I wish I could do it all. I so wish I could do it all. But, of course, I can’t. So I make sacrifices.

I sacrifice time to get caught up so we can do more extended bedtime routines.

I sacrifice showers for sleep. (Not every day…ha!)

I sacrifice vacations and extras and financial freedom to stay at home.

I sacrifice parenting ideals (hello, tv, I’m looking at you and how much you’re on) for sanity.

I sacrifice a picked up house for home-cooked meals (at least that why I think the house winds up completely trashed by the end of the night even though it wasn’t so slammed during the day).

I sacrifice time so we can commute to take Gabe to a school that’s a better fit for him.

These sacrifices don’t always feel good, but for one reason or another they feel right, or right for now, at least.

Lately, though, I’ve been making some sacrifices that don’t feel as right to me. Take writing, for instance. I’ve sacrificed writing to allow more time for things that feel more pressing.  Exercise is another. I can’t remember the last time I ran or did yoga. There’s a lot of inertia around these parts. It’s that way in several facets of life, each one an area that feeds my soul. I’m sacrificing the important for the urgent, which is sometimes unavoidable, but I’m not sure it makes a good lifestyle.

I’m not sure how to carve a path back, though. Often, it feels more like I’m jumping from one fire to the next rather than intentionally ordering my days. Is it that way for everyone? I don’t know.

I don’t want to live frantic, but I do want to make different sacrifices. I’m just not sure what should stay and what should go.  I want to make the right sacrifices, the best sacrifices for me so I can dwell fully in these years of mothering littles (and a sort-of-maybe-I-can-admit-it-getting-kind-of-big kid, too).

 

 

The little fingers – that’s what gets me first.  A whole fist’s worth, grasping tightly to only half of my index finger, a silent whisper. “There you are, my mama!  Don’t worry – I won’t lose you!”  No longer connected through the sustenance of the umbilical cord, we learn a new connection – fingers to finger, heart to heart.

And then, before I even know it, we’re no longer finger-to-finger, but hand-to-hand, a transition necessitated by growth, both in size and independence.  I cherish this time, holding a roving baby hand during a nursing session or relishing the fact that I can insist on holding my toddler’s hand because we’re in a parking lot.

But hand-in-hand leads quickly to freedom–the freedom of waves and pats on the back and thumbs-up and quick hugs, and before I know it, they’re big!  What seemed at first like moments (or stages) that would be frozen in time prove fleeting in the rear view mirror.

Time.  It passes so fast!

Some people celebrate with each page-turn of the calendar, but I’ve always been one to mourn the passage of time, especially when it comes to my kids.  Oh, I’m happy to be able to tick the boxes for each developmental milestone, and what mother’s heart doesn’t practically burst when she sees the pride of a new accomplishment in her child’s eyes? But these always hit me in a tender area, landing with a thud, a reminder that these days will past–the hard parts and the very best parts all wrapped up together.

I started reading a book this week and stumbled across a quote that touched this very spot and helped me realize why my instinct is to hold tightly.

Sensing the ground shifting beneath my feet, I resisted this new, unknown territory, already nostalgic for what I’d so recently taken for granted.  I missed my old world and its funny little inhabitants, those great big personalitites still housed in small, sweet bodies.  I missed my sons’ kissable cheeks and round bellies, their unanswerable questions, their innocent faith, their sudden tears and wild, infectious giggles, even the smell of their morning breath, when they would leap, upon waking, from their own warm beds directly to ours.  I missed the person I had been for them, too [emphasis added]–the younger, more capable mother who read aloud for hours, stuck raisin eyes into bear-shaped pancakes, created knight’s armor from cardboard and duct tape.  Certainly, my talents didn’t seem quite so impressive anymore, my company not as desirable as it once had been.  (Kenison 7-8)

This.  This is it. I love the littlest years best because I know who I am in them, or at least I have a well-developed picture of who I want to be.  I am engaged. I am besotted.  I am physically and emotionally in step with my babies’ every needs.   The further we go, the murkier it gets.

I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately. Who am I? Am I being that person? Or are my actions in opposition to who I am? Who do I want to be? Where do my identity and my desires align? Where do I want to be different?

I don’t know the answers to those questions, but I know as “finger-to-finger” inches closer to “freedom,” the answers include more question marks and hyphens. I am a mother-and-_____.  What things will fill in that gap? Can I do those things well? Can I still do motherhood well and fill in those blanks? I don’t know. It’s certainly much more complicated.  But womanhood and motherhood are not one in the same, and no one dimension could fully and forever encompass us.

Juggling questions marks and hyphens is hard work. The simplicity of being subsumed by only one dimension is inviting.

What follows your hyphens? Do you embrace growth or get stuck in the nostalgia of it?

 

It’s late Sunday night and I’m trying to prepare for the week in front of us. It’s a busy one, with meetings and studies and Tahd and I even get to go on a date! To Chicago! For a concert! We’re also putting in the patio from hell, a DIY project we never should have started and has me fighting off frantic most of the time.  All that, and we’re still learning the rhythms of this new school year, adjusting to homework and assignment notebooks and energy patterns and alarm clocks. It’s going to be a regular week, but a busy one, for sure.

I want to mother slowly this week, though. I want to shun busy and overwhelmed and breathe in these children deeply. I want to snuggle for an extra minute and not holler our way out the door each morning. I want to make time for one more book, a hand of cards, a morning prayer before we go our various directions. I want to eat dinner together–same food at the same time–more than less. I want to ask them smart questions so I can know them better.  I want to be silly and have fun even though there’s work to be done.

We can’t always pick our circumstances, but we can pick how we want to exist within them. This week, I want to exist slowly amidst the chaos, or at least as slowly as I can.

 

The restless crying and thrashing piled up – first once, then twice, all the way up to five times, when I finally gave up and took him to bed with me. It’s not unusual for Jude to wake up in the night, but five times? He was like a reverted newborn, nearly two but having seemingly forgotten how this day/night thing worked.

This went on for several nights, my sleep deprived haze growing ever foggier. I can’t do this anymore! This is never going to end!!! I lamented to myself.  I’ve been tired – no, exhausted – for two years now, and sleep fantasies are never far from my mind, like a golden, bright, unattainable prize at the end of the tunnel next to the one through which I’m traveling. My tunnel just looks dark.  The prize of sleep doesn’t seem to be in my future.

Then one afternoon, I saw it.  Or, rather, them – five tiny white bubbled atop the reddest, angriest little gums you ever did see.  Teeth! So close to making their grand entrance! Apparently when Jude teethes, he does it all at once, preparing to welcome four cuspids and one lateral incisor in one fell swoop.  No wonder he doesn’t sleep! And all at once, a few of the teeniest rays of light shuffled their way into the end of my tunnel..

It’s this way for me with a lot of things.  Sleep, especially. I find myself stuck in the present, and not always in a good way.  Things are what they are, I think. They’ll never change.

my baby will never sleep through the night || my preschooler will never be old enough for kindergarten ||  I’ll never be able to hear NPR in the car over the din in the backseat || My children will never not complain about every single thing I cook || we’ll never be done with diapers || Tahd and I will never be able to find the time to go away together ||  I will never not be overrun by toys || there will never be enough time to read/take photos/run/cook/finish painting || my floors will always be crunchy

I should know better. I thought this way when Gabe teetered and tottered through his early years, and then, poof! Before I knew it, he was in school and even faster to double digits, growing up before my very eyes.  And yet, I still find myself thinking, Gabe will never be old enough to go off to college, right?

All these nevers…they’re really just “for nows,” even though they seem like eternity in the moments and stages. They pass, flitting and floating by so quickly that what once seemed permanent later seems only elusive, like it hardly had time to happen.

So, yes, my baby doesn’t sleep through the night.  For now.

Yes, my floors are crunchy.  For now.

Yes, sibling rivalry is ubiquitous.  For now.

Yes, undone projects are the name of my game. For now.

But not forever. These things and more are just a season – a season to be endured, a season to survive, a season to embrace, a season to cherish. It’s easy to forget, even though I know from experience, that I’ll miss many of these things when they’re gone, even the ones that don’t feel very “missable” right now.

“For now” is not “forever,” a flavor that is both bitter and sweet.

Here we go…September is here!  Based on my Facebook feed, it looks like we might be one of the latest ones getting back into the swing of school, but we’re ready for the fall routine, the commuting, the daytime activities.

I’ve become a little reclusive since Jude was born, not because I meant to but because adjusting to the demands of a third and colicky baby used up all my energy.  I’ve been trying to do a better job lately about getting together with others and having people over. Of course, being anxiety-prone, I often find myself getting overwhelmed and nervous before said get-togethers. I wish I could send my invites with a disclosure list!  Mine would go a little something like this:

Hi! I’m so glad you’re here.  No, really.  I am super glad I’m going to get to hang out with another adult today.  Because, you know – toddlers.  But I think there are some things you should know before you agree to take me and my motley crew on for a few hours.  Things like…

I get anxious when I have people over || This is no reflection on you. I don’t think you’re judgmental or critical or hard to get along with.  I just get antsy and panicky on the inside. Not so much the outside. I don’t mean to be fake about it, but I do cover it pretty well, mostly because my anxiety coping strategy involves going on autopilot and trying to make everyone happy.  Anyway, all this to say I’m anxious, but I keep having people over because it’s worth my anxiety to get to hang out with you.

My house may be clean or messy || If my house is clean, it’s not so much because I wanted you to be impressed but because I wanted you to be comfortable. If my house is messy, it’s not because I didn’t care enough to clean, it’s because I felt safe enough to show you the less-than-perfect parts of me.  I’d love to find some ways to blend both sides of myself, but I haven’t figured it out yet.

On that note, I recommend keeping your shoes on || Because Cheerios. I swear I try to pick them up, but they are like Jesus – omnipresent. Actually, it’s all breakfast cereal in general. Today, Gabe spilled an entire box of Life cereal on the kitchen floor.  The. Whole. Thing. That was fun. My floors are still crunchy even though we’ve swept 3 times and washed the floor once.  Whoever came up with this “no shoes in the house” rule obviously mustn’t have had small children.

My hooligans do get disciplined || If all goes well, my little people will be respectful, kind, and moderately calm. If all goes normally, however, at least one of these three probably won’t happen.  I promise I really do see it and it really is important to me, and we really will handle the problems – most likely in private and/or after you leave.

My home is <ahem> a work in progress || I used to obsess over trying to make every little thing perfect. I can’t keep up now, though.  Take, for example, the fact that three of my rooms are currently in the process of being painted.  Three. And about six years ago, I put a swipe of paint on a wall to test the color. I still haven’t covered it over.  I will get there.  Some day.  I try not to be super self-conscious about these things, but many times I am.

I have no ability to regulate the temperature of my house || It used to be that I was super cheap so we kept our temperatures at levels that were less expensive. To be totally honest, when Gabe was a baby, our winter nighttime temperature was 58.  He didn’t sleep through the night for over a year until we finally started turning up the temperature when we realized he was cold.  True story.

Now, my body temperature regulation is just broken. If it’s humid, I’m hot, no matter the actual temperature. If it’s hot, I’m hot. Obviously.  If it’s warm, I’m also hot. Until I’m not and I’m suddenly very, very cold and sometimes actually shiver and have to sleep with a heating pad.  All that to say please tell me if you’re hot or cold. I’ll be happy to adjust the temperature. I just can’t tell.

Please forgive my lack of beverages || Really, I’m sorry. It’s basically water or milk.  No juice, no lemonade, no iced tea, no soda, no beer, no wine. I don’t do this purposefully, except that it does make things easier with my kids if I just never have other beverages. It’s so much easier to say, “We don’t have any,” than it is to give a straight-up “no.”  I recognize it might be more hospitable to have more options, but I just rarely think to buy them.

If you can handle all that, welcome! We’re glad to have you! If not, let me know and we can meet at a Starbucks.  Which has its definite perks. The major ones being someone who brings me coffee and someone else who mops the floors for me.

On second thought, maybe we should just plan to meet there from the get-go…

As the second-hand drags her heels around the turquoise face fastened carefully around my wrist, I wait.  Twenty four hours.  Two important things.  I wait.

Waiting is not my forte.  Dreaming, perhaps.  Or stressing.  Stressing is definitely my forte! But waiting? No. Which strikes me as odd because I should be good at it.  In fact, I should be an expert at it, the seven tortured years of painful infertility that shredded my heart while I prayed and hoped and pleaded and waited. Seven years is a long time to wait.  But 24 hours feels long, too.

I’m not even waiting nicely.  You’d think being gutted for seven years would at least render you a graceful wait-er.  I could be calmly going about my business of the day.  I could be prayerful.  Instead, the lid slams off and on my pot of roasting tomatoes while I frantically stir before I flit chaotically to the next task that darts past my attention, a million things started, nothing complete.  I can’t hold a thought long enough to follow supper’s recipe.  I absent-mindedly stuff a handful of Sour Patch Kids into my mouth.

Yes, I’m definitely not waiting well.

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of the lessons I learned during my experience with infertility are coming back around for a second visit, and I’ve been surprised at how much I find myself lacking.  If first term had ended and I’d collected my report card, I’m afraid I’d find “Needs Improvement” scrawled across most of my subjects, if my subjects were things like staying present in the moment, delighting in the little things, grace upon grace, and – yes, waiting.

The role of grader is typically one I foist upon myself, carefully measuring my performance to find out where I come up short.  But I’ve also been noticing that this role doesn’t serve me well, the constant judging and self-flagellation causing more pain than growth.

Shocking, I know.

Instead, I’m reminded of the years I spent teaching.  I’d (at least try to) introduce the important concepts with a bang – some sort of hook that caused my students to engage, or at least sit up and take notice, so they’d be ready to absorb the objective.  But did I stop there?  Did I expect them to have mastered it after I presented the hook?  Of course not.  We spent time in class manipulating that concept, playing with it and learning about it.  Then they practiced out of class with their assigned homework.  And hopefully, for at least some of them, they carried those concepts into their daily lives, continuing to rehearse and experiment and fine-tune and apply.  I expected it to take a lot of practice.  I knew there would be a process.

The last decade of my life has been full of hook after hook after dirty rotten hook.  I’m tired.  I’ve tried hard to absorb the lessons I needed to learn along the way.  Sometimes I simmered in them, but sometimes the hooks came so fast that life was more about survival than anything else.  So now, as the pace settles and days feel the teeniest bit less gulpish, I see these lessons coming around again and I want to continue to rehearse them and experiment with the and fine-tune them and apply them while I work my way toward mastery.  Just like I hoped for my students.

So here I go.  Today I’m practicing waiting.  And not very well, either, but I’m practicing.  Tomorrow, I might need to practice choosing happiness or investing in relationships or cultivating playfulness or focusing on the present.  Or maybe (NNnnooooo!!!)  I’ll practice waiting some more.  But what I won’t do is carry the red pen close, just waiting for the opportunity to slash a glaring “NI” it across my life’s paper as thought I’ve arrived and the opportunity for practice is over.

We’re not failures, friend, if we didn’t learn it all perfectly the first time around.  We’re human.   Still in progress, still practicing, still going. The process continues and we go with it, and I’m not sure I’ll ever reach mastery, but I am sure I can keep going.

 

(PS – I don’t mean to be too vague.  I’m not waiting to find out about pregnancy or anything like that. Nothing catastrophic, either.  I’m waiting for some things that affect other people even more than they affect me, and that’s why I don’t feel comfortable sharing all of other people’s details.)

Dear Struggling Mama,

I see you over there–tired, summered-out, overwhelmed.  Quite honestly, I am you.  It’s been a long week, a long month, a long summer.  I know you’re up to your eyeballs in bickering and late nights and too much tv and boredom and chaos and lack of routine and even ongoing problems and concerns that have been on your mind for months or years.  At least I am.  There’s just a lot going on.  Too much for me right now.  We’ve been having lots of fun this summer, but man! I’m ready to tap out!  After a lot of thought, this is what I’ve decided to tell myself…

it’s okay to ask for help.

It’s okay to get a sitter for the night so you can regroup.

It’s okay to order in for dinner.

It’s okay to call your smartest, kindest friend and pour our your heart.

It’s okay to ask Grandma to take the kids for a few hours or a night or the weekend.

It’s okay to call in the pros to finish the project you started.

It’s okay to pass the baton to your partner when he walks in the door and hide with a good book in your room for an hour.

It’s okay to talk to your doctor about antidepressants.

It’s okay to go to counseling.

It’s okay to put a call in to your child’s doctor because you know you’re beyond the point of self-help, dietary, and over-the-counter strategies and you need a more formal assessment.

It’s okay, too, to need help and not know where it could possibly come from.  Keep looking.  It’ll come.

That’s what I’m telling myself today, and I thought someone else might need to hear it, too.

I sat in the kitchen losing my ever-loving mind beneath the tumbling, towering waves of anxiety.  I didn’t even know why.  It was just a regular day – no need to perform to a certain standard, no need to get certain things done, no need to do anything other than simple, regular daily chores.

The computer sat on the counter in front of me, and my breath stuttered while I read these words:

One of the ways we find breathing room is by taking apart all the various voices vying for time in our minds and then sit long enough to determine that space where our soul (our deepest desires, longings, our wild) and God meet up. And then sit a little longer . . . and listen.

So I paused.  What were the words in my soul?  What messages did I have on repeat?

Bubbling to the surface came these ugly thoughts…

I can’t do this! There’s too much to do, not enough time, and not enough of me to go around!
I’ll never live a happy life. Anxiety and depression are hopeless.
These babies need more than I can give.
I’m losing myself!

And then, just as I reminded myself of her phrase “sit long enough,” Jude padded into the kitchen, arms raised with book in hand, his eyes imploring.  “Read me the story, Mama?” they asked.

So I set aside my stillness.  Just do the next thing, I told myself, and picked him up to read.

As we turned the last page of the book, I saw Isla streak by out of the corner of my eye.  “Mama! Guess what?!?” she hollered.

“What?” I sighed, steeling myself for what I thought was an inevitable request – any request – that I wasn’t emotionally ready to tackle.  “I love you!” she called back.  And with that, all at once, time slowed her clocks for me, and I became clearly aware that the universe was offering me an enormous gift, one that I needed to consciously open my hands to receive.

You think you’re stressed, that you’re getting it all wrong, that you don’t have what it takes? Nope.  I’ll show you.  I picked you for these children and them for you, and some days might be hard, but you’re doing fine, it said.  Take these gifts – the moments snuggled up to read, the spontaneous declarations of love, and the hundreds of others that trickle by unnoticed – and just breathe.  For now, right this moment, you are where you need to be doing what you need to do and you are doing it well.

I went back to my day, but I didn’t go back to it the same way.  I went back lighter and easier.  I shooed the brain vultures and moved brazenly forward – if only a little bit.

Tomorrow it will start all over again, responsibilities and successes and failures and not-enoughs and effort and uncertainty.  Hopefully I’ll be a little faster at banishing those mind vultures and opening my hands to receive the little gifts being offered to me along the way.

The July sun has cast her spell, betrayed only by the cool breezes that keep drifting through my windows, a decidedly unsummerlike sensation, even here in Wisconsin.  This week has felt much the same – appearing one way but feeling another.  The carefree days of summer and the anticipation of upcoming adventures have been crowded out by a heaviness I sense all around me.

A friend waited to lose her sweet babe.  Dear ones walked through the land mines of a tattered marriage.  A cousin looks ahead to brain surgery, and another friend waits to hear about the same.  Cancer claimed a former coworker’s son.  Another friend’s beloved pup isn’t long for this world.  I’m over here, myopic about crumbed goldfish and how long it’s been since our last round of baths and how many times I have (or, more accurately, haven’t) run this month.  But this week, the incongruousness of life loomed large.

Motherhood is, I think, somewhat isolating.  Our hopes and dreams–the common ones we all share for our children–wave high while we keep our fears and failures tucked low to our chests.  And not only that, but we’re busy.  We drive here, we rush there, we enroll in this, we Pinterest that.  Busy keeps us alone, or if we’re with people, we’re not really with them.

Isolation, for me, is the single biggest threat to my well-being as a mom.  Get me alone for any length of time, and my inner world starts closing in on me.  I cater to my strengths,  I tightly control my environment to manage my anxieties, I let the things I dislike or at which I struggle go unchecked. None of these things are entirely bad, but taken together and constantly unchallenged, they turn into a rut of my own making.  It’s easy to start creating all my own “truths,” forgetting that there’s a whole other world out there with a dozen or a hundred or a million ways to create a life, to raise a child, to approach a problem, to find happiness.

And there’s a whole other world of problems out there, of people who’d trade their own heavy loads for the irritations and struggles that have started to seem heavy to me in my aloneness.

**********

Nine months of pregnancy can take an awfully long time, so for each baby, I knitted a blanket while I waited.  Gabe’s was small and simple because I was green and unskilled, both as a knitter and as a mother, and had no clue what I was doing.  By the time I was pregnant with Isla, I was ready to take on a slightly loftier task, settling on a simple bordered pattern with rainbow stripes for playfulness and impact.

The challenge, however, was in its size.  I’d never worked something quite so large before, and keeping track of the stitches became a wild jumble of counting.  About a third of the way through, I finally settled on the strategy of counting after every few rows.  If I found I’d dropped stitches, I’d add in new ones on the last row or two before I changed stripe colors and I figured everything would work out in the end.

I suppose everything did work out in that I completed the blanket and it’s colorful and happy.  It has been well used and loved, and I smile every time I see it draped over the rail of the crib.  It’s also, however, somewhat trapezoid in shape, and almost exactly in the middle of the blanket is a big old dropped stitch, which–if you’re not a knitter–translates into a sizable hole.

Let me say it again.  There’s a hole in the middle of my precious handknit blanket.

^{I can’t quite see the hole in this picture, but I can see a different error.  Can you? 😉}

Experienced knitters know how to work with dropped stitches.  They know how to spot the error and work back to it while the whole piece is still in progress and correct the error before it becomes permanent.  I, however, was not an experienced knitter, and I simply didn’t know.  In fact, not only did I not know, but I lacked the experience to see the small error along the way.  The fact that there was a hole in the blanket surprised me when I finally spread it out to admire my completed handiwork, a seemingly insignificant error affecting the trajectory of the entire piece.

**********

In motherhood (and life…), the thing is that when left to my own devices, the truths I create aren’t very true at all.  They’re a sliver of inexperienced truth based on my sliver of reality.  They’re just like the plan I developed for counting stitches, seeming good enough in the moment to my inexperience.  But when my reality and experience grow, as they always do, the holes and bare spots become more noticeable.

This is why I need to fight isolation, why I think we all need to do it.  We need to see other people’s stories and see ourselves in other people’s stories, to allow our realities to be expanded through them, and grow along with them.  We need second eyes on our own lives, eyes that are experienced in ways we aren’t and can suggest how our current efforts might be steering us off our desired course.  And, of course, we need the strong network, the community of people who help carry us through the darkest of days, days which are sure to come, days like some of my acquaintances, friends, and family have been facing this week.

I’ve been thinking, too, about who I let in.  After I watched a person unload a particularly judgmental and self-righteous attack, I churned for days at the implications at what had been said, and then churned again at why it had upset me so deeply.  Ultimately, I decided the real problem wasn’t righting an injustice or correcting a mistruth.  The real problem was my decision to let the wrong person in.  A lovely woman, no doubt, this was a case of the wrong place/wrong time/wrong person for the current dynamics.  Fighting isolation requires smart choices, not just proximity of another human being.

Last month, I went away by myself for a weekend, and I came back with two things I decided I needed to implement into my life.  One revolved around busyness and being overwhelmed (you can read about that here), but the other was a quoted phrase (via Beth Moore) I read in The Love Idol by Jennifer Dukes:

We’re going to have to let truth scream louder to our souls than the lies that have infected us.

Summer is a hard time for me to work on isolation and relationships.  Everyone is coming and going on trips and to classes and camps and festivals.  But even if I can’t take action today, I can keep reminding myself of what I know for sure to be true–that I am better with than I am without, that I need others’ stories and they need mine, and that the investment is worth the effort.

And in the meantime, I hold those above-mentioned loved ones close to my heart with prayers for peace, healing, and miracles.