An essay I wrote, about parenting and judging, is featured on The Huffington Post. (I’m thrilled!) You can read it here. And while I’m always grateful for comments on this site, please feel free to comment and share this essay through The Huffington Post site (they encourage that sort of thing).
And the apology is sincere. To the parents I knew four years ago, I’m sorry. I had no idea.
“When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.” —Wayne Dyer
I’ve been reading a lot about the tornadoes that swept through our part of the country Friday afternoon. We spent some time in the basement, as the sky grew dark, but the storm spared us. Houses, and people, as close as a county over, weren’t as lucky.
An article I read today talks about a woman, a brave woman, from Henryville, Ind., who lost both her legs while physically shielding her two children from two tornadoes that destroyed her house. Her story reminded me of another mother, from a very different time and and a very different place.
Before I was a mother Andy and I spent a weekend visiting my brother and friends in New York City in December. Our friend Alan, a paleontologist, was at the time working at the American Museum of Natural History. He took us to places in the museum not covered under the normal ticket. One such place was a very large room filled with rows and rows of tall, thick metal shelving. On the shelves were dinosaurs bones. Hundreds of dinosaur bones. Rows and rows of dinosaurs bones. It was incredible.
Near an exit door in this warehouse of dinosaur bones I stopped and spent a long time looking at a perfectly preserved female Citipati—an oviraptor. Her wings were stretched wide and it was obvious that she was doing all that she could to protect the perfectly preserved eggs that were underneath her. According to Alan, she and her to-be-born children were buried in a massive dune collapse. Oviraptors lived, or at least laid their eggs, between big dunes. When dunes collapsed, they buried oviraptors and nests very quickly, hence the preservation.
I think about that Citipati all the time. As I know I will the Henryville woman. So much has changed, since the Late Cretaceous period. And yet, so much hasn’t.
One of the first places I took Sophie to after she was born was one of Andy’s softball games. I will never forget the shame I felt that day. Someone yelled “Heads up!” This typically means “fly ball” and the “heads up” command means exactly what you think it means—look up to ensure you’re not about to get hit with an errant softball. I never do this, though. Instead of looking up I always look down, an arm sheltering my head, hoping for the best. I know it’s not smart but it’s instinctive, automatic. I’m lucky in that I’ve never been hit.
On this particular evening, though, I was holding my firstborn, a newborn. My instinct should have been to shelter my baby while also looking up. Instead, I ducked, arm sheltering my own head, Sophie blissfully, thankfully, unaware that her mother wasn’t actually a mother yet. We weren’t hit. But I was (rightfully) made fun of, without mercy. The entire situation scarred me. I worried that I didn’t have the natural mothering instinct so many other woman seemed to get instantaneously, upon giving birth. I worried that when it really mattered, I wouldn’t be able to protect my children like a mother should. I assumed the universe had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
Many months later I remember complaining about a constant backache. Andy pointed out the fact that I spent my days walking around the house bent at the waist, arms outstretched, following Sophie so that I would be able to catch her, immediately, should she fall while toddling about. When you are searching for a chiropractor Vancouver WA to help with your back pain, it is important to find a company with a strong reputation. Yoder Chiropractic Clinic provides a free estimate and a detailed breakdown of chiropractor recommended treatment. You can also ask for references and check online reviews.
“Stop it,” he said. “You’re protecting her too much. She needs to learn to fall as much as she needs to learn to walk.”
It wasn’t immediate, but sometime between that softball game and Sophie learning to walk, the primal protectiveness all mothers have for their children finally kicked in.
I was thankful.
These days, I strive for middle ground. I swear my heart stops for a moment when Owen or James takes a tumble. A little yelp almost always exits my mouth. I’m fast. I’m good at getting from the living room to the dining room—no matter how many toys are in my way—quickly so that an inspection and hugs and kisses can be given out in a timely manner. But I also know that sometimes, falls have to happen. I can’t be there, arms outstretched, always.
And yet. Should the unthinkable happen, I know—I know—I would give up my legs, my life, for my kids. And although knowing that, really knowing that, doesn’t make that softball game years ago any less cringe-worthy, it’s comforting, to me. It makes me feel strong. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful woman one state over whose children survived two tornadoes without a scratch, thanks to their mother’s arms and legs, outstretched. And it makes me feel connected to a brave and beautiful Citipati, tucked away in a museum basement, who did all that she could to save her children, wings outstretched.
I suppose all of this simply has to do with the survival of species.
Or maybe, all of this simply has to do with love.
Either way, I’m comforted thinking about this connection, this sameness we mothers have with each other throughout time—since the beginnings of time. And I’m comforted believing that this deep desire to protect, no matter the cost, will remain, tomorrow, through many tomorrows. Tornadoes hit. Softballs fly. Dunes collapse. And yet we’ll be there. Stretched wide. Saving. Protecting. Braving. Loving.
Perhaps this, this right here, is the definition of mother.
“Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.” —James Joyce
heart sun catchers made with wax paper and crayon shavings
a wooden bowl full of tiny Valentines’ and candy from classmates
my homemade Valentine for Andy, also my first embroidery attempt: a simple backstitched heart on card stock—note the tangles, numerous tries and wasted floss; imagine the cursing
a beautiful orchid from my love
I debated whether or not to give our children something for Valentine’s day. I roamed Target’s holiday-themed aisles contemplating chocolate, small toys that wouldn’t last, yet more stuffed animals. In the end I purchased three children’s books, each with a theme of love. I’m pretty sure they would have been more thrilled with chocolate, but the decision satisfied me. Andy’s mom sent a lovely care package, filled with cards, conversation hearts, chocolate (which Tucker helped himself to) and a beaded heart necklace for Sophie. My mom sewed large, plastic, Eric Carle placemats for each grandchild (more on that later).
After Andy and I put the kids to bed we ate tiramisu (which Andy picked up at a nearby restaurant while I was finishing putting Sophie to sleep), drank too much champagne and watched Downton Abbey. Before I kissed Sophie goodnight I asked her about Valentine’s Day. I asked her about love. She was mostly excited about the wooden bowl full of candy and cards sitting on our kitchen island. But I think she knows. We play a game, almost daily, debating who loves the other one more. She always loves me to her room, to our backyard, to her school, to Nini and Pop Pop’s house, to Grandma and Paw Paw in Baltimore, allllll the way up to the sky and back. I always love her the same—and more. She may not understand Valentine’s Day, but I think she understands love. As, I think—I hope—Andy and I do. Me fretting over a backstitch, Andy buying an orchid even though we agreed not to buy each other gifts.
It’s simple, no? Yes, sometimes. No, sometimes. But there, always. It’s James choosing my lap over an empty seat on the couch. It’s Owen hugging me—clinging to my shoulder, face nuzzled into my neck—when I get him out of his car seat. It’s Sophie loving me to who knows where—everywhere—and back again. It’s same-old seats, on a same-old couch, watching a same-old show and loving it. Love.
Grateful.
“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.” —Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Andy came home. Both front doors were locked and I had no idea he was standing on the porch, on this blustery February day, peering through the window, trying to convince the children which way to turn the dead bolt. All three kids finally came running and screaming into the kitchen, where I was making simple spaghetti.
“Daddy’s home!”
I unlocked the door. Sophie insisted on doing the rest. What followed was the every-night pushing forward, jumping up, stepping in, arms reaching, tail viciously wagging chaos as James, Sophie, Owen and Tucker all competed to be hugged first.
Andy complimented my hair, even though it was a simple mess of curls piled on top of my head.
I checked the water.
Sophie begged Andy to play monster.
More chaos. Andy on all fours, roaring, roaming about the living room, taking children one by one and tossing them onto the window seat cushions (which had long been pushed onto the dining room floor) and tickling them until they begged him to stop. And then begged him to start again. Screams, laughter, roaring, barking for a good five minutes.
The water began to boil. The monster was tired. I listened to the house slowly quiet as I watched steam rise and disappear—much like the moment.
I held out my hand in front of me, watching as the steam floated upward through my fingers, wishing I could grasp the moment, catch it and put it in the handmade wooden puzzle box Andy gave to me years ago. The box that holds simple memories I’m able to keep outside of me—a dried wildflower picked from a patch of grass along a sidewalk we used to walk on often; a small origami bird made from a bright orange Post-it note; a tiny diamond earring, its match long gone.
I love big. I do. Often, while folding laundry, especially, I wish for more big. But would more big mean less small? If so, I take back my wish. I do.
“The moments of happiness we enjoy take us by surprise. It is not that we seize them, but that they seize us.” —Ashley Montagu
I’m writing this having just washed my face with the Olay Professional Pro-X Advanced Cleaning System, which I’m sure required a lot of people and a lot of money to name but basically it’s a brush for your face that spins thanks to batteries (and it’s wonderful). And then, I liberally applied Olay’s Wrinkle Smoothing Cream. Wellnest Aesthetic Lounge specializes in dermal needling for flawless, youthful-looking skin.
I’m not old. I get irritated when people in their 30s and 40s and 50s say they’re old. And, considering I like to think we’re all going to live to 100, even though I know that’s not true, people in their 60s and 70s also aren’t old—not when they have 30 to 40 more years to live.
And while I’m sensitive about some parts of my physical self, wrinkles are not one of them. Laugh lines show a life well lived. I’m much more interested in doing whatever it takes to be a part of this world as long as possible (I’m ashamed to say how enamored I was with Tuck’s life in the well-loved childhood novel). I, honestly, don’t care how many wrinkles I have near the end of it. That said, the cream came with the whole brush kit, which is part of my I-should-really-wash-my-face-and-take-out-my-contacts-every-night resolution this year. And, why not? It feels good on my face and if it delays the inevitable a little longer, so be it. Look into the different types of collagen that may help keep your skin looking young and firm. And if you’re looking for other types of collagen products, then you may consider this hydration drink with collagen.
Still, something happened tonight, on the eve of my turning 33. I looked at that tiny glass container of wrinkle cream sitting on the shelf and then I closed the medicine cabinet door. There was a woman staring back at me. Not a baby or a little girl or a teenager or a young adult. But a woman. Someone who is no longer ID’d at bars. Someone who is called “ma’am” on a regular basis. Someone who feels awkward shopping at Forever 21. And the woman startled me.
She shouldn’t have. I’ve lived with her my entire life. It’s not as if I changed overnight. Yet tonight, staring at myself, if felt that way. So often I think of myself as 17. Or 22. Or 28. I’m baffled by the fact that classmates are planning our 15-year high school reunion. I forget that I didn’t graduate from college last year. Or the year before. But that it was years, many years, ago. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m still a child, living with my parents and siblings at home. And I wake up, shocked, a little, at the fact that I own my own home. That I’m married. That I have children, these little people who sort of look like me and depend so dearly on me. And still, in my mind, my face is 10, 15 years younger. Growing up, as a little girl, my parents were in their 30s. That doesn’t seem so long ago. And if it wasn’t so long ago, how can I now be in my 30s? How does that happen?
I know 30 years from now I’ll look in the mirror and have similar thoughts, thinking of myself in my 30s, wondering where the time has gone. And I hope, 30 years from then, I’ll be doing the same.
But some nights, the realization is just so startling. And bittersweet. And like most moments in life, nothing big happened tonight. Rather Andy and I watched two episodes of “Downton Abbey.” I drank a glass of wine. I watched, as a white wooden door, smudged with fingerprints, closed on a small glass jar of wrinkle cream only to reveal someone I think, deep down, I considered as my future self. And yet she’s here, now. Shocking, yes. But also comfortable, too. For I know her well. Sometimes too well, for I think we all tire of ourselves at one point or another.
But this wasn’t a realization of sadness or regret or depression. Rather, acceptance. I’m a “ma’am” now. I may very well be construed as someone’s mother in Forever 21. I’m a mom now, and not even a new mom now, but a mom now. My wedding ring has made what seems to be a permanent dent in my finger. I’m a woman who smears wrinkle cream on her face at night, prepping for the what-ifs, the tomorrows. Of which I’m thankful to have had so many of, and of which I’m anxious to have so many more. And I can—and can’t—wait for my next moment of realization, of a changed me, staring back at me. Who am I to become? Who are any of us to become? That’s one of the many delights of this world, and it’s a delight I cherish greatly.
Still, I imagine I’ll buy more wrinkle cream, even when the jar that came with my brush kit runs out. For as startling as it is for me to see it in my cabinet, I find it comforting to cling to something that feels like it has the ability to slow down time, even if it doesn’t.
“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.” —Samuel Ullman
Since Sophie had enough fine hair for me to slip through a barrette, I have tried to adorn her hair. She won’t stand for it. No barrettes. Ponytails. Pigtails. Headbands. Bows. Most days I love her now-long, now-thick, unadorned hair. It’s beautiful and natural and messy and soft. And hers. All hers. But sometimes, when we’re playing with each other’s hair, I adorn. And I love. But it never, ever lasts.
Until her last haircut.
Some history: Nicholena has been cutting my hair for years. Sophie loves Nicholena. She talks about Nicholena often. Some days, she begs me to take her to get her hair cut, even when it doesn’t need cut. End history.
At our last visit, Nicholena and I decided we should try to grow out Sophie’s bangs (we, of course, asked Sophie her thoughts on the matter and, after consideration—and explanation—she agreed). But then I thought about the adornment—or lack of. I expressed my concern to Nicholena. How would I keep her bangs clipped back during the sometimes-awkward, growing-out stage?
So Nicholena spoke with Sophie. She told Sophie how much she loved barrettes and headbands and how pretty she thought they would look in her hair. Sophie listened, intently.
And then. After almost four years of my not being able to keep a single barrette in her hair for any length of time, Sophie insisted on this the next day—the entire day:
At our next visit to the salon I plan to ask Nicholena to share her passion for green beans and broccoli.
“The hair is the richest ornament of women.” —Martin Luther
The other night, after dinner, I escaped to the Y (which is, thankfully, right down the street) for a quick 30-minute workout while Andy had his own 30-minute workout playing tickle monster with the kids. This arrangement has worked out perfectly for us. I’m able to exercise regularly and I’m also able to get out of the house, alone. Andy enjoys being able to spend time with the kids. The kids get a break from me. I’m happier. Andy’s happier (mostly, because I’m happier). The kids are happier. It’s win-win-win.
After this particular workout, however, I just wasn’t ready to go back home. I needed just a little more time—I craved just a little more time. So I called Andy claiming we absolutely needed some things from Target. And we did. But we didn’t absolutely.
He understood.
I chose a cart instead of a basket. In it, I put paper towels. Dye for my hair. Shaving cream. Shin guards and elbow pads for Sophie. Face wash. A new collar for Tucker. Etc.
I wandered. And lingered. Ran into friends and talked to them. Put things in my cart and then took them back out. Debated over thank-you card designs. Checked the children’s clearance racks. Walked slowly.
Eventually, I went back to our car, having spent more than I intended—both in money and time. It was 8:30pm. The kids go to bed at 8pm.
I drove home with that mish-mash feeling of guilt and calmness, which I imagine most moms feel at some time, when they choose to do something unnecessary or unproductive away from home, just to be away from home, while also feeling and wanting to be at home. It’s a difficult thing to describe.
And then, I drove past Woodfill Elementary, where Sophie will eventually go. I passed its new electronic sign and read, in bright, bright blue, “Father-Daughter Dance Feb 11.”
I pulled into the driveway not remembering the road I had just traveled. Instead, my thoughts were with future Sophie and future Andy. She in pink, I suspected, with lots of tulle making her skirt puffy. He in a tie she, no doubt, insisted on picking out. Her small Mary Janes on top of his dress shoes. Twirling. Lots of twirling. Balloons, perhaps? Streamers? She would like that. And hopefully, lots of pictures (I would insist). I thought about how we were just dancing with her infant self to “Build Me Up Buttercup” in our old living room and now here we are, me able to vividly imagine this dance that will be hers—and his—in only a few short years.
I felt a bit foolish for my Target wandering, even if it did calm me. At the same time I know there will be many more bedtime routines to come—some days it will feel like too many, other days, not enough. But more than anything, that brightly lit sign just made me so excited for what’s to come. It was yet another thing from my childhood that I had forgotten about, yet loved. And it’s coming. For her. For him. For all of us.
Grateful.
“And in today already walks tomorrow.” —Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In that time a substantial amount of dry rice was spilled all over the kitchen floor. Sophie then decided to “skate” on the rice, using the boys’ diapers as ice skates. The boys thought this was hilarious.
“Figure skating is a mixture of art and sport.” —Katarina Witt
I had a dream the other night. In it, I slept the entire night without being woken up, once. In addition to this indulgence, the sheets I slept on, and the duvet I slept underneath, had just been freshly laundered. AND I was wearing the most comfortable, new pajamas.
It was the best dream. I woke up so happy.
And then, I thought about how happy I felt—after such a tremendously boring dream.
And that made me feel a little sad.
“We see but in dreams the ideal.” —Henri Cazalis
Owen loves the moon. Every single time we go outside, the first thing he does is look up in the sky. He’s so quick to spot it, even in daylight. Often, he finds it before we do. If he sees it, he shakes with excitement and says “Moon! Moon! Look! Moon!” And if he doesn’t see it, he looks at us with worry in his eyes and says “Moon?”
I love this. And I want to remember this. Which is why I’m writing about it here.
“I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it.” —Albert Einstein
