Life frazzles me. I often feel like the worst mother in the world and then, something happens to solidify my title as the baddest mama on the block. If you must know, I often hold this title for weeks at a time.
For instance, just last Friday, as I was running around the house like a mad woman, I gave Tuck (our two year old) my hormone pill instead of his daily allergy pill. It was so hectic around me that I didn't even realize it until I noticed something white on his tongue. His pills are pink. I put my whole finger in his mouth, poked around, trying to swipe it out. No luck.
I panicked. I started to hyperventilate. I had my brother-in-law count all my hormone pills, TWICE, just to make sure this wasn't all a dream. No dream and one pill missing. I frantically call the doctor to find out that, other than a regular period and possibly some sore breasts, Tuck is going to be fine. In fact, I can go ahead and pop the allergy pill in his mouth, too.
For the rest of the night, my hubby makes transvestite jokes about our son. It's funny (kind of). When I finally calm down though, I start to realize that the speed of my life is causing huge mistakes. I mess up all the time. I guess I'm okay with screwing up my own life, but my kids are something else. Small. Powerless. Eager for love. I want something better for them.
But I realized tonight, that I'm a kid of somebody, too. I may be small, powerless and eager for love when I'm down, but someone wants something better for me. I'm loved unconditionally, mistakes and all, whether I choose to accept it or not. It might just be better to let it in, don't you think?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
It's a World of Pure Imagination
I've always had an active imagination. Lately, however, it's turning out to be more of a problem than a fun, creative personality trait. Ever since my body started falling apart at the age of 30, my mind has been in overdrive.
A pain on the lower left side. Ovarian cyst. Three sneezes in a row. Swine flu. Dizziness right before a meal. Diabetes. Ugly mole on by butt. Skin cancer.
It would be comical, except it's absolutely true. I've started obsessing over minor aches and pains. It has to be something bigger, something worse. Instead of having a doctor confirm that I'm fine physically (a tad crazy mentally, of course), I starting researching all these symptoms online. I just Google it, forgoing any official medical site. You can imagine what pops up. You got it......I am one sick puppy!
I wish I had never read the article that said after the age of 28, your body and health start to decline. Before I had time to shut the magazine, I was older. I'm older just writing this and, honestly, it pains me. I'm young, but already fearful of growing older with all the ailments that come with it. I'm afraid of being sick. I'm afraid of pain. I'm afraid I might die young, or old, or without my consent. I'm afraid of the not knowing all there is to know.
I am absolutely frozen surrounded by all this fear. I'm stuck. Sadly, I know I'm not the only one.
How do we stop measuring our life by the number of years and start counting the worthwhile moments? When do we realize that a great tragedy (a chronic illness, divorce, loss of a loved one) can turn into a triumph when we come out stronger, more aware of the world? How do we turn off the screeching voice of worry?
If you find the answers, could you drop me a quick line? You're the best.
A pain on the lower left side. Ovarian cyst. Three sneezes in a row. Swine flu. Dizziness right before a meal. Diabetes. Ugly mole on by butt. Skin cancer.
It would be comical, except it's absolutely true. I've started obsessing over minor aches and pains. It has to be something bigger, something worse. Instead of having a doctor confirm that I'm fine physically (a tad crazy mentally, of course), I starting researching all these symptoms online. I just Google it, forgoing any official medical site. You can imagine what pops up. You got it......I am one sick puppy!
I wish I had never read the article that said after the age of 28, your body and health start to decline. Before I had time to shut the magazine, I was older. I'm older just writing this and, honestly, it pains me. I'm young, but already fearful of growing older with all the ailments that come with it. I'm afraid of being sick. I'm afraid of pain. I'm afraid I might die young, or old, or without my consent. I'm afraid of the not knowing all there is to know.
I am absolutely frozen surrounded by all this fear. I'm stuck. Sadly, I know I'm not the only one.
How do we stop measuring our life by the number of years and start counting the worthwhile moments? When do we realize that a great tragedy (a chronic illness, divorce, loss of a loved one) can turn into a triumph when we come out stronger, more aware of the world? How do we turn off the screeching voice of worry?
If you find the answers, could you drop me a quick line? You're the best.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Big Brave Mama
Cooper, my almost five year old, is starting summer school tomorrow. We have to be there at 7:25 a.m., but may not arrive until after 7:10 a.m. No supplies needed. Breakfast and lunch will be provided. It ends at 2 p.m.
That's it. That's all I got. No other details were sent, but yet I'll be dropping Cooper off there tomorrow and wishing him well. I'm nervous, really nervous. I would never admit that to my five-year-old, but I'm saying it to you. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing!
I don't know what door to go in. I'm not even sure what classroom. No activities have been outlined. How many recesses? It there one class of kindergarten or two? No teacher name given. No credentials.
Will the kids be kind or kind of mean? Will Cooper be overwhelmed by a new school, a new classroom, a new teacher and new friends? Will he suck on his fingers? Will he find the bathroom? Will he be happy? Will he learn well? Will he fit in? Will he know what to do in an emergency? Will he listen?
I want so much for my children. As babies and toddlers, I just grab it for them and we keep moving. This is finally something only Cooper owns. It's where his journey takes a slight curve from mine. Exciting as it all may be for him, I'm scared what the world will be like for him without me controlling it. I'm hoping better. I'm hoping just as bright. I'm hoping for a grand adventure.
One foot in front of the other tomorrow. Big smile. No tears. A brief hug, if I'm lucky. I am, after all, the mother of a kindergartner now. It's time I started acting like one.
That's it. That's all I got. No other details were sent, but yet I'll be dropping Cooper off there tomorrow and wishing him well. I'm nervous, really nervous. I would never admit that to my five-year-old, but I'm saying it to you. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing!
I don't know what door to go in. I'm not even sure what classroom. No activities have been outlined. How many recesses? It there one class of kindergarten or two? No teacher name given. No credentials.
Will the kids be kind or kind of mean? Will Cooper be overwhelmed by a new school, a new classroom, a new teacher and new friends? Will he suck on his fingers? Will he find the bathroom? Will he be happy? Will he learn well? Will he fit in? Will he know what to do in an emergency? Will he listen?
I want so much for my children. As babies and toddlers, I just grab it for them and we keep moving. This is finally something only Cooper owns. It's where his journey takes a slight curve from mine. Exciting as it all may be for him, I'm scared what the world will be like for him without me controlling it. I'm hoping better. I'm hoping just as bright. I'm hoping for a grand adventure.
One foot in front of the other tomorrow. Big smile. No tears. A brief hug, if I'm lucky. I am, after all, the mother of a kindergartner now. It's time I started acting like one.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Irene's Story
My great-aunt Irene turns 81 tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'm going to be like at 81, or if I'll still be on this earth, but I hope I'll have some fire left in me when I get there. I've always wondered how Irene has stayed so youthful, so energetic, while others have aged more or passed away sooner. This is her story (as I've come to know it).
Irene is the oldest of five children, born to German parents on a farm in Freeburg. Two of her siblings are dead, including my grandmother. Growing up on a farm, you had to work hard to survive. She worked the fields, she helped with the kids, she cleaned. When her mother finally died, she left all the farm land and it's contents to the oldest male. The daughters got nothing.
When she finally married in her 20's, she moved into town with her husband and worked at a factory. She drank. She smoked. She caroused. At 26, the doctor's removed a tumor in her womb, but for a few months they weren't certain if it was a fast-growing tumor or a baby. She mourned for a long-time that this choice was taken away from her.
When the drinking got bad enough that it also turned into fighting, she quite drinking all together. She went to mass on Saturday nights. She decorated her home with trinkets and things not found in a farmhouse. She became a widow, twice, because of cancer.
She only washes her face with Dove soap. Her garden is the nicest in town. She cleans like crazy, drinks coffee day and night, smokes, and is the first to help out when people are in need. When I was born, and my mother was still undecided about adoption, Irene volunteered to keep me and love me. She bought all new baby clothes for me even after she knew I would never be her daughter, or live in her home.
She used to give me Wrigley's Spearmint gum, my own five-piece pack, when I would come to visit. You could drink soda or coffee in her house, no matter what your age. At the parish picnic, she's worked the BINGO stand for the last sixty years. But she stopped going to mass when the misconduct was rampant and it hit too close to home. You don't hurt kids, she'd say, end of story.
No matter what our story, I guess the secret might be the fire within us, the passion that keeps us moving forward instead of looking back. It's what keeps us young. She knew that. Still does.
Irene is the oldest of five children, born to German parents on a farm in Freeburg. Two of her siblings are dead, including my grandmother. Growing up on a farm, you had to work hard to survive. She worked the fields, she helped with the kids, she cleaned. When her mother finally died, she left all the farm land and it's contents to the oldest male. The daughters got nothing.
When she finally married in her 20's, she moved into town with her husband and worked at a factory. She drank. She smoked. She caroused. At 26, the doctor's removed a tumor in her womb, but for a few months they weren't certain if it was a fast-growing tumor or a baby. She mourned for a long-time that this choice was taken away from her.
When the drinking got bad enough that it also turned into fighting, she quite drinking all together. She went to mass on Saturday nights. She decorated her home with trinkets and things not found in a farmhouse. She became a widow, twice, because of cancer.
She only washes her face with Dove soap. Her garden is the nicest in town. She cleans like crazy, drinks coffee day and night, smokes, and is the first to help out when people are in need. When I was born, and my mother was still undecided about adoption, Irene volunteered to keep me and love me. She bought all new baby clothes for me even after she knew I would never be her daughter, or live in her home.
She used to give me Wrigley's Spearmint gum, my own five-piece pack, when I would come to visit. You could drink soda or coffee in her house, no matter what your age. At the parish picnic, she's worked the BINGO stand for the last sixty years. But she stopped going to mass when the misconduct was rampant and it hit too close to home. You don't hurt kids, she'd say, end of story.
No matter what our story, I guess the secret might be the fire within us, the passion that keeps us moving forward instead of looking back. It's what keeps us young. She knew that. Still does.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Inspiration
It's almost Mother's Day. I start drifting down memory lane about my own mother, and her mother, and, of course, the mother before her. I even ponder my own short stint in the motherhood arena, unseasoned as I may be.
On my desk, I have a bulletin board of photos -- all women in my family, all interesting photos that make me look at the world a little different. Here is what I see.
My Mother, 1965.
Black and white photo. She is standing in the front yard in her shorts, huge sombrero, ugly stuffed bear with a lei in her hands, and white loafers. She is entertaining the world. Her comical smile makes me laugh. Only six years old, she doesn't know yet how much hurt there is in the world. Happiness resides within her.
My Grandmother, 1972.
Wearing a flowered dress with pearls, she stands in the corner of a room. Body stiff, she is smiling. One light bulb hangs bare above her head. Her smile looks forced, her eyes look sad. I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her. Why is it so hard to let go of things that weigh us down, such as bitterness, hatred and regret?
My Mother and I, 2003.
We have our arms around each other, looking straight in the camera, on a sunny day. Our smiles are exactly the same. I'm squeezing her tight. It's hard to tell who is the mother and who is the daughter. For most of our lives, this identity crisis on traditional mother-daughter roles has been a barrier between us.
Me, 2005.
Only my head is above water. I am hanging on with one hand to a black inner-tube and the water is rippling around me. This was my first weekend away from our new baby. It was also my first dip back in the soothing water after motherhood. I have a ton more questions, but the photo is snapped in mid-sentence.
These are my inspiration photos -- the photos that remind me, I guess, that we're all human, including mothers. We make mistakes. We mess up our lives. We even mess up our kids' lives. Some of us put on sombreros and dance to survive, while others build walls that no one can penetrate. Some of us hold on tight with all our being and big ole' smiles, while others just barely have their head above water.
The only thing we have in common is God's unfailing love for us. Oh, and of course, the fact that we're all in this together....ready or not.
On my desk, I have a bulletin board of photos -- all women in my family, all interesting photos that make me look at the world a little different. Here is what I see.
My Mother, 1965.
Black and white photo. She is standing in the front yard in her shorts, huge sombrero, ugly stuffed bear with a lei in her hands, and white loafers. She is entertaining the world. Her comical smile makes me laugh. Only six years old, she doesn't know yet how much hurt there is in the world. Happiness resides within her.
My Grandmother, 1972.
Wearing a flowered dress with pearls, she stands in the corner of a room. Body stiff, she is smiling. One light bulb hangs bare above her head. Her smile looks forced, her eyes look sad. I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her. Why is it so hard to let go of things that weigh us down, such as bitterness, hatred and regret?
My Mother and I, 2003.
We have our arms around each other, looking straight in the camera, on a sunny day. Our smiles are exactly the same. I'm squeezing her tight. It's hard to tell who is the mother and who is the daughter. For most of our lives, this identity crisis on traditional mother-daughter roles has been a barrier between us.
Me, 2005.
Only my head is above water. I am hanging on with one hand to a black inner-tube and the water is rippling around me. This was my first weekend away from our new baby. It was also my first dip back in the soothing water after motherhood. I have a ton more questions, but the photo is snapped in mid-sentence.
These are my inspiration photos -- the photos that remind me, I guess, that we're all human, including mothers. We make mistakes. We mess up our lives. We even mess up our kids' lives. Some of us put on sombreros and dance to survive, while others build walls that no one can penetrate. Some of us hold on tight with all our being and big ole' smiles, while others just barely have their head above water.
The only thing we have in common is God's unfailing love for us. Oh, and of course, the fact that we're all in this together....ready or not.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Love Languages
When Jeff and I got married, we had to read The Five Love Languages in order to "pass" pre-marital counseling. We passed (thanks for asking!) and, as it turns out, learned a lot about each other. Even 10 years later, I often stop and marvel at the power of a love language.
The premise behind the book is that there are five love languages, or ways that people express and receive love. Each of us has a primary love language. When people in our lives -- spouses, family, friends -- speak the right love language to us, we feel loved. On the other hand, when they are focusing on the wrong love language, all their efforts may be in vain. They love us, but we don't feel it. They care deeply for us, but we don't know it.
So, what are the five love languages?
1. Words of affirmation -- words are powerful. Words of affection or endearment, words of praise or encouragement, words that give positive guidance all say, "I care about you."
2. Quality time -- the most important part of quality time is not the event itself but that you are doing something together, being together. Quality time is focused attention.
3. Gift Giving -- the giving and receiving of gifts can be a powerful expression of love. Meaningful and thoughtful gifts need not be big or expensive. It's the act of giving that counts.
4. Acts of service -- helping others in a selfless manner shows we care. Small task or big request, it doesn't matter. We respond and love happens.
5. Physical touch -- people who are hugged, kissed and held feel loved. The author says, "Physical touch is one of love's strongest voices." Only if it's your love language, however.
My love language is acts of service. When Jeff fixes something around the house or carries in the groceries before I can ask, it shows me he cares. When he gets the boys up and dressed in the morning so I can sleep for a few more minutes, it's pure love. Most are small things, but they add up in a huge way for me.
For Jeff, his love language is words of affirmation. Although I feel like I show him how much I love him, he needs to be told. It needs to be verbalized all the time. I'm always amazed at how his expression will change instantly when I thank him for loving us so much. He grins and I can tell immediately that little bits of love are just pouring in.
Along the way, I have been shown over and over again the power of focusing on that primary love language. Do not waste your time perfecting any others. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned. Because no matter how hard you work, no matter how much love you give, no matter how much you bend over backwards to make someone happy, they usually only funnel love inward in one way. That's the only way you need to know about, my friends. The rest? Well, it's just fluff. Let it float away.
The premise behind the book is that there are five love languages, or ways that people express and receive love. Each of us has a primary love language. When people in our lives -- spouses, family, friends -- speak the right love language to us, we feel loved. On the other hand, when they are focusing on the wrong love language, all their efforts may be in vain. They love us, but we don't feel it. They care deeply for us, but we don't know it.
So, what are the five love languages?
1. Words of affirmation -- words are powerful. Words of affection or endearment, words of praise or encouragement, words that give positive guidance all say, "I care about you."
2. Quality time -- the most important part of quality time is not the event itself but that you are doing something together, being together. Quality time is focused attention.
3. Gift Giving -- the giving and receiving of gifts can be a powerful expression of love. Meaningful and thoughtful gifts need not be big or expensive. It's the act of giving that counts.
4. Acts of service -- helping others in a selfless manner shows we care. Small task or big request, it doesn't matter. We respond and love happens.
5. Physical touch -- people who are hugged, kissed and held feel loved. The author says, "Physical touch is one of love's strongest voices." Only if it's your love language, however.
My love language is acts of service. When Jeff fixes something around the house or carries in the groceries before I can ask, it shows me he cares. When he gets the boys up and dressed in the morning so I can sleep for a few more minutes, it's pure love. Most are small things, but they add up in a huge way for me.
For Jeff, his love language is words of affirmation. Although I feel like I show him how much I love him, he needs to be told. It needs to be verbalized all the time. I'm always amazed at how his expression will change instantly when I thank him for loving us so much. He grins and I can tell immediately that little bits of love are just pouring in.
Along the way, I have been shown over and over again the power of focusing on that primary love language. Do not waste your time perfecting any others. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned. Because no matter how hard you work, no matter how much love you give, no matter how much you bend over backwards to make someone happy, they usually only funnel love inward in one way. That's the only way you need to know about, my friends. The rest? Well, it's just fluff. Let it float away.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Baby, I'm Moving On
I cleaned out the nursery tonight. Sold the crib. Packed away the baby clothes. Looked through the photos of when my boys were born. Swept up all the remnants of baby and brought in something new.
The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.
I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.
Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.
It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.
The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.
I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.
Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.
It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.
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