Category Archives: Self-Care

View From A Quarantine

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen

“Be careful what you wish for,” my mother used to say.

“You just might get it.” A wise woman, whose words I often disregarded when she was alive, her advice has been on my mind a lot lately. 

Time, as we experience it on this plane–as we have all agreed, is linear. A steadily-paced constant. Yet I know I’m not alone in the perception of its acceleration. In recent years I’ve felt more and more like a hamster on its wheel, running frenetically in a perpetual, never-ending race. My days consisted of  rushing to commitments, appointments, and activities packed into an impossibly tight schedule and coordinating the inherent overlapping and conflicting logistics of the same. Fueled by a bottomless to-do list, my go-mode was switched to “over-drive” nearly 24/7. 

Until March 15th, that is. Before that fateful date, I ran myself ragged trying to keep up, all the while complaining about being too busy. 

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Filed under Family, Gratitude, Grief, Letting Go, Motherhood, Pandemic, Self-Care

And Miles To Go Before I Sleep

It’s morning and I awake, not to an alarm, but to bright sunlight streaming through a crack in my door. Cradled maternally by my mattress, I’ve slept so hard the sheets have left deep creases on my skin. My consciousness attempts the swim  through layers of fog; “What day is it?”  “Where, exactly, am I?” With great effort, I roll over and squint, reading the digital numbers on the bedside clock: 8:29 a.m. The house is quiet; no one’s up yet.  And I remember: there is nowhere we have to be! Two months into summer vacation and today is our first free day — no camp, no summer school, no nothin’. I sink back under the delicious covers. In a few minutes Sydney and Haley will be ransacking the kitchen, eating peanut butter out of a jar and reheating chicken nuggets for breakfast. But I don’t care.

I love my bed and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Just the thought of my comfy pillow-top soothes my strung-out mind. This bed knows the contour of my body and calls to me seductively, “Lisa, come lie down.” And I do, whenever possible. Late afternoons, especially, once I am horizontal, I’m gone. People who nap are lazy, I used to think. Back then I was judgmental and more than a little pious. Back then I had yet to become a mother.

Almost 30 years later, I can’t remember the last time I felt rested. Child-rearing and chronic fatigue go hand in hand like hot wings and heartburn. As a new mom, sleep-deprivation on the level of Chinese water torture started when my first adorable but very loud newborn arrived and immediately took all nocturnal activities hostage. My initial resistance to being jolted out of an altered state turned to incredulity when I started to realize  I would be sleep-walking through life long after 3:00 a.m. feedings ceased. The epiphany was driven home after it was too late, after I chose to have more kids at an ‘advanced maternal age,’ thus clinching the deal: I’ll rest when I’m dead.

Facing this reality is much like processing grief; it comes in five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, defeat. I mean, acceptance. The stages aren’t always in that order and some resurface frequently. Like bargaining. Especially bargaining. We all know one should never negotiate with terrorists, even if they’re tiny.

But in our defense, they’ve worn my husband and I down over the decades, reducing us to desperate acts committed in exhaustion-induced delirium. “Will you lie down with me?” they ask.  And we cave, letting them snuggle up as we read a story, fighting to keep our eyes open, but four hours later we wake with a start, fully clothed and drooling.  Or worse, we let them into our bed. But that, my friends, is a trap. All angelic with the gossamer eyelashes and the delicate skin, they curl up close, their soft breathing rhythmic and hypnotic. They lure us in and lull us to sleep in the sweetest of embraces. Bliss descends. For about 5 minutes.

What follows can’t really be called sleep; collapsing into a coma only to be startled awake by a sharp knee in the shin or a sudden slap across the face. Through the night, they migrate across the bed’s surface. Rooting like baby pigs, they thrash and turn, never still for more than a few moments. Heat-seeking, their little feet reach for the nearest body part. The broad expanse of Daddy’s back makes a good target, right between the shoulder blades. By morning, the bed resembles a war zone, the blankets wadded and twisted or in a heap on the floor.

The family bed is a myth. It’s actually more like musical beds. At some point the willingness to do anything for a good night’s sleep overtakes good judgment. Dad often is exiled from his own bed. Gone in search of a place to land, he ends up downstairs in the guest bed, or on the couch, or in a bunk bed, wedged up against the wall, his 6’3” frame contorting to fit — or not — the twin mattress with twin-sized blanket and not-so-clean twin sheet that slides over the protective plastic liner.

My poor husband is a character from Dr. Seuss’ “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.”

“Who am I? My name is Ned. I do not like my little bed. This is not good. This is not right. My feet stick out of bed all night.”

He’s been displaced so often the girls refer to the master bed as “Mommy’s bed” and frequently hit me up to fill the vacancy.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“No, Daddy is sleeping with me. In his bed.”

I should be grateful that only 50 percent of my children are difficult sleepers; in each of the two sets, there is one good sleeper. Of the first batch, Melissa was the one, sleeping like a dream and waking up happy and contented. Jeremy, not so much. He was never easy; putting up the good fight at bedtime and waking hyper or cranky. He ran on two speeds: turbo-charged or out. Constant ear infections caused him to wail in pain for hours, always in the middle of the night. I remember rocking him, both of us drifting off just as the sun came up. He never learned how to get to sleep by himself and for years, though he’d start out in his own bed, morning would find him on the floor next to my side of the bed.  I stepped on him more than once.

With this second round of kiddos, Sydney’s the piece of cake. The cliché that kids with Down syndrome are good sleepers is true. As a baby she would lean out of my arms and reach toward her crib at nap time. As a teenager she says, “I’m tired. I’m ready for bed, Mom,” and down she goes. Mornings start with a hug and a shy smile and flow from there. Easy.

Haley couldn’t be more opposite. Bedtime drags on interminably: She’s thirsty, her head (throat, foot, bottom) hurts, she doesn’t have the right pillow, she’s too hot, too cold, her nose is stuffed up. She can’t sleep. She can’t stop thinking. She’s excited, she’s sad, she’s needy. “Mommy, I want you,” she says, reaching her arms out, fingers clutching. “I haven’t spent any time with you!” Steven calls her a little tick.

But see, I need to count on my children being unconscious for some amount of time during each 24-hour cycle.  With a child like Haley, there is no such respite. She comes stealthily into our room, appearing suddenly at my bedside, her hand like a woodpecker tapping my shoulder. “I had a bad dream,” she whispers loudly. Or sometimes she just climbs in over us; jostling the whole bed and wiggling her way to the middle. A few times she walked in and  flipped on the overhead light.

Though our older children eventually grew out of sleep disturbances, my weariness remained; the cause merely shifted. Teething and nightmares and the sudden onset of stomach flu at 1 a.m. morphed into loud music and late-night phone conversations and the unbidden images of worst-case scenarios 30 minutes past curfew. Anxiety and stress and overwhelm continued to plague my dreams as they became adults and headed into the wide world. Now, they’re having babies of their own; more  worry  to steal my sleep. There’s no going back; parenting is a long-term gig.

Coffee is my salvation in the morning and a glass of wine in the evening, a reward for making it through the day, helps me unwind. But the cycle sometimes leads to insomnia, the most maddening affliction – when the children are finally sleeping, I lie wide awake, completely and utterly spent, yet unable to let go. And if I’m perfectly honest, there is, as well, the self-induced lack of sleep; the time I carve out of my repose, because, by damn, I must have some to myself! I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. to teach a 5:30 a.m. class, sacrificing the extra Zs so I can meditate and prepare, unhurried and in peace. I stay up late, until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. to write, because the house is quiet then and I am, at last, alone.

The other day I ran across my old journals from the mid to late-80s. Steven pulled down a few dusty boxes from the attic and as I paged through entries written by my much younger self, I was intrigued, as if observing someone else’s life. The narrative was passionate with a tendency for the dramatic and the words that emerged repeatedly were, “tired,” “exhausted,” “overwhelmed.” If I could, I would say to that young woman, “Honey, you’re going to be tired for a while – it comes with the job – but you’ll be all right. Take really good care of yourself; it’s crucial if you are to go the distance. Rest when you can. Take naps (it’s not lazy). And remember the love. It will see you through. Sometimes, you’ll just be tired. And that’s okay. It will all be worth it. Trust me.”

I’m still tired. I fall asleep at rock concerts, stop lights and in front of the TV; I nod off at movies, kids’ concerts and even weddings; I pass out while reading before bed, my book slipping out of my hands, reading glasses still on, mouth open. I half-wake to my husband as he tenderly takes my book and glasses, and placing a kiss on my cheek, turns off the light.

I’m still tired, but not all the time. I start most days feeling energetic and hopeful, though the demands of our busy family leave me running on empty by afternoon.  It’s just the way of it. This is my life; the one I chose and the one I love. Haley said it best: “In the morning you’re ‘Happy Mommy.’ In the evening you’re ‘Tired Mommy’ because we accidentally exhaust you.”

The little (and big) people I’ve birthed don’t mean to wear me out, they just need me. Which is an amazing feeling. I’m the Mom. And if it only takes a nap to turn me from Tired Mommy to Happy Mommy, fetch me my pillow.

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Filed under Aging, Babies, Childbirth, Down syndrome, Family, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Special Needs

Big Rocks

I ran out of time. For a year I intended to write about turning 50 – a contemplative, insightful piece extoling the wisdom gained from living for half a century, but in a few days I’ll be 51.  Gone the way of shoulder pads and stirrup pants, like it or not, the time has passed.

I ran out of time though I’ve tried diligently to slow down my life and clear some space. Simplify, downsize, prioritize; these are my buzz words.  Progress is evident, although the perfect balance wherein I fulfill my roles of mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and instructor, and manage to shave under my arms occasionally . . . this eludes me still.

The other night, my father-in-law, glancing at my Google calendar on my iPhone, its colorful blocks stacked atop, beside and overlapping each other like a patchwork quilt, looked from the screen to my face and said, “You’re too busy.”

This, I know.  How to change it, I do not.

“What can I cut, Dad?” I asked, a little desperate, a little exasperated.

Life seems to be speeding up, or perhaps it’s that more life is crammed into a single day.  I know my parents’ generation raised their families in a slower time. Compare a rotary phone on the wall, its handset tethered by a 10 foot spiral cord, to a smart phone, handheld and able to, at virtually any time, any place, connect to limitless information . . . and limitless other smart phones.  Technology adds convenience, but these instant connections, particularly in the form of text messages, demand instant responses, & idk if we r betr 4 it.

During the last week of school my moderately frenetic pace kicked up to severely frantic.  With routines out of whack, extra activities to manage and preparations for the upcoming summer vacation (‘vacation’ is truly a misnomer), the needle on my stress gauge pushed into the red.

With Type-A drive I tackled numerous projects at once, the way I know best – with sleep deprivation and coffee.  The goal; to knock out as many items as quickly as possible.  My monkey-mind chanted an endless to-do list like a scrolling marquee across the back of my mind.  I was running out of time.

In the midst of it all, Sydney had, as a result of a sleep study and the subsequent diagnosis of obstructive sleep apnea (common in kids with Down syndrome), a tonsillectomy, and was spending the week recovering at home. Before surgery, she charmed the staff with her smiles and snappy come-backs, but afterward, my brave girl was miserable and understandably, a bit grumpy.  We stuck to an alternating 3 hour dosing of Tylenol and Motrin to keep the pain at bay.  Armed with popsicles and ice cream and soup and mashed potatoes, we told her she could watch as much Disney Channel as she liked.

Since Sydney’s my easy-going kid, stoic with a high tolerance for discomfort and doesn’t complain often, I figured it would be, for the most part, business as usual.  Steven and I arranged our schedules to trade off being home, but I anticipated that while she rested I’d be able to toggle between making milkshakes and sending emails.

Uh, yeah.  No.

She didn’t really rest.  In fact, she was rest-less, never settling for more than 30 minutes at a time.  She couldn’t focus on TV, it hurt too much to eat (even ice cream), and she had no interest in her iPad.  She wanted to talk.  To me.

“Um, excuse me, Mom?”  Sydney asked from the table.  “Why my voice is low?”

I answered from my computer without looking.  “It’s from your tonsils, remember?”

I’d just blended a smoothie to chase a round of medicine, hoping for a few free minutes to compose an email.   “Don’t worry.  It won’t last.”

“Why can’t I go to school?” she asked.

“Hmmmm?” I replied, fingers flying over the keys. “School?”

“Why am I not at school?”  She repeated.

I could picture her face though my back was to her; eyes opened wide behind purple wire-frames, eyebrows arched high, her mouth frozen in the shape of the last vowel sound she made.  She’d asked this question every day, several times a day, for the last week.

“You know why.  You tell me, why you aren’t you in school?”  I said trying to be patient, though I felt anything but.

“Because I had my tonsils out?” she asked, acting unsure.

But she knew.  I’d noticed her strategy of waiting for me to pick up my phone, then immediately starting in with obvious questions to which she knew the answer.  The more I needed to concentrate, the more effort she made to divert my attention.  And the more she kept me from working, the more annoying it became.  In front of me, my iMac displayed the afternoon’s tasks; open Word documents, several tabs on the web browser, iTunes with my playlists for teaching, an unfinished email to Sydney’s teacher.  And my calendar.  Always my calendar.

Behind me, my daughter waited for an answer.

Realizing it had been several seconds, I turned and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, honey,” I said firmly, “because you had your tonsils out.”

Her days were long, her throat hurt and she was lonely.  My compassion stirred when she said, “I just miss my friends, Mom.”

“I know, sweetie.  I’m sorry.” I got up and walked to her, resigned to the conversation for the moment.

“Good job! You drank your whole smoothie!”  I said with over-the-top enthusiasm as I took the empty cup to the kitchen sink.

She soaked up the praise with a smile and a shy little shrug.

“I know you miss your friends, but you’ll see them at yearbook signing, remember?”

She perked visibly at the mention. “Oh, yeah!  Yearbook signing. On Thursday, right?”

“Yep.  On Thursday.”

She sat without speaking as I rinsed dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.  Though I heard my daughter’s angst, my monkey-mind chattered louder, calculating what was due when.  I was running out of time.

“Mom needs to get some work done now, Syd.  Okay?”

She was quiet.

“How about a pudding?”

She nodded.

“Do you want anything else?” I asked.  “I can put on a movie.”

“No, I’m fine,” Sydney said, matter-of-factly.

I registered her disappointment, but I was up against a deadline and the detailed work required focus.  I sat down once again and the clacking of the keyboard filled the silence.  For 15 seconds.

“Mom? Excuse me.”

Like clockwork.

“Wow,” I said, taking a deep breath.   Patience, Lisa.  “You sure are talking a lot today.  Doesn’t that hurt your throat?”

“No-oo!” she answered emphatically.  “I just . . . , I just have tonsil breath,” she stammered, referring to the unfortunate halitosis following a tonsillectomy.

Her voice, from behind, carried recognition; she knew what she was doing, but couldn’t stop herself.  I didn’t catch the rest of what she said; I was reading the three texts I’d just received. My adrenaline rose as my shoulders tensed up to my ears.  And my monkey-mind chanted away.  Running. Out. Of. Time.

“I know I’m talking a lot,” Sydney admitted.

Tapped, no restraint remaining, I interjected, “And . . .  you’re driving me CRA-zy.”

An offhand remark, casual, yet careless, it stung with more bite than was intended.  But I didn’t know that yet.  I went on with my work for a minute before a subtle energy permeated my unraveling focus.  I felt more than heard something and turned around.

Grimacing with silent sobs, Sydney bent over her pudding, shoving bite after bite in her mouth until it overflowed.  She inhaled sharply and coughed.  Snot billowed from her nose until her face was a mass of chocolatey mucus.

“Oh, honey!”  I jumped up and grabbed a Kleenex, wiping her nose and mouth quickly.   “Swallow,” I said, holding the straw of her water jug to her mouth.  “Breathe,” I directed.  She cleared her throat repeatedly then took a shaky breath as she tried to calm herself.

When she could talk, she said softly, “I get it, Mom.”  Speaking with a wisdom I forget she is capable of, her words held the implication that she did indeed understand how swamped I was and that she was doing her best not to need too much from me.

“I know we have a busy schedule?” she continued, shrugging and turning one palm up as if to say, ‘it is what it is,’ “but,” her small voice quivered, “you’re going to the gym and . . . ,” she paused, “And . . .  and . . . and I just really . . . “

I waited, my attention fully–and finally–and my daughter.

” . . .  miss you.”  The last two words came out high-pitched and barely audible.

Her chin trembled. She tucked her head down and reaching her index finger underneath her glasses, and wiped fresh tears from her eyes.  Lifting her head with a slow inhalation, she looked to see if I was watching, then choked out the words, “but, I . . . just . . . NEED . . .  you!”   And with that, she abandoned her fight to hold back the tide of her emotions.

Remorse hit me like a wave.  My heart broke open wide. The tightness in my chest loosened and slid away as I gathered her in my arms.  She buried her gooey face in my belly and we both cried.

In the past I would have castigated myself for being a bad mother, but as an older parent, my compassion extends to myself as well.  With maturity comes the recognition that when I’m drained by overdoing, I lack what she needs from me; it’s just not there. I can’t make it materialize.  Conclusion: In order to take care of Sydney, I need to take care of myself.

The overdoing has to stop.  This I know.  How I to change it, I have not known.  But perhaps the analogy of sand, pebbles and rocks in a glass jar illustrates how.  My time – a finite amount – is represented by the glass jar; the sand, pebbles and rocks are all the many, many things that fill that time, ranging from smallest to biggest.  Fill the jar starting with the sand and only a few big rocks will fit.  But reverse the order and miraculously, everything slips into place.  It becomes clear to me: if the big rocks are gonna fit, they must go in first.

My fatal flaw? Everything has been a big rock; I’ve missed the distinction between size and texture and value.  But now I know it just ain’t so.  Obviously, Sydney is a bona fide big rock along with my other children and my husband.  But, what about me?   Is it possible to forgo some sand and pebbles to make room for a big rock of my own?  I don’t know whose permission I’ve been waiting for.  Who’s jar is it, anyway?  In my 50th year, these shifting perceptions and realigning priorities influence my choices more than external expectations.  The voice I’m attuning to now comes from within – not without – myself.

My friend, Jackie once told me, special-needs mom to special-needs mom: “There is just no way to get it all done, so I have to let some things, the less important things slip.”  Since it is my jar, I get to decide what’s more, and less, important.  If worry about the big rocks, the rest can slip.  No more running out of time for what really matters.

I untangled from Sydney and pulled back to look at her puffy, reddened eyes.  I sighed, smoothing her hair back from her face.  Such a precious girl.  My daughter.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” I asked.

She looked crestfallen.  I’m sure she was thinking, ‘Mom is shoving me off again.’

I added, “With me?” and a smile lit up her face as we headed to the couch.

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Filed under Adolescence, Down syndrome, Enlightenment, Family, Gratitude, Letting Go, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Special Needs, Stress

The Essence of Her Presence

mother daughter

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies . . .

Lord Byron (George Gordon)

When I was 13 I sketched my mother’s profile in church.  Regal, she sat with her chin tilted upward, receiving enlightenment from the pulpit, her features arranged serenely.  Thick, auburn hair hung past her shoulders.  The long feathered bangs of 1976 framed her face.  To me she was breathtaking.    She was the sum of her parts and more; soft hands that soothed, full lips that pressed to a fevered forehead, arms that embraced, a gentle voice that lulled away hurt.

Today the pencil drawing, its edges burnt and the pulp decoupaged onto wood, hangs in her apartment, my adoration for her captured; a living thing.  From floor to ceiling, photographs of her children line the walls.  She wraps us around her like armor to do battle with her longtime companion, multiple sclerosis.  From 2,000 miles away I resonate her pain.  I mourn her loss, little by little.  Attacking itself, her body betrays; her mind, too, keeping its secrets and misplacing her memories.

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Accouchement

My husband aIMG_1573nd I had dinner last week with another couple, friends of ours expecting their first child(ren), twins, and expecting them soon. As we joked about the wife’s swelling feet and widening girth, (and the good fortune that her husband is strong enough to hoist her off the couch), I notice beneath her overt anticipation of the blessed event(s), the covert exhaustion she was hiding. An unmasked expression crossed her pretty face, just for a moment. One that only a gestating woman in her last weeks would understand, one that said, “Please, God, let this be over. Right now.”

In sisterly solidarity I immediately flashed back to pregnancy, a state both magical and miserable, completely consuming; a transformative rite of passage. In the nanosecond it took to relive, the realization that I’d never actually be pregnant again descended on me with finality. I will never again grow a child inside my body and I’m not sure how I feel.

Coworkers, friends and family all seem to be doing it: multiplying and replenishing the earth. Pregnant women surround me, their ripening bodies nurturing the genesis of life where there was only potential. No matter that women have been giving birth since the dawn of time, each new miracle astounds me.

I won’t experience an unseen little stranger rolling underneath my rounded belly, pushing me from the inside (and in the case of my youngest, punching me), proclaiming their presence with every hiccup and jab to my ribs, staking claim to my heart long before their grand entrance. I won’t bring a brand new person into the world, someone who didn’t exist before, but without whom I’d be incomplete. That part of my life is over. Chapter closed.

It’s not about wanting another baby — twinges of longing for a tiny human, swaddled and sweet smelling have been replaced by relief over no more diapers or colic or projectile vomit. Plus, after a bit of waffling, the decision to be done was made after my third baby, though the fourth did not get the memo.

No, this is about discovering myself past childbearing age, about acknowledging my progression from maiden to mother to crone. What is this ambivalence, and why does it feel like loss? Possibly because fertility and youth are intertwined; I’m no longer fertile therefore no longer young? But perhaps it’s more about seeing the journey from birth to death as a one-way trip, and feeling time, like a strong gust of wind, pushing me forward.

The first time a child split me wide open, body and soul, I found purpose. Fragile, yet resilient, so new, yet so familiar, I held, in my arms, the answer to every question; the meaning of life itself. And each time I cupped a small rounded head and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance of newborn skin I was reborn. Changed. I simply do not know who I would have been had I not been a mother. The archetype has imprinted my identity so as to affect all other relationships; all paths taken and not taken.

Bearing evidence of birthing and breastfeeding four babies, my body has lost the elasticity to reshape itself. My psyche still grapples with maintaining a separate sense of self while giving my children my whole self, an inescapable urge. But, though I may disparage my life or wish briefly for something different, I know I wouldn’t trade the sacrifices made for the indulgences gained.

At 31, a divorced mom of two school-aged children, I remarried with hopes of a second chance at the happy family I’d always wanted. I dreamt of more babies to cradle. After a miscarriage, at 36, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with thick red hair, milky white skin, and Trisomy 21, Down syndrome. The initial shock of her diagnosis was surprisingly short-lived. Bringing gifts, her presence was cause for celebration. She taught me to slow down, breathe, and stop long enough to find stillness. She taught me the richness of a simple life. She taught me contentment. And her younger sister, despite the 99.9 percent effectiveness of birth control, was born when I turned 40. She teaches me… patience.

Mothering is nothing if not an exploit of extremes, and for every Hallmark moment there are 200 ‘Suck it up, you’re the Mom!’ moments. Like being eight months pregnant and worried sick over an absent teenager, hours past curfew, before cell phones. Like weeks of hospitalization with a two-year-old in critical condition. Like night terrors at 3 am with a delirious 7-year-old. Or apoplectic meltdowns in the supermarket and shoes thrown from the back of a minivan. Or Sesame Street and Teletubbies on video loop. Or pet salamanders and pet mice and pet birds, who still poop, even though they’re small. Like all things educational; relentless forms and meetings and bureaucracy, from kinder to college. Like sleep deprivation that lasts for years, and new appliances that last five minutes, and endless sticky messes.

Babies are akin to kittens; adorable at first, but quickly turning into cats. Adoration got me through midnight feedings, hysterical crying, and explosions out both ends. Devotion gets me through the rest: dirty dishes, dirty faces, dirty clothes and dirty rooms. Through broken bones and bruised hearts. Through whatever it takes to get my chicks from here to there, to their moment in the sun, when I, their biggest fan, cheer loudly, “You did it! I knew you could. I knew you would!”

I’m not a perfect mom. Far from it. I lose it on a regular basis (my sanity, my temper, my grip). My kids drive me right over the edge, but I love them with a ferocity bordering on psychotic. I don’t think I’m unique. Mother-love, the most powerful force in the universe, can save the world and I wouldn’t swap it for a stunning body or a hundred trips to Europe or a life of leisure, even on the days I swear I’m this close to selling my offspring to the highest bidder. On the days I need a reminder, I replay in my mind a particular night I put my youngest, the one who defied the odds, to bed. Not yet 2, she’d overheard me referring to her unexpected arrival on the planet as I often did by way of an affectionate nickname. Most likely, I’d had a rough day, since every day’s a challenge when you have toddlers. Presumably I wanted to get her down and escape to a glass of wine. As she nestled close for a kiss she said, “Mama? I you bonus baby, wight?”

Oh, yes. A bonus. Something extra. Much more than I bargained for, the challenges of motherhood were impossible to foresee, but equally unknowable were the profound rewards. And its infinite nature; a mother doesn’t stop mothering when her children are grown. In my mother-in-law’s soothing voice over the phone as she reassures her son, a middle-aged man, is the love of a mom for her little boy. Across the miles, in an email, my mother’s words carry a tender caress to me, her daughter, the mother of grown children herself.

There will be no more babies, at least not from my womb. Someday in the not-too-distant future, the babies of my babies will christen me Grammy or Nana or Gran. The thought is surreal, yet, enchanting. When the child of my child is placed in my arms, I will lean in close and press my cheek to that precious face, so new, yet so familiar. I will inhale the intoxicating fragrance of newborn skin and look into soulful eyes seeing generations past and future. And in the sacred hush I might hear heaven whisper, “This is the meaning of life.”

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Crystallizing Iridescence

water_crystal love

Love

93 million miles from the Sun,

people get ready, get ready,

’cause here it comes it’s a light,

a beautiful light, over the horizon into our eyes…

Jason Mraz

 

A hush descends on the earth when it snows.  It’s as if the fluffy white stuff that covers the ground and coats the trees and houses and cars also mutes the volume of the world.  The rough edges are smoothed.  The hard places soften.  In the stillness, magic glitters.  Untouched, the newly fallen snow collects; fresh, like a blank canvas to be painted, like a story to be written, like a new year to be lived.

2013 sounded like science fiction when I was a child, eons away.  But, I’m getting older and the passage of time is accelerating at a spectacular pace. I am stunned to find myself, once again, on the brink of another year.  Change beckons and opportunities entice.  Anything seems possible.

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Joyride

red convertibleThe secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.

Any fool can do it; there ain’t nothing to it.

Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill.

But since we’re on our way down,

We might as well enjoy the ride.

Sliding down, gliding down, try not to try too hard.

It’s just a lovely ride.

James Taylor—The Secret ‘O Life

I don’t always recognize I’m headed for collapse until, speeding down the freeway at 100 mph, dashboard warnings flashing, I veer off the road to make an emergency stop. I’ve gotten so good at disregarding my maintenance lights, by the time I realize I’m in trouble, I’m already sputtering and careening; out of gas, overheated, or worse, out of control, crashing and taking out everyone around me.

When we moved from Missouri back to Austin, Texas in 2003, circumstances combined to create a fusion of indescribable stress that will go down in Kent family history as The-Time-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named.   Every member of our family was a hot mess; Haley, 5 weeks old, a textbook example of a colicky infant, emitted a type of banshee wailing that could literally wake the dead, and was silenced only when nursing (constantly) or sleeping (rarely).  Sydney, 4 years old, with modulating sensory integration issues, experienced overstimulation, auditorily and otherwise. She was confused and jealous.  Her ‘elopement’ was at an all-time high and, thanks to a very ambitious preschool teacher, potty training had begun in earnest (it took two years to fully train our sweetie and it wasn’t the potty that was so much the problem).  Let that image crystallize for a moment: Clingy, wailing infant on the boob and pooping-in-her-britches toddler on the run.

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Filed under Down syndrome, Family, Grandparents, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care, Siblings, Special Needs, Stress

To Everything a Season

Book stack
 
The way I walk I see my mother walking, the feet secure and firm upon the ground.
The way I talk I hear my daughter talking, and hear my mother’s echo in the sound.
The way she thought I find myself now thinking, the generations linking in a firm continuum of mind.
The bridge of immortality I’m walking, the voice before me echoing behind.
by Dorothy Hilliard Moffatt

The hostas are coming up; tiny shoots penetrating the soil and unfurling, the coils of their leaves break the earth in a luscious green array.  The newness of each eruption symbolizes advent, a beginning.   Winter’s end yields to a yawning genesis of pure potentiality; at its origin, the verdant metamorphosis of a living thing is simply breath-taking.  And sensual.  It is the caress of a gossamer breeze across the face; the warmth of sunshine on skin; the lyric birdsong of nest-makers in flight.   It is, too, the delicate scent of a newborn’s hair inhaled, the soft curve of a cheek traced, the exquisite beauty of a child’s form realized.  Senses awaken.  Life, lying dormant, regenerates.  From nothing, something.   This is how it starts—the dawning of spring.  The cycle of a human life.

My Grammy died a few months before Sydney, with a full head of copper hair, was born.  My fiery Irish matriarch of a grandmother called me ‘love,’ drank Olympia beer from the little cans and quoted A.A. Milne.  She was the first person I loved to die (“Don’t say ‘pass away’ when I’m gone, FOR GOD’S SAKE.  I’ll be DEAD!  Say, ‘She died.’”).  I was bereft she wasn’t there to hold her great-granddaughter, but the significance of one life ending and another beginning wasn’t lost on me.  Ancestral generations come full circle and begin again.  I must fade so my children can blossom.

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Filed under Adolescence, Aging, Babies, Grandparents, Growing Up, Loss, Memories, Motherhood, Parenting, Self-Care