I am MOM

I am MOM
If I knew then what I know now . . .
"I take a very practical view of raising children. I put a sign in each of their rooms: 'Checkout Time is 18 years.'"
Erma Bombeck

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Count the loss


NEW to Mumfullness - At the bottom of this story, you will see a link to the same story, in audio format.  I have done this specifically so that my father-in-law can now "see" my stories.  :)




My counselor, Kimberly said, “Count the losses, and grieve them.” 
But, I don’t understand how I can count the loss of something that is so ever-present. 

Conflict.

Daily, hourly, moment-by-moment conflict.

It arrives, unbidden, like indigestion.

I know I have to do something, or my spirit will weaken in battle, and separate off, leaving only a protective shell. The daily insults and harsh words, the constant professing of a life that she hates, as if by some twist of fate, it is my fault.  As if . . . well, it doesn’t matter.  Her happiness does not solely rest with me.  I can only carry the burden for so long before I sag under the weight of its contents.  Contents collected through early years of hardship and loss. Not my burden and yet I have some responsibility to her, my daughter. 

The blessings and the burdens of parenting, under these circumstances, collide and explode so frequently, it is hard to recognize the blessing amidst the debris.  And yet, I am blessed – for no greater “teacher” have I had in these forty-seven years.  I am however, a reluctant student, for the mirror reflects too honestly what is mine alone. 

I am simultaneously student, teacher, coach and mother. A difficult set of skills to pull off.  It is a bit like trying to “score a goal” from the sidelines.  There, on the sidelines, it appears easy, infinitely possible.  But it is not.  On the sidelines there is no pressure, there is no risk of injury – or failure.  Oh that I could complete this task from the sidelines – I most certainly would! 

So, what are the losses I am supposed to stop and grieve?  Loss of a dream? Loss of self?  Loss of faith? Loss of relationship? Loss…loss…loss…

My greatest sadness comes from realizing that despite loving action and positive intention, I cannot remove the pain and suffering of another.  Moreover, I can become a source of pain in the midst of my own suffering.  Even when I feel her pain, through her actions and behavior; and even though I feel great compassion for the circumstances that brought her into our lives; and even though I desire, more than anything, for her to know peace, happiness and love; I cannot craft her healing. Not, on my own. 

It turns out that love does not conquer all; it is simply the footing for the journey.

__________________________________________
For Audio version, click below:

http://snd.sc/12ipois

Friday, April 26, 2013

In the Rear View Mirror


I pulled up to the curb, alongside the elementary school, with two minutes to spare.  My kids flung open their doors, grabbed the straps on their backpacks and leaped towards their day with wild abandon.  Occasionally there was a perfunctory wave or word of goodbye.  As I readied myself to pull away, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a mom kiss each of her daughters as they prepared to leave the vehicle.  The girls walked on, and I watched their mother as she waved and blew more kisses, with a big smile on her face.  They were not, as one might think, little girls; they were around ten and twelve years old.  As I pulled out into traffic, my heart lurched and my eyes sputtered as I longed for a tender, goodbye kiss.
When had my kids last accepted a kiss goodbye from me?  I had to search back in my memory banks, and I was beginning to wonder – had I ever kissed them?   
For reasons I don’t understand, at the age of about six, Laurèn began to turn her face whenever I went to kiss her on the lips; a habit she continues to this day.  For Yohannes, on the first day of Kindergarten he made it pretty clear that he did not want any (more) gooey-love from me; he thrust his hands in his pockets and created enough distance between us to give the impression that we were not together.  And when a stranger called out his name from her clipboard, he left me standing alone, waiting for a goodbye that wasn’t going to come.  With Faven, our memories began when she was already ten years old.  There were no wet and sticky baby smooches or tender toddler moments to recall.  Now, she continues to cherish her goodnight kiss, but when we are in public she is at her unpredictable best; she is at times affectionate and warm and at others, distant and cold. 
On this day, although I cherished the glimpse back in the rear view mirror, I felt a simultaneous heaviness at the realization that some things have passed beyond memory and reach.






Monday, April 22, 2013

All by myself...


There are days when I truly believe that I am done.  I am 100 % sure that I cannot get up another day and face the debris and clutter that epitomizes my life.  I honestly don’t know where this stuff comes from.  It seems to multiply while I sleep. The number of lone socks lying forlorn amidst the dust and tufts of dog hair adds up to more feet than we actually have living in our house!  No matter how hard, how diligently or how fast I work, I cannot keep up.  Moreover, no one else even seems to notice.

On one of those days, right in the middle of my personal pity-party, my daughter Laurèn walked into the kitchen.  I was frantically fumbling with the tasks of cleaning up, putting away, and organizing our stuff – while muttering incoherently to myself. 

“Mom… I want to tell you something,” Laurèn said.
“Ohh?” I replied.
“It’s just that you work so hard around here, and I just want you to know that I really appreciate it.”  (she gave me a big hug)
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes misting up – they do notice, I thought.
Laurèn continued, “I keep thinking that I should help you, but then I realize I don’t like it, and I give up on it.”

Off she went, without a care in the world – and without socks, I couldn’t help but notice.



Sunday, April 21, 2013

Jinx-ed


This is my first cat.
I had no idea.
I love this cat.
But…
I have to kick her out of my bedroom.
She is interfering with my latest obsession – sleep.
In the early morning, she gives a light and throaty Meow, as if to say Hey – you awake?
I am now, I yowl back.
I look at the clock – 5:33 – I roll over.
She gently places her paw on my bare shoulder - a light caress.  I’m hungry, she implies.  When I don’t immediately respond, her claws extend and she drags her paw slowly across my skin.
I roll over – “JINX – stop it!” I say.
She stares at me with her big, green eyes – feigning innocence.
I close my eyes and ignore her.
Then she leaps off the bed like a stunt double in “Puss ‘N Boots” – and lands with a thud, skidding towards the door.
I know she is hoping that I will follow her down the hall to her food dish.  I won’t.  She meows sweetly.

I ask myself the ridiculous question, that I feel cat owners everywhere are asking, “Why did I let her in here last night?” 
(If you are a cat owner – you know why.  If not, I will tell you.  At bedtime cats are incredibly endearing.  My cat tucks herself around the curve of my body purring and gently vibrating at the same time.  It is super cute, and sooooo relaxing.)

With a resolute Meow, Jinx projects herself onto the bed beside me, again. She steps onto my torso, and kneads her way across my chest – like a baker working dough. I groan as she hits a few tender spots.  She circles around and executes a perfect ‘downward dog’ pose – with her butt right in my face!  I roughly push her off while simultaneously sitting up.
“Okay, I'm up,” I say.  I shuffle to the doorway and pull the door swiftly open.  Jinx runs through the doorway and down the hallway with untethered excitement.  I watch her (with just a twinge of guilt) and I close the door and go back to bed.