I'll take the ordinary

Sometimes I have to pull from my toes to talk about this mother's journey and sometimes, on the other hand, material is spilling over. On those days, like today, when I'm searching the dusty corners of my mind for stories to share, I realize that even my own mind forsakes me. A memory of my journey doesn't have to be grandiose or sublimely tender to be worthy of telling. I wonder how much gets lost along the way because it lacks the color of certain stories or the sugary sweetness of others. What about the somewhere-in-betweens? What about the absolutely ordinaries?

Well, for one thing, the ordinary gets shelved in our culture--look at our media for a single second. We eat bug and animal organ smoothies for money--a strawberry smoothie would lack the inflated appeal. We swap mothers of polar opposite families and air the tensions, the tirades and the tears. We build houses for families stricken with the most outrageous of tragedies, as if we can weigh one against another--even our afflictions are held to a standard of grandiosity. We create runway models, fashion designers, stunt people, business moguls, pop stars, dance stars, millionaires, all with one key thing in common--the ones left standing in these public pursuits of glory are the "best". They beat out the ordinaries or the less-thans in our modern-day coliseum.

I will not allow the ordinary moments of my life to be causalities of fanaticism. I must hold onto them myself, notice them when they happen and heed their gifts. I have but one chance.

The other day, my daughter thanked me for not getting mad about a potato that she dropped on the kitchen floor. We were oiling potatoes to bake for my son's cast party and the slippery little bugger jumped right from her hand. No sweat kiddo.

Another day, my head caught my mouth after the kids and I took a walk around our neighborhood. My daughter was a bit pissy and this tends to wake the beast inside me but I caught myself. I let her be pissy. Well done mama.

The other morning I held my little man in my lap, his sweet frizzy bedhead on my shoulder and I savored our embrace. Later in that day, he wanted to paint a picture just because he felt inspired--he called it mixed media. As if a day could have any more wonders, my daughter took it upon herself to teach my son a few sewing techniques and praised his effort along the way. I was so touched by her support and kindness.

Moments such as these come so frequently yet they rarely get air time--on our tubes, in our conversations or in our recollections.

Celebrate the mundane.