It’s been 15 years.
And *tonight* he says,
“I thought I knew, but I’m just now understanding.”
How about them apples?
You marry someone because your heart sees theirs.
But it has taken until now for him to realize what those vows meant to me.
The kind of forever I’d never had.
The moment I’d always been waiting for.
Permanence.
When you’ve lived with, it’s difficult to imagine life without.
It’s been 15 years.
“Mommy, it hurts.”
I wish I could tell her that it stops.
But it never does.
Instead, they migrate from the bones to the heart.
From the physical to the emotional.
These growing pains.
Just when we think we’re done . . .
There they are.
To remind us that we aren’t yet done.
Growing, that is.
And when you think of it that way, it makes sense.
Perhaps instead of dreading
We should welcome the pains.
Peel back that layer
And discover what comes next . . .
Written while listening to Cover Bombs (Odesza Remix) by Nomadic Firs
Here’s the thing about mental health:
No one knows what to do.
Instead, everyone waits for someone else to solve it.
Because it’s ugly.
There is no straightforward “treatment plan”.
When someone is in crisis, it’s scary.
What do I say? What do I not say?
How should I act?
And so we freeze and wait for someone else to solve it.
But when it’s between life and death,
What then?
Someone has to step up.
That’s what.
When everybody else waits, what are you going to do?
Are you going to wait?
Or are you going to show up?
I told him.
I told him tonight.
I make it so easy for you.
And he nodded.
Because he’s always known.
He was just waiting for me to catch up.
And Here. I. Am.
And you know what?
He’s still here.
Here. He. Is.
Here. We. Are.
Here, we go.
It was our first meeting.
And I told her, straight up:
I won’t be able to tell you what I need.
Instead, when I go into labor for the first time, and I’ve met you literally once,
I basically need you to read my mind and anticipate my needs.
Welcome to the life of someone who has no gumption to ask for help.
I didn’t say it in those words.
I said it in apologetic, self-deprecating language.
Like, I’m sorry I’m bothering you with paying to help me have a baby.
I’m sorry I asked you to be my doula.
I don’t know how to ask for or accept help.
So, when I resorted to acupuncture to induce me, 10 days after her due date and a few days before they were going to induce me with pitocin,
I apologized.
My doula was a mother and it was a weekend, after all.
She slept in a hospital room while Emmett and I labored all evening without the help I neglected to ask for.
I had a perfectly, beautiful baby girl and I felt like a failure.
Because I was too sorry to ask.
And oh, was this not the theme of my life.
Too sorry.
Too sorry to ask for help.
Too sorry for the imposition of my existence.
Until I met others.
And realized, I can’t change my past but I can forge our future.
My daughters will be grounded and supported.
They will not be afraid to ask for what they need.
Instead, they will.
Straight up.
I realize, now, why it came so easily to me.
Because it was easier than living my truth.
Assign me a role.
Hand me the lines.
Anything but live. my. truth.
What was I so afraid of?
Oh, I know.
Fitting into a shattered family.
Don’t make waves.
Instead, belong.
What a sad, little girl I was.
And what a strong woman I am becoming.
Oh, my.
What is this?
We are now our parents’ caretakers.
How did that happen?
Who told us about this phase?
Ah, clearly the same who informed us of the mesh panties after birth.
In other words, no one.
It is for us to discover.
And here we are.
So, now what?
Much like motherhood, it is for us to figure out.
To each their own.
Cheers and Godspeed.
Send prayers and wine.
Patience and understanding.
Parents included.
I braced myself.
Typically, it’s “You’ve got your hands full!” Or “Wait until they are teenagers!” And “I hope your husband has a shotgun!”
But instead, this stranger at my door remarked, without hesitation, “You’re so lucky.”
And my heart smiled.
The girls, never far from me, peeking from behind my legs smiled, too as I replied, “I really am. I hit the jackpot!”
To be valued, to be appreciated, to be wanted- aren’t these all things that make us feel safe and joyful?
Getting my girls to the ages of 4, 6, 8 and 10 has been a rocky road. In the back of my mind, I always held these particular ages up as the light to the end of my endless tunnel.
And we made it! We are here! We are cruising and absolutely cherishing our baby girls.
For the first time, I finally feel what mothers have been telling me for a decade now. That it goes so fast. That I’ll miss this time, one day. Before, another baby always followed so I never felt like I had the chance to miss any phase.
Now, I look at my eldest and I see her changing. I want to bottle her up and cherish this moment in time. But there she grows. I find myself equal parts nostalgic and eager to continue to witness who she is becoming. To know her.
I’m no fool. I realize the teenage years, especially with a house-full of girls (sharing one hallway bathroom with one sink!) is going to have its share of drama. It already does.
But I am actively choosing to focus on the light. To focus on the blessing of their existence. To feel lucky.
Transitioning from three kids in school to all four kids home for the summer has an immediate effect on the state of my house.
The mess, the noise, the mess, the mess. Also, the “I’m bored, hungry, etc. etc.”
I present to you my very fancy summer charts.
The first, a list of things they can help themselves to when they are hungry and suggestions of what to do when they are bored.
The second, three chore stations labeled A, B and C. The three bigs each have a clothespin with their name on it. They will rotate each week between these stations and every day, they will move their clip from “needs done” to “done”. Completion will earn a weekly allowance of $5.
The last, a list of things that must be done before screen time is allowed.
Cheers to a summer full of laughter, chaos and cleanliness!
Hold. My. Hand.
Let’s do this together.
Lord knows, in these days we are ready to assign the responsibility.
It’s somebody else’s.
And yet, it so. isn’t.
It’s still ours.
So, hold my hand.
Walk with me.
To your back bedroom, with the scary closet.
To your government, with the problem.
Let us not wait for somebody else to address it.
Let us, instead, hold hands and walk together.
For, always, we are stronger, together.
New Leaf Parenting 