When I turn out the lights...

I had a rough night last night--chest pains induced by guilt I feel as I remember two incidents, one per child, in which I lost my mind and changed their course. For my daughter it was 6 years ago--she was a precious five-year old, a baby. I only remember the context--we had just left Disney, it was late and we were in the back of the car together for the drive home. We had not even left the parking lot. I do not recall what was said--I only remember being violently angry at her. I did not hit her--god no--but my words were flying out of my mouth like daggers. I do not even recall what I said to her but she cried and that night sticks in my head as the night I changed my baby girl. Further into our drive, she was sleeping and I leaned in to kiss her, I snuggled her and pulled a blanket over her little body. I am so sorry...

For my son, it was only one year ago--he was 7. He had eaten too much on Thanksgiving and, while in bed, he vomitted ALL OVER his bed and every toy, animal and pillow in it. See, he's on the top bunk and it's not that easy to get down--I should know, I was cleaning vomit while knocking my head on the ceiling. I was unreasonable, unsympathetic and angry. I had him up, out of bed bringing me towels as I scolded him and cursed. Then I caught my wits--I cooled down and I made him a pallet in my floor, in case he needed to vomit again. I kissed him and I apologized for my anger, I laid next to him and hated myself.

As I lay in bed last night, hoping for sleep to come before the thoughts poured in--they poured and I was pinned to the bed under an ocean of guilt. My heart hurt and my mind tortured me with replays--the anger, their sweet faces, their innocence and my irrationality. I made promises of all that I would do with them in the morning--god, if only I make it to morning, what have I done to them?

There is complexity here, in the un-doable nature of mothering and the joy or guilt that is birthed in it's midst. It is intoxicating as much as it is terrifying and it is permanent as much as it is ephemeral--we mothers create the ripples that are the life force, the movement, the stirrings of civilization.

To my daughter...

Dearest little girl--

I love your passion, I love your love of all things great and small--don't ever stop saving bugs :-)

I love how you get lost in reading books that speak to you.

I love when you share what you read with me.

I love when you sleep-talk and I come to you to tuck you back in. You never know that we have that little time at night--I love the sweetness in your face when I kiss you good-night (again).

I love your smile--it's radiant. I love when you tell me you love--I can see that love in your eyes and it warms me.

I love your willingness to help me, to take care of me.

I love your thoughtfulness--you are so aware of others around you and always go to great lengths to do for other people. You are SO unselfish and giving.

I love when you share your feelings with me, talk with me, laugh with me. Your voice in this world is SO very important.

I love that you want to spend time with me.

I love how you bump into things, knock things over or trip over your own feet--it's just who you are and I smile thinking of this part of you.

I love our life, I love you and I love being with you--I want to savor the moments, even as they slip from us.

Thanks for the gift of being your mom.

Love, Mommy

To my son...

Dearest little boy--

I want you to know how very much I love you and how much you add to my life.

I love your smile--it's grown from a mouth of little, pearls to the transition teeth you have now, a symbol of your growth. I love the light in your eyes when you smile, I love the way your cheeks lift in little bubbles.

I love the way you always want to be touching me--hugging me, snuggling me, leaning on me, laying in my lap. I love your touches--you make me feel so loved.

I love your words--I love when you share what you are reading with me, I love when you tell me about the games you play, I love when you tell me your fears and your dreams. I love your voice and I love that you want to speak with me--what you say is so very important.

I love your energy--you lift my spirits with your energy and happiness--I love how you cannot be contained.

I love your little body--I love watching you grow.

I love that you want to spend time with me--I love spending time with you, you are SO cool to talk with.

I love your thoughts and ideas.

I love when you sing and you think no one is listening--your voice is so sweet to hear.

I want to go for walks with you because I love the way you look at the world.

I want you to read me a story because I get lost in your sweet voice.

You bring me joy, I love being your mom--I love how you live your life and I thought you needed to know.

Love, Mommy

Why I am not writing my thesis (when I should be)...

I am not writing my thesis right now. I know I should. I have completed all of the graduate level courses for sociology but the ultimate symbol of my mastery is embodied in this project and I am on a self-elected hiatus. But I have a good reason. Actually, I have several. They are spelled out in no certain order below. The abbreviated version, if you are not interested in reading further, has to do with my children and the state of my self. Sometimes you just have to be the one who says what will happen next in your life—what will happen and what will not. This is my truth and this is me saying I will not write my thesis right now but I will explore the depths of my motherhood experience, I will explore the depths of my abilities in writing and I will I am not writing my thesis because I missed so much time with my children while I was taking courses in the Masters program. Because for three years my late nights were spent writing lengthy papers, reading academic texts and journals and whizzing by the small things that decorate life so perfectly—the mundane that got lost amid the complex.

I am not writing my thesis because my life is divided between three people and ensuring their well-being—myself, my daughter and my son. Because I would rather be reading to them and playing games. Because I would rather be cooking them meals and baking them cookies. Because I would rather be planning fun stuff for us to do together like events, crafts, projects, etc. Because I want to plan luncheon for their friends, down to the last detail. Because I want this time—my daughter is 11and my son is 8, I am running out of time. Because they mean so much to me and I to them. Because I enjoy their company. Because I do not see them as a “cost” or a “price” to pay—I see them as the only beauty, simplicity and purity available to me in this life. Because they saved me when they were born. Because the thesis is a realm for rational, scientific thoughts, ideas and explorations and I have acquired a taste for imagination, whim and personal experience in my time outside academia.

Because my interests have changed—I want to see where my writing can take me.

Because I think I want another child.

I am not writing my thesis because I am a mother with a time table nontransferable in the material world—I have a whole other pace that I keep. Because I want to drive my children to activities and lessons. Because I want to hang out with them in a bookstore. Because, daily, in them, I find pieces of myself and I like what I see. Because even on those days that I don’t like what I see, when reflected back, I see the potential for growth, change, evolution. Because they have been an existential mirror yet they love me unconditionally—there are no judgments here. Because there are no judgments here—no judgments.

My success will always look a bit different because I divide my life among myself and my children—it’s a commitment I made to them when I first kissed their soft, warm, fleshy faces. I have wavered along the way, I have let them down and I have not always been the mother that I wanted to be but I am committed to coming as close as possible to that promise.

The bottom-line is this: I am not writing my thesis because I only have this life. I only have this one chance. No one is twisting my arm. I chose this—I choose this. I am choosing to postpone my degree for this time in order to savor their laugh, their smiles, their words, their stories, their voices, their little bodies growing leaner and less baby-like everyday, in order to savor their minds, their hearts. I only have this one chance. I only have this one life. Because loving and rearing children is complex. It is challenging, inspiring, exhausting in a way that renews as it depletes, it is fulfilling, joyful, exhilarating and necessary to my survival. Because I love them. Because it feels right.

I am not writing my thesis because I am more inspired by my children than the objective world I had built for myself in the Masters program. I am moved by the emotion of the ride. I am enveloped in the experience—I dare not look away, not right now.

I am not writing my thesis because I am writing something else so much more important. I am writing the story of a woman finding herself while raising children with all of her mind, body, soul and heart.

A mild rant...

I want more babies! I never thought I would say that--especially as hard as I have struggled with personal time, personal space and personal self in the last few years. But I realized that this was a sham—I was made to believe that my children were hindrances to my creativity, obstacles to my success and ambition. I totally bought into it—worse, I assumed it as my identity. I cloaked myself in the martyrdom of motherhood and zigged when I should have zagged.

I studied sociology and earned my degree--first my bachelors and then I finished the Masters program, save for writing my thesis which is all that stands between me and my degree. I read many books that discussed the situation of mothers in society--the disproportionate burden of childcare on women, the second shift, the "costs" of motherhood, the fight for child support, intensive mothering--blah, blah, academic-blah. Now I buck the system that created me. I am certainly not spitting on academic endeavors or aspirations--I enjoyed my time and I see the world differently. And the work done by the sociologists, economists and other academics certainly adds to the knowledge base that we learn from and grow from—it has its purpose. BUT it became increasingly clear, especially after I completed courses and had time to breathe, gather and regroup, that the academic route was NOT the one I wanted to take. I am much more interested in personal experience, yet, as a trained sociologist, I am ever aware of the context in which I mother.

Quite frankly, that context sucks--sucks the life out of you, sucks the joy if you are not paying close enough attention, sucks your awareness and sucks your agency. I am in a conscience struggle against the institution in which I mother. The institution seeps into our pores—stealthily and maliciously—setting a bar, wielding a yard stick of perfection to see where we fall, holding a carrot. Where is it? Glad you asked. The institution enters your home through commercials, television shows, magazines—the media is a huge purveyor of the mother-way—I would argue, the biggest. Think about it when you see the next cleaner commercial where a mother shakes her head in fulfilled amusement as the family wrecks her home, tracking in mud on hospital white floors like uncivilized banshees. Then when they are done, she gets her cleaner and paper towel and *poof* she cleans their slate.

My immortality...

I had trouble sleeping last night as I contemplated my mortality--well, contemplated makes it sound like some peaceful consideration of my life, it's worth and it's inevitable end--this could not be further from the truth. It was more of a panic attack as I considered my time on earth and estimated my time left based on the average life span of a healthy woman. I always try to calm myself down in these such panic attacks my reminding myself that I will have no idea that I'm dead, when I'm dead--it's morbidly refreshing and positively dismal. Nevertheless, I thought differently about my fate this morning.

I was hugging my children after they crawled out of bed and as I held their little bodies against my own, I had a sudden flash of clarity and a glimpse of distant time. This clarity offered me my immortality. I have started a line of beings, who will start their own line, who will start theirs. How I affect them determines, to some (rather large) degree, the effect they will have during their time. The gravity of this moment moves me to a place where I am vulnerable and raw yet powerful and resolute. I have a moment of clarity as I consider my legacy.

I am immortal when I speak to them. I am immortal when I take them in my arms. I am immortal when I praise them. I am immortal when I belittle them. I am immortal when I listen to their words. I am immortal when I do not. I am immortal when I laugh with them. I am immortal when I scream. I am immortal when I hold their little bodies in my lap and I am immortal when I tell them just how intensely cool it is to be their mom.

And now, I'm not sure what's scarier in the wake of my clarity--my mortality or my immortality. It's sure to be another long night...

Pages as mirrors

I have been playing with this idea lately--pages as mirrors--as I have been struggling to find a great book to read. A book that will speak to me, speak for me, speak with me for god's sake. Mirrors...

I want to feel not alone in this journey of motherhood--to know that other mothers are enamored with their children at times and infuriated by them at others. To know that mothers relish their children's company, their voices, their warmth, their laugh and also to know that mothers cringe in the presence of their voices, their warmth, their laugh--those moments in time when we need a clear division between us, to know and be reminded that we are, indeed, separate entities. Mirrors...

Is that too much to ask?

Waking-up

She stands sweating before them. She knows their expectations are more than she can meet. Her inadequacies are brimming inside her and the doubt is overwhelming. They hardly recognize that she has entered the room—much too caught up in their own distractions. They talk with each other, planning, laughing and dreaming out loud. She envies their spirit and whim. She feeds on it, welcomes it, hoping to emulate such in her own life. At times, they are her teachers—ever shaping her as they take form themselves. It is blessed interdependence.
Finally, they notice she has come and her heart is lighter now, her confidence restores and doubts wilt into the corners of her mind. Only seconds pass before they erupt with joy at the sight of her standing before them. Their faces beam, their bodies rise and suddenly, the energy has changed in the room—it’s like a wave coming toward and upon her. They charge her and chant her name as if praising her, summoning her and memorializing her: “Mommy!”
The embrace—this circle of flesh symbolic of their love, the closeness emulates a time when she held them on the inside, she considers that now. Their energies interchange—nirvana. She melts into their soft, supple bodies as they each sustain the other in this blessed embrace. Together, they will embark upon yet another exploration of terrain, physical and psychical. They will dare and defy the world together. They will share, laugh and love. They will very likely yell and butt heads. But not before this embrace ends and maybe not even before the cereal pours into the milk…

Finger Exercises

I've been reading Ariel Gore's newest book, "How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead" and one assignment by an author she interviewed is called 'finger exercises'--haiku's to spark creativity, not paying attention to the 3-7-3 format. Here are mine:

little time
pieces of self and mind
must survive
_________

children need
mothers give and sacrifice
for the ride

_________

waves of love
pouring from the act
building soul

_________

it’s in hope
it’s in the breath of life
it’s promise

_________

Apathetic
divide my spirit into
bits you devour

_________

SYSTEMS
robotic, hypnotic
crushing life

_________

This was a very useful exercise, I highly recommend it.