This exercise in defining one’s self outside of being a mother was much more difficult when I turned the camera on myself.
I had no idea that the moment I became a mother the way I would view myself would be forever altered. For me, removing ‘mother’ from the list of things I am changes the color of the entire list. Everything I do, each decision I make—no matter how small, every personal choice is connected to how it will touch my boys. But I believe that the more complete a mother is as a woman, the more well-rounded an individual is, the stronger she can be as a mother.
So in this spirit I will tell you some things about myself here.
As a small girl asked the question ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ my answer was always ‘I’m going to be an artist’. And it took me until I was over forty to be able to understand that in fact, I have become just that. My choice of medium changes and my output and productivity wavers, but creation and creativity bring me joy. I am passionate and emotional—about everything. I am straightforward and funny. I love being a woman and I’m proud of my accomplishments. I value kindness and good intentions. I am disorganized and unfocused and quick to get frustrated. I believe that growth doesn’t end when you grow up. I am serious and spiritual, and, yes, I am a mother.
The other entries in my In Celebration of Mothers project can be found here and will continue throughout this month. Thank you for reading.
I’ve made a lifetime worth of impulsive decisions in my forty-one years. I can tell you stories of lucky ones and mistakes alike. I’ve come to terms with most of them and I struggle with the rest. I believe there’s value in each decision in that I stand where I do today.
I’m not talking about predestination or fate. They were choices after all. They were my choices that make up the chapters in my story. If I have regret then I call it a lesson learned. If I relive a poor decision, I clearly have work to do. If I make better choices—it’s progress.
Somewhere along the way I abandoned my ‘throw caution to the wind’ attitude in favor of a more guarded style. The impulsive adolescent grew into a young woman and the decisions became weightier. The young woman become a protective mother and my decisions would impact the stories of my children. The gravity of parenthood made for more judicious appraisals.
A difficult lesson but a lesson learned—caring for others requires care for one’s self. With no reserves or personal interests a mother is an incomplete parent. But how far is too far? Sacrifice is inevitable. Compromise is reasonable. But to what extent?
I’m faced with a decision in my life. And the words I keep repeating to myself are ‘trust yourself’.
So that’s my plan.
If you’ve been around here for any length of time you’ll know that I juggle staying home with my toddler and working part-time (from home) as well. Given the choice I wouldn’t have it any other way. But any mother who says she loveseveryminuteofit is full of it.
Am I happy? Yes. Fulfilled? Mostly. Tired? Almost always. Isolated? Youbetcha. It’s entirely possible that days go by when I don’t have a conversation with another adult. A typical morning finds my husband and I exchanging a few schedule- or money-related words over teethbrushing and then hours upon hours of communicating only with a two-year-old. (Me: ‘Are you sure there’s no poop in your diaper?’ Him: Nononono! Nopoopmama’. Me: [checking said diaper] ‘I smell a poop’. Him: [running away] ‘hahaha’.) The afternoons are likely to bring homework ‘conversations’ with my eleven-year-old and maybe a few brief words on the phone with whomever is supposed to fix whatever is currently broken in my house. Possibly squeezed in there somewhere there is a discussion of the weather with the supermarket checkout person or an explanation of how I like my coffee at the local coffee shop. But a true conversation? Sometimes it can be days.
I remember a time when I would have turned up my nose at the idea that a conversation about shoes or celebrity gossip was meaningful in any way. I was young and naive and I’m not afraid to tell you that I was wrong. It turns out: not everything is a matter of life or death. Discussions about the details of one’s days are the foundation on which friendships are built. Anyone can talk politics or religion with you but it takes a true friend to tell you that you’ve chosen the wrong lip-gloss color.
But who has time to pick up the phone and mull over such minutia? The stuff of lunch dates or afternoon walks in the park with no place to be are a distant memory. Remember when you had the follow-through to clip that article and stick it in the mail to a friend? (Yes, I used to read print and use the postal service. I’m older than you.)
So I’m going to admit to you here that I love Facebook.
When my first son was young I experienced some postpartum depression. I lived in the middle of a huge city filled with people but I was completely alone. My marriage wasn’t strong and my hormones were out of control and I was lonely. My family was supportive but if you’ve been through the process of becoming a mother you know that connections with others who ‘get’ what you’re going through are crucial for your sanity. I don’t mean to skim over this topic and while it certainly warrants (at least) an entire post on it’s own, I’m using it here to illustrate a point. Almost ten years later I found myself becoming a new mother yet again. With all of the responsibilities of the first time, and then some. Only this time I communicated with my friends every day. Online.
Yes. You’re reading this right. I’m crediting Facebook (and blogging) with helping me to stay out of the deep reaches of postpartum depression.
Am I saying that Facebook has or should replace actual human contact? Obviously not. But face it, we’re all busy. Being able to respond when it’s convenient for me is the key to actually communicating with my friends. If you’ve ever called me, you know this. There’s just never a good time to talk. But a good time to send off a one line congratulations to a friend’s post about a promotion? Easy. Or dash off a note asking for suggestions for dinner ideas to please a picky-eater? No problem. I can even do it with a kid on my lap or Sesame Street on the tube. And like magic I receive a reply and suddenly I’m not alone in it all.
While I’m extremely lucky and consider many of my neighbors to be dear friends, we don’t get to choose who lives around us. With Facebook my friends are always close by and I get to grab little peeks into their daily lives. It’s those little peeks that help keep me connected, and it’s that connection that helps keep me grounded.
So you can make fun of Facebook if you want but I’m keeping my account.
You can avoid Facebook because you’ve heard it’s addicting but I say: addicted to having friends? Sign me up.
Good manners matter.
All the kids at school who are in the cool group will only be the cool kids for now. Long term, the nerds are a much better bet.
Don’t tailgate.
Talent is good, but discipline and drive are better.
If you aren’t true to your self you can’t expect anyone else to be true to you.
Nothing you can do will change how I feel about you.
Even though I’m your mother I am also a human and I get angry and sad just like you do.
I know you’re convinced otherwise, but I know more than you do.
I don’t care who you love as long as they are good to you.
Asking for help is a sign of strength—not weakness.
If you smile it’s actually very hard to feel grumpy.
Your body is sacred.
Never re-freeze thawed food-items.
Always ask a girl before you kiss her.
Cooking, letter-writing and toilet-plunging are all essential skills.
The cliché: ‘everything in moderation’ does not apply to drugs or cigarettes.
If you put positive energy into the universe it will come back to you. I promise.
That’s what people ask upon hearing that I have a blog. The answer, as it turns out, varies with my mood. Sometimes this place is undeniably a quilting blog. All quilts all the time. Sometimes I share a knitting pattern or photos of a knitting project. There are a few recipes here and there. Sometimes it’s all about photos. Often it’s a running conversation between like-minded women about our daily lives. And we’ve discussed what I believe to be the danger of sharing only the pretty side of things.
But there’s an equal danger in dwelling on the difficult. How easy it would be to complain about the juggling act that is being a mother. (I believe working mother to be a redundant term.) To live in the dark moments and become overwhelmed by them. And believe me, I go there. But coming to this place reminds me to look for small goodness in the mix. The moments I want to remember are plenty but often become obscured by the bigness of the harder ones.
So, suburbia isn’t always pretty. But when the sun shines off the overpass by the prison (across the street from the sewage treatment plant)
it glows.
And there might be toys on the floor but their bright colors bring joy to my moments.
And my kids exasperate me.
Often.
But I know that’s because I’m doing it right. If they were complacent sponges who never questioned anything they would be boring humans. (Right?) It’s not my goal to raise boys who can’t think for themselves. (Although it would be lovely if they could clean up after themselves.)
It’s hard. This whole thing. Being a grown up. Navigating life. But I’m grateful for this community we’ve built of women who share themselves with each other and support the idea that you’re not doing it wrong if you’re struggling.
And reinforcing the idea that stopping to notice the colors is a worthwhile activity.
