Me, a brown eyed girl

I feel like I'm in Groundhog's Day. Every day in the car for several days now, I have heard the same song playing on a variety of stations. Only it's not "I Got You, Babe" by Sonny and Cher. It's Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl".

It was one of my favorite songs when I was a little girl. My sisters both had blue eyes, exotic. I was the plain brown-eyed one. That song made me think it was special, not boring, to have eyes the color of freshly turned soil.

My siblings teased me about that song. I used to tattle on them for watching any inappropriate television or listening to suggestive music, but here I was, the baby, listening to a song that said, "Sometimes I'm overcome thinking about....making love in the green grass."

One time, indignant at their teasing as I danced around to my happy song, I stopped and shouted at them, "Making love means hugging and kissing, that's all!" Leave it to me, a young devourer of classic literature with archaic language to make such an argument about a song written in the 1960s.

They all smirked back at me, so I turned to my dad for backup, "Isn't that right, Daddy?"

My dad smiled and said, "You're right, Hoodoo." Then he told the older kids to stop teasing me about my favorite song.

I don't hear that song much at all anymore, so I guess the universe has been trying to tell me something this past week with repeated emphasis. What could it be? Well, considering that I have not slept at all well this week and am very mad about it; that I have allowed my calamitous thoughts to attack my brain and pillage my reason for over a month now, an auto-thought disorder; that I am beating myself up today for forgetting a second night in a row, despite lying awake until almost midnight, to reward my son for his lost tooth, the benevolent message might go something like this:

Be happy. Be happy, for crying out loud! 

BE happy, you brown-eyed girl. 

A New Frontier

Each time someone figures out that all my children are now in school, I get peppered with comments and questions like:

"Are all your kids in school now? What are you going to do with yourself?!" 

"Well, I'm sure you'll enjoy all that downtime for a change."

"What will you do now?"

They make it sound like I'm being put out of work, like my "company" is downsizing and has no need for my services any more. I get knots at the thought of justifying my life at home and have so much trouble simply saying, "I'm going to try to get paid for my writing."

It's always the last thing I say after mumbling about projects and volunteering, as if I'm ashamed of it, as if it were not a valid occupation. I hate that I do that to myself, because write is what I'm going to do.

I think.

I've toyed with the idea that though being a writer, paid or not, is an essential part of my whole self and should not be given up, perhaps there is another road I need to take as well. For instance, getting a theology degree is something I've contemplated, but a. I feel like I would be stealing funds necessary for my children's education, and b. I study and read so many theology books and articles at home and never feel I have a complete grasp on the truth. Sometimes I just end up thoroughly exhausted from the effort of trying to understand and reconcile all the interpretations. I love Scripture, but I berate my own understanding. I love theology, but the subject is not an easy one. 

There are also so many laudable charitable organizations to which I could give my time in a way that might some day lead to a "job". And that is not a bad option at all, especially since my sense of social justice heightens with each world news article I read. If my family is in such a position that we do not need an income through my own efforts, should I not then give my time to improving the world on a larger scale? As a Christian I cannot view my time as mine alone, and as a mother it is impossible to do anyway.

Yes, volunteering will undoubtedly be a part of this new frontier. I will give energy to my kids' school now and to church as usual. But perhaps there is some other way I can and ought to be my brother's keeper, too - a way yet to be discovered.

As a lover of nature, perhaps I should look into becoming a park ranger. In fact, I have. A little.

I've always loved archaeology, too. I should volunteer on some digs, free menial labor in the cruel Arizona sun.

I understand where others are coming from with their inquisitions about my plans. They get up early each day and hurry to their job. Their jobs are often quite hard and under-compensated, and with that job they must balance family concerns. I think people who ask what on earth I plan to do with myself think I am going to watch a bunch of daytime TV shows while perusing fluff magazines and stuffing chocolates in my face as I compulsively buy stuff online - unfair! Or maybe that's just how my silly pride reads it. Still, I have not been a consumer of daytime television before; why would I start now if I wish to keep my self-esteem? I certainly do not intend to drink Starbucks every day/week or eat expensive chocolate; I am far too cheap, and I make no money. Fluff magazines make me feel bad about everybody. And I hate shopping and errand running, though the latter must not be avoided. 

So what's left? Is it scandalous to be at home, making a home by doing chores and projects that must be done (at least to maintain my own sanity in this place)? Is it shocking to want to write, to work with words? Because it is work, regardless of whether or not I get paid to do it. I have known many people who I believed could write very well, but they lacked the desire or the discipline to do it habitually. That's the difference. Yes, I love it. Yes, I am very lucky to have the time and energy and luxury to do what I love. Yes, I need to work harder at it, too. But it is work, and sometimes the words don't cooperate or simply don't come, and then my thoughts pace like caged, hungry lions in my head as I attempt to tame them. Still I keep trying.

Do not misunderstand. I do regret sometimes - often? - that I did not do as my pragmatic, smart husband did: go to college, get a degree in good time, and enter into a career posthaste after graduation. I don't regret at all that I missed out on college "culture", but I do bemoan the missed opportunities of the classroom, the delicious learning, and I do feel that my husband was the wise one, the grounded one. But I can't go back. 

All these years in the home, I have been truly grateful for the time with my children, for all the laughter and even tears, for the goofiness and craziness and witnessing all the firsts of the early years. I've been happy not to have to report to a different job after nights of seemingly continuous breastfeeding of infants and toddlers. I am so glad we did not have to spend a fortune on childcare or after school care and that my husband and I have not had to work multiple jobs to make ends meet, scarcely having time to say hello to each other. I love home. I love family time. I am so very grateful.

(But I must also here point out that one reason I have been able to stay at home with our children, to drop them off and pick them up at school and sports and other activities is because our family has lived frugally by design. In others' eyes I no doubt lack sufficient ambition, but earning money merely for more money's sake in order to buy more stuff has never appealed to me, especially if we are paying most of it for childcare. I'd rather live simply and stay at home, and I readily and humbly admit it's because of my husband's success in his career that I am able to do so.)

I would be lying if I didn't acknowledge how nervous I am about this new stage in my life when for many years I have been measured by the small children at my side. And being a mother will absolutely always be my most important job. We're forming human beings here who will form society. I feel my failures and mistakes, but I also bear memories of the triumphs and the redeeming moments, of the times I negotiated well with unreasonable individuals. That journey continues. But now it's also prime time for me to be a more productive writer.

Or something else.

I'll let you know.

Make of me a Saint, a Mother

I wish I were a perfect mother. I want to be a perfect mother, constantly gentle, letting go easily and without bitter commentary, accepting that life, especially with children, is unpredictible, and meeting every challenge - every test of patience - with an unflappable Mona Lisa smile and even voice.

I'm not like that. I like to have a fair amount of control. My children know my expectations, and they should be met in a reasonable time frame, I feel. I want the routine of naptime every day at high noon with at least an hour's sojourn in Neverland. Peace is something I fight for, and by doing so, of course, I often forfeit all hope of it.

Today I read an interview with Lisa Marie Presley. She was asked what she loved about motherhood, and she responded, Everything. But she also pointed out that motherhood is painful, because you worry yourself to death.

It is true, and to that statement I add that it is also very painful, because you beat yourself down for your mistakes. Again and again and again. You wish that you were perfect.

I wish that I were perfect. Please God, let me be so. Make of me a saintly mother, and may I never again feel the guilt of falling short.

Know thyself. I say if you want to know yourself truly, become a parent. You will learn extraordinary things about you. Wonderful things. Depressing things. But you will know what kind of a person you truly are, and you will know how much of yourself you are willing to give, sacrifice for others. What's more, the world will know you by your children, or at least it will judge you so.

This week a few things have reminded me of just how greatly after 10 years of child-rearing I still need to improve. My son did not take a nap for three straight days. I grew short in temper and stern in the face and hardened myself to his adorable antics as I spent over an hour in his room each day, making him return to his bed repeatedly, yelling at him. I just could not let go. To calm the sea of stress inundating my brain, I even tried to meditate, but that didn't work well at all with a toddler in the background jumping on his bed, thumping the wall, and in between jabberings, asking, "Out, Mama. Out?" I did eventually give up, let go, and let him out of his nap, but too late to save my mood which progressively got worse as the day - and days - wore on.

Earlier in the week as I was trying to finish writing a piece to send to another site, my toddler son got up from his nap and went out to the living room with his sister. I knew I should quit the computer, especially because my little guy falls down constantly, tripping over every little thing, but I kept working, wanting so badly to complete my task, to do something for my own interests. Suddenly, after several minutes of listening to them playing with a tea set, there was a crash. I leaped up from my computer and tore out of the bedroom. Simultaneously, I heard my daughter wailing and running toward me. We collided, and she cried with wide, frightened eyes, "Mama, Danny fell down! Danny fell down!"

Terrified, I ran to my baby boy, who was crying as he does when he is either badly hurt or scared, and I lifted him into my arms. I pulled my little daughter to me, too, because she was still shaking from the scare of seeing her brother fall from the kitchen play set, which he had climbed. It had toppled over toward the dining room table, and he had fallen against the wall. He could have broken an arm or leg or hurt his neck, and all because I was not there to tell him to get down.

With my children still in my arms I sat down in a recliner and pressed them to me. They were both crying still, and I was trembling and cursing myself for being negligent. It's not worth it; it's not worth it, I repeated over and again to myself. When we had all calmed a little, I asked my baby to show me what hurt. He pointed to his back, but as I checked him I could not find a bruise or bump anywhere; he was badly scared more than anything. I thanked God that he was alright, but it was no thanks to me.

Motherhood can be joyful as you watch your children playing together or when they come up to you, "Mama! Mama!" arms stretched out and with so much adoration in their faces. But it can be miserable, too. Yesterday afternoon I was driving my two youngest around town before picking up their brother and sister from school in order that my littlest could fall asleep, for just forty-five minutes, please!, to the sound of wheels on pavement. My thoughts were black and blue, as my dad would say. I was contemplating who I am and who I have been as a mother. So often we hear people say, You can't take care of your family if you don't take care of yourself. But I feel burdened by my own desires, my own selfish wants, and a point of guilt is a rod with which to beat yourself forever.

One afternoon when my oldest, Berto, was a toddler, I was trying to get the dishwasher running before getting him down for a nap. He was cranky and fussing at me, If You Give Mouse A Cookie clutched in his hand. I told him to wait, practically pleaded for him to just let me finish what I was doing, and then Mama would tend to him. While I was occupied with my housework, my fella fell asleep on the floor on top of his mouse book. With the dishwasher growling behind me, I went to pick him up, feeling abruptly sad and lonely. As I lifted him off the book, I saw he had a poopy diaper, and my heart fell to the floor. I couldn't believe I had not responded to him, hadn't listened to him. He didn't even wake up when I changed him and cleaned the poopy, where it had overflowed, off one of his favorite books. I held him in my arms as he slept, looking down at his face, rocking him and regretting.

I still have that book, and, yes, every time I see it I'm sorrowful, remembering my selfishness. I wish that seeing it would produce some kind of magic to make me remember never to repeat that mistake, but I still struggle with letting go of what I'm trying to accomplish when my children clamor for me. I am more mindful, but not near perfect.

As I think and cry anew over this and the multiple mistakes I've made in this most difficult job, I try to remind myself of my triumphs: deep conversations with my kids about God in which I admit I don't know everything but urge them to always seek Him, song and dances in which I've made myself look like a fool just to have fun in the moment, countless morning walks and bike rides and park excursions, games I've made up just to include them in my housework like "Sweep Monster", and endless hugs and kisses with all my love and best hopes for them and for myself poured in.

I am not a saint. No, nor am I a monster. I am something complicated. I am a mother, and very honored by that prestigious title. But sometimes I am in pain, and only a fellow mother could understand.