Remember “Alexander, whose not (Do you hear me? I mean it!)
going”? In that children’s book (by Judith Viorst) Alexander’s family is moving
a thousand miles away, and there is no way that Alexander is going to leave, so
he refuses to pack. That is how I felt all day long. It is my last day in sunny Southern
California. We spent the morning walking on the beach, with the sun warming our
backs, and the soothing pulse of the surf pushing us on. I am not leaving. We spent the afternoon having a picnic on the
beach at La Jolla Cove, along with dozens of seals and flocks of majestic yet
cumbersome-looking California Brown Pelicans. There is no snow here. I am not leaving. It is warm (although
the locals are wearing ski jackets and beanie’s). I have no responsibilities
here. I am not leaving. I have time, for
a few days on this trip, to be…a wife.
I am away from my kids, but that is not the whole story
behind my yearly trips.
It is difficult for me to leave my kids. The volume of their
need for me—as a stable base for their emotional expression—is so high that
when I am not with them, I worry for them. Of course (you might say), it is
good for them. And you would be right. But more importantly, it is good for me.
My mothering roles and responsibilities are emotional and intense. I am highly
sought out and in demand whenever my children are home. This is both a blessing
and a burden.
Therefore, the break is rejuvenating for me, but draining
for my kids. Life has a little less predictability when I am away.
Surprisingly, not everyone knows the way that Mom does it! When I am away, my
tank fills a little each day, and within days it is full, and I am able to
gloriously march to a beat all my own. As soon as I tune into this rhythmic and
peaceful melody, I am also aware of the chorus cutting in (every day) when I
pause.
I miss you Mom.
When are you coming
home?
Soon.
Seven more sleeps.
Four more sleeps.
Though my family does not usually accompany me on this annual
trip they are never far away. I talk to and see each of them daily on FaceTime.
With Faven, I deal with moods and emotions and her general dislike of school. I
help Laurèn out with school projects and the occasional overwhelm that creeps
under her skin. Facetime with Yohannes is a whole different experience. He
makes me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (and then cry). As you know, on Facetime,
both Yohannes and I can see him—so he tends to try different things, until something
ends up being funny. It is kind of like making shadow puppets with your hands,
you have to keep on experimenting. One day he turned his head sideways, and in
true Pac-Man-style he went across the screen and “gobbled” up all of the
lights. Another time, he put the camera right up to his nostril--and then stuck his finger in! And the
grossest one: he created balls of spit at the edges of his lips, and then came close to the camera so that I could study it, like it was under a
microscope. Yum. When Ward was still home, watching him on Facetime, he said (somewhat exasperated),
“Yohannes, why don’t you just talk to your mom?” He confidently answered, “Because Mom
likes this!”
So I am not really alone. Besides that, I have these gremlin
voices that seem to follow me wherever I go. I am often halted by these disagreeable
gremlins, who say things like: How could
you leave them, and What is wrong
with you anyway?
What is wrong with me? Being affected by seasonal affective
disorder makes it more difficult in the winter for me to parent. I simply
manage better when I take this seasonal break. The dark season wears me down. And
all of those people who love me, are dragged down with me. I don’t like that. I
am, in all seasons, the emotional barometer of my family; there is no way
around it. I need to take care of that barometer.
Yes, there is much that I can—and do—do for myself during
this season of darkness, but nothing charges my battery and fills my veins with
happy-go-lucky, like day after day of blessed sunshine.
I am not leaving.
But please send the kids.
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