Flummoxed

“Hey guys, I would personally like to thank the member of my family who knocked over the jar of olives in the fridge, and left it to ooze over three shelves of food and containers.”

“Oh, what was that?.... You didn’t mean to do it. Unh huh, I see.  Oh, well then, never mind.  I was just wondering what I was going to do with all my free time today– between the laundry, pumping up your bike tires, fixing your rear brakes, gathering the garbage from the van, cleaning the house, feeding the pets, picking up groceries, mowing the lawn, walking the dog, cooking, planning your summer camps and checking into the hospital for a lobotomy!”

Do you ever have one of those days?  The kind that is overwhelming from the minute you get up?  The kind where you are so flummoxed that you water the near-dead plants, and then a minute later – while talking to the dentist on the phone, opening a can of beans to pour in the crock pot, and taking your sick child’s temperature – you water the same plants again, and water pours through as if the plant is a mirage?

Do you ever want to run, full steam ahead, into a brick wall – thinking that you can actually run right through it? Imagine how good that would feel.  Bricks and mortar flying in all directions, a hole the size of… of an elephant, and you standing on the other side, victorious (and free)!  Or, quite possibly, lying on the ground amidst the rubble, with broken wrists, shoulders and collar bones, with blood gushing down your forehead as if you are the centre piece in an elaborate water fountain.  

Okay, I'm not going to do that!

But truly, I don’t know what I AM going to do. I am running a three-ring circus without a safety net.  I am training circus animals who would rather not eat than perform.  I am a juggler incapable of keeping the balls in the air – and the moment I bend down to pick one ball up, several more fly in from all directions; I feel like I have tripped a trap in a paintball battle field.  The bruises are beyond the depth of my skin. 

There is only one thing left to do…… 

Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. :)

Enjoy the audio version here:  http://snd.sc/12LpWxF

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

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.

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.

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. 

Sleep

Just a note.... I don't usually do poetry.  However, I am taking a class right now on Creative Writing, and am therefore forced out of my norm.  This was a 'stream of consciousness' exercise that I did ......(unedited).

Sleep, why sleep?

If there was one guarantee in life

I would choose sleep

blissful

unending

replenishing

sleep.

Lay down, softness,

pillows in a row,

arms bewildered as they flail

and then settle into position.

Kids crawling in, lying down,

settling between the dust and the air,

just there.

Sleep, precious and tenacious

probable yet elusive.

Sleep, I behoove you

lay with me.

“This is not a hike!” protested Lauren, “This is not what I was looking for - a 90 year-old could do this!” 

“A 90 year-old, really?” I bemused.

“YES!”

“Okay” I said, “What were you looking for?”

“You know, like climbing through the trees and rocks sticking out and picking your way down the cliff - NOT walking!”

“Hmmm,” I said, “I guess this is not like that.”

“Duh!”

We were hiking at Torrey Pines State Reserve, on the Southern California coastline.  It was remarkable in its ragged beauty.  We were about half way down the 2 mile trail which would drop 350 feet towards the beach.  For my almost 11-year-old climbing enthusiast, there were inviting red clay cliffs and sandstone formations leading into a glorious gorge filled with lush yet parched Chapparal and Torrey pines (not to mention snakes, coyote and cacti).  Her wistful look towards the exciting part of the park alongside her disparaging comments left me feeling disheartened, despite the sunny warm day.  Pointing out the Stay on Trails signs was pointless, as was reading about the “sensitive ecological environment” from the trail map I was carrying.  Normally she was very sensitive to protecting the environment and ‘following the rules’, but today she was particularly restless and agitated.

Once we got down to the beach, everything changed.  There was a large flat rock partially immersed in the ocean, which she could scramble on top of, and - well, walk around.  Moreover, the beach was protected by the bluff from which we had just descended.  There were some natural areas where Lauren could climb upwards and then simply slide back down onto the beach.  And there was the rolling and consistent surf which was a draw for children of all ages.  

When it was time to leave, I gave Lauren the choice of walking back to the parking lot along the beach, or going back up the trail, and down the service road to the parking lot.  I secretly wanted to walk the 3/4 mile back along the beach.  Lauren wanted to take the trail up and then down, she was feeling like getting some exercise, she said.  You’ll be sorry, I smugly thought.  She was not sorry, in fact, she asked if we could jog up the trail.  I stared at her, no longer able to recall the energy or brain of youth.  She bounded off with palpable joy, and I sauntered along behind, using the back pack I was carrying as my excuse not to run.  

As I enjoyed my solitary walk, I imagined what it would have been like to have started our family ten years earlier.  I would be a 37 year old, with a blossoming 11-year-old.  Just the thought of it made me feel fresh and adventurous.  Just then Lauren veered off the main path onto a narrow path canopied by the rare Torrey pine.  “Come on” she shouted, while waving me in.  It was dark and narrow, and I did not want to take this detour - I liked to stay the course, I liked predictability. 

In that moment, I realized that I had become somewhat humorless in the past number of years; my tolerance had taken a dive.  I did follow Lauren down the dark, cool tunnel through the trees, and it eventually led up a dusty sandstone path to a cliff overlooking the endless expanse of blue-grey ocean.  My eyes scanned the rippling surface as my daughter’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.  

“You all right mom?” she asked.

“Just perfect.” I answered.