This is me: doing the best I can. With my head in my hands. With my voice rising, higher and higher, like I swore I’d never do.
So much gets left out of the parenting books. So much doesn’t get posted on Facebook. The nuances of child-rearing, the flickers and darts, the quirks and crannies.
All the vows I made before children: I will never feed them sugar. They will not watch TV until they’re five. I will only purchase wooden toys. I will never yell.
Sometimes, I think of that when my little ones huddle on the couch, watching Madagascar for the fifty-third time. This week. And the couch is a sticky tapestry of spilt milk and Cheerio crumbs. A stray piece of pepperoni peeks out from between the cushions.
There is a vast, vast chasm between the parent I thought I would be and the parent I am.
Right now, it feels like I spend most of my time helping my four-year-old son look for the mask and gloves to the ninja suit he insists on wearing constantly. I found him a small, navy plastic bin to put the gloves and mask in, so he wouldn’t always be losing them. He keeps losing them anyways, and I keep looking for them, over and over like Groundhog Day. I think This is my life? Searching for these small, missing pieces?
This isn’t like the reveries I had of life with children. The dreams of round bellies and sweet faces and they would be so loved and sweet and amazing and I will be such a good parent.
And the time spent not ninja-suit hunting is spent hauling my son into time outs, after he spits at me, growls at me, slaps at me. And I think this is the most abusive relationship I’ve ever had. This is not what I imagined.
There was nothing to prepare me for the intensity, the insanity, the way my buttons would be pushed so many times that they felt worn to nubs, my nerves raw and exposed, dangling like a live wire.
This is me: at the end of the day, finally letting my own tears out. Because I think maybe I’ve broken him. I see myself, hunting for his gloves and mask, over and over again. Like how I’m searching for those pieces of my life before children: time, freedom, peace.
And this is me.
Just when I am ready to sell them to the gypsies. Just when I text my best mama friend to say Hey, do you know any gypsies? How does one find a gypsy these days? There it is.
With no warning, my son hugs on to me. He presses his face up to mine real close, the way only a handful of people in this crazy life can do. And so close like that, his eyes are a blur, but I feel them, I feel him.
I feel the electric blue cord of love that pulses between us, stronger than anything. So strong I know it will survive death, and I wonder where was it? before he was born. Because that cord is so strong and true that I can’t imagine it having not been here before. And he feels it too, I can tell from the way he says Mama, singsong but sturdy, like the word holds his whole universe, like the word itself is wide enough to carry him. To carry us.
The feel of his shoulders, surprisingly solid, against my forearms. Wasn’t he a tiny baby, just a breath ago? How can time be so fast and slow at the same time?
And I try to take the moment and tuck it into a pocket, or grip it between my fingernails and the fleshy skin of my palm. Because I will need it. Tomorrow, in an hour, in a minute.
This is me: Forgiving myself, over and over again.
Yes. Yes. Yes. And More Yes.
The End.
Thanks, Amanda!
Ohhhh…so SO true. And stuffies (which I VOWED I would never call them!)…WHERE do all the FLIPPING stuffies go between bed and nap time!?!?
Right!? The stuffies. And the socks! There must be some sort of vortex where the lost things go…
So beautiful, true and lifting. Thanks for sharing. As a mom of two girls, one with special needs, I can totally totally relate.
Oh, thank you, Angela! My best to you.
Hey Lynn,
Re-met you the other day at fort Williams, blossoming newborns:). Found this through birth roots post. I can relate having my own four year old, very honest writing. Hope we run into each other again.
Hi Heather! It was so great to reconnect the other day~ I’m amazed you remembered me. Those early days for me were such a blur. Hope we run into each other again, too!
thank you for having the courage to so beautifully express what so many feel.
Thank you, Jo!
Beautifully written; I cried. Because you summed it up. Perfectly x
Oh, thank you Lisa! Hugs to you.
Your honesty and humor are a pleasure to read.
Thank you, Heather! I appreciate your comment.
Thank you. Thank you for letting the “normal” be heard.
Oh, thank you Leah! It is so comforting to hear people say they relate!
My ninja gloves are Mr. Potato Head pieces but the sentiment is the same. My mother, who was a successful business woman before having children says of our childhood, “I went from having 25 people who jumped at my every word to having three children who I couldn’t get to stop eating in the living room no matter what I tried…” I think the fact that you recognize the absoluteness of that electric blue cord makes you all the Mom you’ll ever need to be!
Oh, thank you for your comment! Your mother’s remark really says it all! Thanks, and take good care.
Thank you for this. It came on a particularly tough day and I needed it – it really moved me.
Thank you, Emily. It was a tough day here, too. Let’s hope tomorrow is better for us both!
Bess you for your honesty and the ability to put into words what so many of us feel and go thru but rarely admit for fear of judgement (even from ourselves). I am in tears…i needed this tearful cleansing. Thank you!
Oh, thank you Christina! I so appreciate it. Cheers to this hard, hard work!
You are such a beautiful honest writer. Thank you
Thank you Lillian! Take good care.