It’s time to try again.
It’s time to lay it on the line.
Rejection is always possible.
But worse is the what-if.
So, we gather our courage
And we play our cards.
The vulnerability is real.
But so is life.
Reinvent
Human
Known
Aside from the 37 hour labor, 11 days past her due date, she really was almost too easy, as a baby. She was 16 months before she walked; instead, she happily sat on any surface and entertained herself with her surroundings- be that toys, people or pine straw.
I should’ve known.
It was 30 hours into labor when my midwife looked at me and announced:
“This is not your story to tell.”
Time stopped. My heart stopped. My tears flowed.
Aurora had two cords wrapped around her neck at birth, delaying her arrival for good reason.
My midwife looked me dead in my eyes to tell me when to push, when to pause and suddenly, urgently, when, with a roar, to give it my all.
From the beginning, my daughter and I have challenged one another.
Now, the tween years- the ones everyone before me has warned of.
I fruitlessly planned for Aurora’s birth.
I refuse to plan for these next days.
Instead, I meet her where she is, each day.
Just like her birth, it’s not easy.
It never was.
We cry, we argue, we admit our mistakes and we hug.
It’s exhausting and rewarding.
My girl has been stubborn from the beginning.
But with good reason.
It’s her story to tell.
Not mine.
I should’ve known.
Break
She was uncharacteristically angry. Snapping at her sisters with venom dripping from her teeth.
Emmett and I looked at one another, eyes wide, silently wondering, “What in the actual hell?”
We chalked it up to stress before a big gymnastics meet. Perhaps she was feeling anxious.
But her seething anger seeped from every crevice until finally, I took her aside and asked, “What is going on?”
And that’s when the dam of tears broke. She broke.
“I’M SAD ABOUT OREO!”
Ohhhhhhhhh. Yes. This makes a lot more sense, now.
6 family members. 1 loss.
So many different coping mechanisms.
Those that grieve obviously and openly (me).
Those that grieve and move forward.
And those that bury and try to cope without ever fully addressing it.
“Harper, trying to contain your grief without openly releasing it is like trying to contain your exploding slime. It will find its way out of its container.”
I encouraged her to write but she didn’t want to. “It will make me sad.”
But you already are sad.
Days later, she finally relented.
She put on the sad music and allowed herself to get washed away in the flood of anguish that is losing a beloved pet.
It’s too soon to know how much it helped but a writer myself, I know it couldn’t have hurt.
6 family members. 1 loss.
So many different coping mechanisms.
We break.
Unstoppable
Don’t doubt me.
Don’t you for a second Count. Me. Out.
You only fuel my drive to prove you wrong.
So lives the soul of my second daughter.
Walking at 11 months, this child has been intent on besting her big sister from the start.
She has had something to prove since she was born.
She puts in the work and shames those who don’t.
Harper has a drive I, her mother, envy.
She wants it bad and she will do whatever it takes.
Cautiously, I calm her intensity.
Reminding her that she has an entire life, she cannot imagine, ahead of her.
Yes, you can.
No, you don’t HAVE to.
You can, but you don’t HAVE to in order to survive.
If you want it bad enough, there’s no doubt: its yours to claim.
But never to prove anyone else.
Only for yourself.
You are unstoppable.
Prevent
I remember.
I wish I could but I never will forget the supreme loneliness I felt as a child.
And I suppose that is why, as an adult, I feel so committed to seeing children.
Physical presence is not enough.
Neither is saying “I care.”
It’s action.
Before I took the pills that landed me in the hospital, before I stood on the edge of the balcony threatening to jump, I cut myself as a way to ease the pain.
I was 12 years old.
So, when my daughter exhibits signs of distress,
I take her seriously.
When minimal interventions (intentional time together, changes to routine, etc.) fail to work, I take action: therapy, medication.
Prevention is not easy
But it sure is preferred to regret.
My God
There are no sick days for mothers.
A day of rest guarantees a day’s worth of extra work for the future.
Never was this any clearer than when Elizabeth was six months old.
My body had given up.
I had spent the summer with all four girls at home while Emmett was at work.
They were ages 6, 4, 2 and newborn.
Elizabeth was “failure-to-thrive”. Not gaining weight, vomiting and crying constantly with eczema covering her body and we couldn’t figure out why.
I was down twenty pounds, eliminating foods in a desperate attempt to continue breast feeding my last baby, only to find out later that the avocado I was surviving on was one of her FPIES (Food Protein-Induced Entercolitis) triggers.
My back completely gave out and I was incapacitated in a chair watching friends and family trying to substitute for me: Laundry, meals, diapers, playtime, housework.
It was laughable to think I had attempted to manage all of that on my own.
I finally agreed to hire the help my husband had been encouraging me to get for months.
I felt foolish staying at home and hiring someone to help complete my unpaid job but once she arrived, I was free to be a more present mother and enjoy my children rather than just survive them.
Six years have passed and the nanny days are long over but mothering isn’t and I’m realizing, never will be.
What happens when mom gets sick?
It’s a lonely feeling.
As a mom, I’m always anticipating my family’s needs but when sick, I’m still having to direct the show from bed. Appointment reminders, meal tips, boo-boo kisses and bedtime tuck-ins.
Things only a mom knows of her own kids.
I suppose that is what led me to pray to my heavenly father tonight.
To ask him to take care of me when I’m feeling overwhelmed and neglected.
No, there are no sick days for mothers.
But it’s nice to know there’s someone always ready to embrace me.
My God.
Gone
I was 21 when he broke my jaw.
And honestly, I’d been waiting for it as a reason to leave.
Never mind the years of emotional abuse.
A broken jaw was a concrete, valid excuse to leave.
I packed my bags and got a new apartment assigned, while he was in class.
The police arrived as he tore my belongings from my car.
All I’d ever wanted was for someone to promise me forever.
But I quickly realized the commitment wasn’t worth the cost.
Today, I visited the dentist for another cavity on the other side of my mouth.
The one I’ve learned to chew on, the last twenty years.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Gone, but never the same.
The Gift of Time
It’s a well-known fact that we have a tendency to over-correct.
I just wonder how many of us recognize when we are doing it.
I did when it came time to create the annual “Gift of Time” envelopes for my girls.
A few years ago, in an effort to guarantee one-on-one time with mom or dad, I gifted each girl a stack of 12 envelopes- one for each month. Inside, a card with an activity they could choose to do with just mom or dad- no sisters.
We were drowning with the responsibility of caring for our health-challenged youngest, not to mention juggling four young kids. The Gift of Time ensured we got that one-on-one time with each daughter.
But, year-after-year, it turned into expectation.
When they opened the envelope and it was a trip to the library or a bike ride, instead of the bowling alley or putt-putt, they were crestfallen.
I realized I was creating presumptuous monsters, instead of appreciated moments.
So, I’ve paused. Reevaluating.
Sure, I want that precious time but at what cost?
I spent my adulthood wishing I’d had a closer relationship with my mother, when I was a child.
But what if my children rely too much on their parents to feel satiated?
Is it possible that I’m setting them up for failure? A childhood so idyllic, it’s difficult to replicate? Is that a crime?
I’ve parented long enough to become comfortable in the gray- the not knowing the next step.
Instead of forcing my choice, I watch and wait.
The Gift of Time.
Nothingness
“Sit down, it’s Sunday.” My husband encouraged.
“But if I do,” I explained “things won’t get done.”
“There’s always something to do.”
I looked around at the smudges on the walls I’d been meaning to scrub, the tiny toys under the living room furniture and that dead moth that’s been trapped inside our family picture frame for literal years.
I’d changed five sets of sheets, scrubbed two bathrooms and vacuumed but the list never ends.
One of my friends shared a photo of her rewriting worn recipe cards and I remarked, “How do you find the time?” She suggested that perhaps it was the two less kids.
Maybe so.
Or maybe I just need to slow down.
Life in perpetual motion is never dull but also exhausting.
Where’s the time to appreciate the exquisiteness of nothingness?
So I sat and ate my new box of girl scout cookies wondering all-the-while if that moth would fully decompose before I took the time to remove it.
Maybe so.
Clearly, I have more important nothingness to do.
Aurora Mae Turns 12
12.
Here you are, baby girl.
On the precipice of teenage-hood and totally not looking forward to it.
I get it.
You were 11 days overdue and never wanting to leave has been your MO.
I have a recording of you crying about going to college when you were just 6 so it’s nothing new.
You are a creature of comfort.
Your bed, your hair, your charisma, the softest.
In addition to a slew of Taylor Swift themed gifts, I also presented you with a copy of articles I’ve written in your honor over the last eight years.
You wept in my arms over the article I wrote about my own mom, What I Want You to Know
Because you felt the same about me.
And it dawned on me.
Mothers and Daughters are forever.
You may be 12,
But we are forever.
New Leaf Parenting 