts or a bikini or a backless dress. But there are several other things I look good in and feel good in.
Dresses and platform heels.
Running shorts and tennis shoes.
Boot cut black pants and a cute top.
Jewelry.
My children's arms.
But I tend to think too much about, "If I can just lose ten pounds."
"If I could just organize my house."
"If only I could run farther."
"If only I could get paid for writing.'
I should stop thinking that I need to fix myself. I should stop defeating myself and start caring for myself. I should just start being enough me and stop trying to be some other woman.
I should carry the weight of confidence and empowerment on my broad shoulders for I have done some amazing things. I am most proud of the fact that I have birthed babies and nursed them, and that I held my child and stayed with him when he died.
We have all done something amazing. We just need to give ourselves permission to admit it and be proud of it.
Maya Angelou, that phenomenal woman with a gift for telling it like it is, said, “You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody.”
We don't have to prove that we are thin enough, fit enough, smart enough, mom enough, woman enough, good enough, anything enough.
We alone ARE enough.
That is going to be my mantra every time I go to the pool and look around at the perfect bikini bodies. If I can truly get myself to believe that, I think I might make it through the summer with my sense of self intact.
Tell me, what are you most proud of about yourself? What do you like most about yourself? How do you convince yourself that 'you alone are enough?'
5.16.2012
A Picture Divides My Heart
And I've had some of those.
But this one was nice. Even nicer was getting all of the boys to pose for some wonderful pictures, which almost never happens. Someone is usually not looking at the camera or not smiling or making a funny face or a weird body gesture. But I was so pleased to see this:
 |
| Mother's Day 2012 Lil' C, Slim, Knox, and Baby E
|
I love this picture, this rare, beautiful moment captured forever on film. As I look at it, my heart swells with pride in the family I have created. It spills over with love for their adorable faces and sticky little boy hands.
But, it also divides my heart in half. Because there was a time, not long ago when a picture of my family looked like this:
 |
| July 2008 Slim, Joey, Knox and Lil' C
|
And back then, my heart was filled with pride, with love, for those same adorable faces and sticky hands and stinky toes.
But now as I look at the current picture, it just makes me more painfully aware than ever that someone is missing and will remain missing forever. It makes me feel as if I went and got a new life, a new family, and the old one is just gone. The two halves of my heart battle for the memories, the pride, the love as if not sure on which side those emotions can reside.
The more I stare at this year's picture, the emptier the other half of my heart feels. And that angers my current heart. I don't want to ever forget what my family used to be, but I certainly don't want to hold on to the anger that screams that every picture should have FIVE little boys. The sorrow that desperately wants to marry the two halves back together and make them one complete picture.
I'll never be able to remove any pictures with Joey in them from the walls in my home. I'll just keep adding the new pictures to the former ones.
That's the only way my heart can remain intact.
5.12.2012
For This, I Love My Mom
A mother's love is so simple. We love our babies from the first time they are placed in our arms. Most of us love them even before that, at the moment we find we are carrying them. Some of us love even at the very thought of them.
But what of the mothers who are confused, saddened, or even angered at the thought of this child coming into their lives? What of the mothers who feel nothing as they stare at their child? My heart aches for them. To feel confusion and anger and sadness in the face of something so natural, so beautiful, is really a tragic thing.
My heart aches because I have felt that way about one of my babies, just as my mother felt that way about me.
We all want to know our birth story. I've heard mine a million times, and I love it. My mother was young - 26 - and she had two children under the age of three, a boy and a girl. She had made it through my father's deployment to Vietnam and a move across the country from Washington. Her husband was home safely, and her family was happy and complete. But then, she found out she was carrying another child, and she felt sad and confused. She hadn't planned on another baby, didn't want one. She was tired, as all mothers are, and didn't think she could handle another baby so soon.
A few months into her pregnancy, the doctor discovered a suspicious cyst on her ovary, and it had to be removed right away.
"But what about the baby?" she asked.
"Well, when the surgery is over, it will either be there or it won't," her doctor told her matter-of-factly.
And that's when she prayed like she had never prayed before.
She prayed that God would spare her baby. She prayed for forgiveness for her angry and confused feelings. She prayed because she wanted that baby.
That baby survived the surgery, and thrived inside her. She would later recount how every time she turned on her old, clunky washing machine, the baby would jump and kick. To her, that meant he was okay, and she felt joy and relief every time.
That baby was born two weeks early, weighing a mere five pounds, ten ounces, but left the hospital weighing over six pounds because she ate like a champ.
Yes, that baby she was so sure she didn't want, and was so sure would be a boy, was me. She always ends her story by telling me how happy she is that I survived. I like to say that I turned out the best of her three children, so it's lucky I did.
I love that my mom has always been honest about her feelings about my birth. I love it especially now that I am a mother, and especially because I can relate to her feelings almost exactly.
When I became pregnant three months after Joey died, my first reaction was confusion. It wasn't in my plan to have another baby. I had given everything away. My next reaction was fear. Fear at all the potential defects this baby could have. Then my feelings turned to anger. Anger at a God that took one son away from me, only to give me another, who could potentially bring even more heartache. I knew I wasn't strong enough to handle any more pain, so I prayed, I begged God to take the baby away.
I prayed because I was scared.
But the baby came, his birth was perfect, and he was wonderful. And when I looked into his beautiful, dark, wide open eyes, my love was simple: I knew he was wanted.
It's ironic that Baby E looks like a perfect mix of my mom and me as babies. I feel as though I will always have a special bond with him, just as I have a special bond with my mom. She gave me the gifts of honesty and acceptance, and I hope to pass those on to Baby E.
My mom has given me so many parts of herself. Some I don't really like, such as her big feet, her oily skin, her squinty eyes, her inability to accept compliments on any of her many talents, and the stubbornness that she sometimes uses to her detriment.
She has also given me some amazing parts, too, like her tiny waist (we both once had one), her skin that shows few wrinkles, the brown of her hair and the beautiful blue of her eyes that I see reflected in my sons, her humbleness, her loyalty, her acceptance, the stubbornness that keeps her moving forward, her willingness to listen without offering unsolicited advice, and her love of words and ability to spin them into music better than I will ever be able.
She has given me her love and her friendship and shown me that while a mother's love may at times be multifaceted and complex, it's simply always there.
And for this, I love my mom.
But what of the mothers who are confused, saddened, or even angered at the thought of this child coming into their lives? What of the mothers who feel nothing as they stare at their child? My heart aches for them. To feel confusion and anger and sadness in the face of something so natural, so beautiful, is really a tragic thing.
My heart aches because I have felt that way about one of my babies, just as my mother felt that way about me.
We all want to know our birth story. I've heard mine a million times, and I love it. My mother was young - 26 - and she had two children under the age of three, a boy and a girl. She had made it through my father's deployment to Vietnam and a move across the country from Washington. Her husband was home safely, and her family was happy and complete. But then, she found out she was carrying another child, and she felt sad and confused. She hadn't planned on another baby, didn't want one. She was tired, as all mothers are, and didn't think she could handle another baby so soon.
A few months into her pregnancy, the doctor discovered a suspicious cyst on her ovary, and it had to be removed right away.
"But what about the baby?" she asked.
"Well, when the surgery is over, it will either be there or it won't," her doctor told her matter-of-factly.
And that's when she prayed like she had never prayed before.
She prayed that God would spare her baby. She prayed for forgiveness for her angry and confused feelings. She prayed because she wanted that baby.
That baby survived the surgery, and thrived inside her. She would later recount how every time she turned on her old, clunky washing machine, the baby would jump and kick. To her, that meant he was okay, and she felt joy and relief every time.
That baby was born two weeks early, weighing a mere five pounds, ten ounces, but left the hospital weighing over six pounds because she ate like a champ.
Yes, that baby she was so sure she didn't want, and was so sure would be a boy, was me. She always ends her story by telling me how happy she is that I survived. I like to say that I turned out the best of her three children, so it's lucky I did.
I love that my mom has always been honest about her feelings about my birth. I love it especially now that I am a mother, and especially because I can relate to her feelings almost exactly.
When I became pregnant three months after Joey died, my first reaction was confusion. It wasn't in my plan to have another baby. I had given everything away. My next reaction was fear. Fear at all the potential defects this baby could have. Then my feelings turned to anger. Anger at a God that took one son away from me, only to give me another, who could potentially bring even more heartache. I knew I wasn't strong enough to handle any more pain, so I prayed, I begged God to take the baby away.
I prayed because I was scared.
But the baby came, his birth was perfect, and he was wonderful. And when I looked into his beautiful, dark, wide open eyes, my love was simple: I knew he was wanted.
It's ironic that Baby E looks like a perfect mix of my mom and me as babies. I feel as though I will always have a special bond with him, just as I have a special bond with my mom. She gave me the gifts of honesty and acceptance, and I hope to pass those on to Baby E.
My mom has given me so many parts of herself. Some I don't really like, such as her big feet, her oily skin, her squinty eyes, her inability to accept compliments on any of her many talents, and the stubbornness that she sometimes uses to her detriment.
She has also given me some amazing parts, too, like her tiny waist (we both once had one), her skin that shows few wrinkles, the brown of her hair and the beautiful blue of her eyes that I see reflected in my sons, her humbleness, her loyalty, her acceptance, the stubbornness that keeps her moving forward, her willingness to listen without offering unsolicited advice, and her love of words and ability to spin them into music better than I will ever be able.
She has given me her love and her friendship and shown me that while a mother's love may at times be multifaceted and complex, it's simply always there.
And for this, I love my mom.
* * *
What A Mom Knows
A mom knows that you'll be her favorite
as soon as you're in her arms.
She knows all the words to your favorite book
and when to give in to your charms.
She knows how to fix a boo-boo,
a prom dress,
a broken heart,
and she knows how hard it will be
when you will have to part.
She knows when to swarm in
and when to back down,
And she always knows the right thing to say
when all you can do is frown.
She knows all your friends
and their folks,
And knows just how much to laugh
at your made-up knock-knock jokes.
She knows how to be strong,
and when it's okay to cry,
She knows when the truth should be told,
and when it's time to lie.
She knows your outsides,
and all of your insides, too,
For every situation,
she's taught you what you should do.
To a child,
Mom knows it all,
No matter if you've grown big,
or you're still very small.
Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and especially to my very own beautiful Mom. I love you.
5.11.2012
My Way Back from Depression
Last week, I was out of my little white happy pill. The pharmacist had to call my doctor, and I knew they would play phone tag all week. I've been out of my Lexapro before, and I knew what was going to happen...
One morning, I wake up feeling sad for no apparent reason. A sadness that has nothing to do with any tragedy I've experienced. I'm never sure why I am feeling sad, but I sink into it. It lays over the top of me for a day or so, until it worms its way deep into my heart and mind, festering, slowly turning into anger and despair over every. little. thing.
Anger at all the things I can't seem to control.
And then it resides there, refusing to leave, affecting my every thought, every action.
My patience with my sons quickly wears thin. I snap at the smallest mistake, yell over the tiniest indiscretions. I take out my anger and feelings of worthlessness on them, innocent victims incapable of fighting back. I scream and yell and say regrettable things that I know I will never be able to reverse.
I yell at my four year old to 'Hurry up!!' We are late for preschool again. We are always late. Why can't I ever be on time for anything?
The baby is getting into everything, and I yank him away making him cry.
With every angry reaction I think, 'I'm a horrible mother. This is how they will remember me.' This plunges me further into my pit of self-pity and negativity. I can't believe how quickly I have descended this time.
When Hubby asks me about my day, I don't even want to talk or even let him look at me and see the sadness and anger in my eyes. I am ashamed of myself.
My head is jumbled. I can't think. I can't remember anything. I can't organize my thoughts.
I haven't written my weekly post for Her View From Home, and I can't think what to write. I write sentences that make no sense and then delete them in a frustrated and angry tirade. I know I should write a new blog post, too. But why should I? No one reads it anyway. Every e-mail I get from other blogs I subscribe to makes me angry and depressed. Why does this blog have so many followers? Why did everyone comment on this post when no one comments on mine? It defeats me. I think, 'I am stupid to think that I can write, that I have talent, that I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear.' I resign to just give up writing altogether, thinking only of the pieces that have been rejected.
'I am a miserable failure at everything.'
I don't return phone calls, I ignore e-mails and texts and messages on Facebook. I don't feel like subjecting anyone to my negativity. At my son's soccer game, I set up my chair far away from all the other parents. I can't be social. My friend Katie walks by and asks how my day is going. Near tears, I tell her, 'Not good,' and when she gives me a tight hug, I bristle. I'm angry with myself for letting people see me like this. Seeing me weak and ungraceful.
At the next soccer game of the day, my friend Heather sets up camp next to me and babbles happily in her enviable way. I wonder if she can tell; does she know how I am feeling? She has said that she needs to run every day. It is her sanity. What is my sanity? Why is my sanity a pill?
At baseball games later that day, I get a rush of joy seeing my six year old make a good hit and run to first base. My heart warms watching my four year old play for the first time, seeing his short legs run the bases and follow directions and laugh happily.
On Sunday, Hubby asks me to help plant annuals in the flower garden. The hard work satisfies me for an afternoon. I'm unsure whether it is because I am learning more about something I've always wanted to know or that Hubby and I are working side-by-side on a project, but it brings me temporary reprieve.
But later, I want to be alone with my thoughts, away from everyone. I know this is dangerous. I've been alone with my thoughts too many times in my life. Alone with the thoughts that tell me I am worthless, I'm a bad mother and a terrible wife. I can't cook or write or take care of my house or maintain friendships. I'll never be able to run a race or write a book or complete a goal. These were the same thoughts that plunged me into a scary darkness three times in my life.
Once in high school when I was so paralyzed by feelings of inadequacy that I stayed in my room wallowing in misery, sure that I was so far beneath everyone else that perhaps I shouldn't even exist.
Next, after I graduated from college and couldn't find a job. I hated substitute teaching, so I stopped answering the phone at all. I stopped getting dressed in the morning and stayed on the couch all day.
And when I desperately wanted a baby after I was married, and everyone but me seemed to be getting pregnant. I stopped talking to my friends and avoided social situations. I remember crying to Hubby, begging him to let me stay home from his high school fund raiser because we would be seated at the same table as someone who was pregnant, and I didn't want to stare at her swollen belly all night.
Hubby would often come home from work, and finding me in tears and on the couch would say to me, "You sat home and thought all day, didn't you?"
It feels like the cartoon image of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. It's the classic battle between light and dark, which both reside in all of us. But in someone who suffers from depression, the dark mostly wins. That little devil tells me awful things about myself, and I believe him.
In my twenties, my doctor suggested I see a therapist. I carried around the name and number for about a year before I threw it away. It was just another thing that made me feel inadequate, that proved I was a failure. I always thought it was something I had to live with. It wasn't that bad, was it?
But as I look back, it was. It did paralyze me, it does keep me from doing the things I want to do - mainly loving my family and friends and pursuing my dreams.
Monday, I picked up the pills, and took two right away. Slowly my head cleared, but I was still screaming at my sons and deleting every blog update from my e-mail. I got back on my pattern of taking five milligrams every other day. Any more makes me feel like a fuzzy-headed zombie; any less isn't quite enough.
I have found time to use my treadmill a bit each day this week, and when I am tired, I have gone to bed before exhaustion hits.
This morning, I gave gentle reminders about backpacks and glasses and dressing for preschool and laughed when Baby E took the dirty clothes out of the washing machine. I feel like my sanity is slowly returning and lightness and calm are winning once again over darkness and anger. I feel like I am returning to the person I want to be, that I know I am in my heart and in my beautiful mind.
I have three, maybe four posts I want to write, and I am reading all my favorite blogs again for inspiration. The words are forming themselves in my head, and I can't type quickly enough.
I do hate that this sanity and clarity comes from a pill, but I thank God I can recognize this. I thank God that I can recognize when my mind is jumbled and crazy and the darkness is winning. I thank God for giving me a situation that forced the introduction of the medication. I thank God that I will never be the type of mom who does the unthinkable to her children because she didn't realize that she needed help or refused to seek it.
I vow to never let my prescription lapse again. I vow to not care if society thinks I am weak or lazy for taking antidepressants. I vow to never think that they are the only answer for these dark feelings. I vow to take them for as long as I need them, for myself and for my family.
Most importantly, I vow to be honest about my use of them for other women who might think as I used to - that they just have to deal with that devil character on their shoulder telling them awful things about themselves and believing it. I vow to talk about it because if I had known anyone else felt this same way long ago, things might have been different. Different as they are now. Better.
All I have ever wanted was to be happy; but I have to fight for it, and I always will. The more I fight, the more I learn. The more I learn, the better I get. If that means I need some medicinal assistance, then so be it. That little white pill and I will just keep knocking that devil right off my shoulder.
5.09.2012
Heartache
Last night Hubby was upstairs getting all of the boys in showers and tubs while I hastily cleaned the kitchen after dinner. Knox came downstairs, naked, obviously distracted from getting in the shower.
"Mom, have you seen my tooth?" He had lost his third tooth yesterday at school, and his teacher had placed it in a plastic bag. "Dad says he put it on the counter after I showed it to him."
"No, I haven't seen it," I replied as I hastily dried pots and shook out placemats.
"Well, will you help me look for it? I have to put it under my pillow or the Tooth Fairy won't come."
"Okay, okay, I will keep my eyes peeled for it," as I cleaned crusty crackers off the baby's high chair.
More searching yielded no tooth bag, but was beginning to produce some tears.
"Maybe you could write her a note," I suggested as I spooned leftover corn into a plastic bowl.
Knox sat his naked bottom on a clean kitchen stool and started to write in his huge kindergarten handwriting: "bear T Fairy, av lost a tooth"
He sighed, "Mom, I'm tired. Can you finish this note? I want the rest of it to say, 'Please leave me something under my pillow.'
Although I agreed, I was irritated, and not just at the pile of pots I had yet to put away. Irritated because my children always think they need to get something for everything. But, we parents have perpetuated this and fed into it and cultivated it, mostly because we have felt that we have no choice. It's a part of childhood to believe in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus and even Leprechauns. I've seen it debated and lamented over on so many Mommy blogs. "To lie or not to lie; that is the question." I've often wished that Hubby and I had never started the lies because it's a lot of work. The sneaking around, finding hiding places, making sure there is a constant stockpile of "stuff", remembering what you've done in the past so the lies remain consistent (the latter being the most difficult for me).
I was almost finished with my post dinner clean-up when Knox came back downstairs, still naked and still not clean.
"Mommy, my tooth was in a plastic baggie. Did you see one on the counter anywhere?"
Oh shit.
Yep. I vaguely recall a plastic baggie being thrown in the garbage during my cleaning frenzy.
"Oh, sorry pal, I think I threw it away..."
Knox peers in the trash can.
"...and Daddy already took out the trash."
Knox disappears and then reappears moments later carrying a trash bag from the garage. "Can we look for it?" Tears are glistening in his eyes.
"NO, we cannot dig through the trash for your tooth! I will finish the note to the Tooth Fairy, and she will stop. I promise." There are a lot of things I will do for my kids to make them feel better, but digging through the trash is not one of them. Certainly not to find a tooth just so he can get something when I know that his getting something is a sure thing because I am the one doing the giving.
After I was done vacuuming all the crumbs, I could hear Knox upstairs full-out crying now. I pulled on some plastic gloves and headed to the garage.
As I came up the stairs carrying the baggie containing the tooth, a beautiful, gap-toothed smile spread across Knox's precious face. "Thank you, Mommy," and he gave me the tightest hug.
Yes, there are a lot of things I will do for my children. Things that I will do because I can. They are going to experience so much heartbreak in life that I cannot prevent - heartbreak that they've already experienced and heartbreak that I won't even know about. If I can reverse some of the simple heartbreaks, I think that's worth a dig in the trash every once and a while.
"Mom, have you seen my tooth?" He had lost his third tooth yesterday at school, and his teacher had placed it in a plastic bag. "Dad says he put it on the counter after I showed it to him."
"No, I haven't seen it," I replied as I hastily dried pots and shook out placemats.
"Well, will you help me look for it? I have to put it under my pillow or the Tooth Fairy won't come."
"Okay, okay, I will keep my eyes peeled for it," as I cleaned crusty crackers off the baby's high chair.
More searching yielded no tooth bag, but was beginning to produce some tears.
"Maybe you could write her a note," I suggested as I spooned leftover corn into a plastic bowl.
Knox sat his naked bottom on a clean kitchen stool and started to write in his huge kindergarten handwriting: "bear T Fairy, av lost a tooth"
He sighed, "Mom, I'm tired. Can you finish this note? I want the rest of it to say, 'Please leave me something under my pillow.'
Although I agreed, I was irritated, and not just at the pile of pots I had yet to put away. Irritated because my children always think they need to get something for everything. But, we parents have perpetuated this and fed into it and cultivated it, mostly because we have felt that we have no choice. It's a part of childhood to believe in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus and even Leprechauns. I've seen it debated and lamented over on so many Mommy blogs. "To lie or not to lie; that is the question." I've often wished that Hubby and I had never started the lies because it's a lot of work. The sneaking around, finding hiding places, making sure there is a constant stockpile of "stuff", remembering what you've done in the past so the lies remain consistent (the latter being the most difficult for me).
I was almost finished with my post dinner clean-up when Knox came back downstairs, still naked and still not clean.
"Mommy, my tooth was in a plastic baggie. Did you see one on the counter anywhere?"
Oh shit.
Yep. I vaguely recall a plastic baggie being thrown in the garbage during my cleaning frenzy.
"Oh, sorry pal, I think I threw it away..."
Knox peers in the trash can.
"...and Daddy already took out the trash."
Knox disappears and then reappears moments later carrying a trash bag from the garage. "Can we look for it?" Tears are glistening in his eyes.
"NO, we cannot dig through the trash for your tooth! I will finish the note to the Tooth Fairy, and she will stop. I promise." There are a lot of things I will do for my kids to make them feel better, but digging through the trash is not one of them. Certainly not to find a tooth just so he can get something when I know that his getting something is a sure thing because I am the one doing the giving.
After I was done vacuuming all the crumbs, I could hear Knox upstairs full-out crying now. I pulled on some plastic gloves and headed to the garage.
As I came up the stairs carrying the baggie containing the tooth, a beautiful, gap-toothed smile spread across Knox's precious face. "Thank you, Mommy," and he gave me the tightest hug.
Yes, there are a lot of things I will do for my children. Things that I will do because I can. They are going to experience so much heartbreak in life that I cannot prevent - heartbreak that they've already experienced and heartbreak that I won't even know about. If I can reverse some of the simple heartbreaks, I think that's worth a dig in the trash every once and a while.
Even if I don't always agree with the reason.
5.01.2012
Welcome to May: The Month of Me
"Sweet May hath come to love us,
Flowers, trees, their blossoms don;
And through the blue heavens above us
The very clouds move on."
Heinrich Heine
It's finally May. I love May. The spring air has warmed, and the flowers and plants are in full bloom. Birds sing to wake me in the morning. School is winding down in a flurry of field trips and picnics and field days. The beautiful spring clothes are on clearance in the stores and all the summer fashions have been rolled out. Warm days mean pedicures and cute sandals and beautiful cool evening air for playing outside after dinner. It also means intense, booming thunder that sends sweet, frightened little boys to my room to snuggle in bed with me. Graduation parties and wedding showers and outdoor barbecues with chips and salsa and plenty of good wine in cute novelty glasses.
It's hands-down my favorite month.
Oh, did I mention that my birthday is in May? And that Hubby has dubbed May "the month of Kathy?" He knows how much I love my birthday. I know, at least 19 million other people on Earth have my same birthday; three of my Facebook friends do. But it's still my birthday, my special day.
Given the fact that I've never really had the utmost love and confidence in myself, it is ironic that I would have such strong feelings about the day I was brought on this earth, but I do. Actually, there's never been any shortage of love I show myself this month. I get pedicures and massages, and I get my hair cut and highlighted for the summer. I do lunches with my friends, and I just relish in celebrating me.
The May I turned 40, Hubby threw me a wonderful surprise party, which was exactly what I needed given that's when Joey was very sick. Even though I have always wanted a surprise party, all I really wanted for my birthday that year was to hear Joey say, "Happy birthday, Mommy." But each time that day I would tell him it was my birthday, he just gave me a mildly interested smile. By the next time I would tell him, he had forgotten already.
How Hubby planned a surprise party with all that was going on is a mystery to me. Of course, I had no clue because I was so consumed with Joey. He thought I knew, though, because I really made myself up that week, getting my hair done, a mani/pedi, and a spray tan. Even though I was turning 40, I didn't want to look it. Did I?
It always seems to rain on my birthday, though, which is weird. So if you have any outdoor plans on the 20th, you may want to have a back-up plan. Just sayin'.
Of course, Mother's Day is in May, too, just adding to the "month of Kathy." We go out to brunch and dinner so I don't have to clean up the kitchen all day. That's present enough for me!
So this year, I'm looking forward to this month and my birthday again. My boys will be out of school already, and I have lots of plans for us for the summer. And even though I'm over 40, I feel like my best is yet to come. I've faced tragedy and been strong, I've held my own in a houseful of boys, and I've found a voice through my writing.
Now that the year is one-third over (wow, that was fast), maybe it's time for me to check in with my new year's resolutions. As far as spending more time with my boys, it's been hard with school and homework and sports. But, there's always this summer. And Hubby and I have been pretty good about having at least one date night a month. Just last week we went to dinner and a comedy club, which is something we haven't done since we were dating. We even got to spend some time in the hot tub together.
About trying new things, I haven't really been presented with the opportunity. But believe me, I've been looking. Just this weekend, we were at a water park with water slides that were enclosed in a tube. Seems like no big deal to most, but super scary for me. I don't like dark, enclosed spaces or the idea that some freak accident could happen to me. But, I decided to do it...and it was a blast! I even got Slim to try it with me, and he had a great time, too.
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| Slim and me swooshing out of the water slide tube. |
My goal of writing more has definitely been achieved, as I am posting here at least once a week plus a weekly post on Her View From Home. I've submitted some pieces to other sites, but none have been accepted. That's been discouraging, and I haven't submitted anything lately. So, I think it's time I try again.
That leaves the weight loss and the exercise. And to that end, don't ask.
So here I am in my favorite month, looking outside at the leaves swaying gently in the breeze and the beautiful bright sunshine warming the world. I have hopes for this month, for the summer, and for the rest of the year. I think it's May's influence on me.
"The world's favourite season is the spring.
All things seem possible in May."
Edwin Way Teale
What do you like about your favorite month?
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