My son told me today that he is thankful because he goes potty on the potty chair. I am also very, very thankful for that. My daughter wrote dozens of notes to all our family members about all the love she has, and I am thankful for that, too.
On this day of grateful love, I'm thankful for the usual slate of blessings, for a few nerdy things like the 19th amendment, and some silly things like our awesome new space heater. But this year, I think the thing I am most grateful for is that Chef Matt now has Sundays off.
In a couple's opposite-schedule world, one whole day off together is like a Yeti. You know it exists, you may have glimpsed it once or twice, but it eludes regular sightings. You yearn for Christmas, and if you are like us, you keep having kids in anticipation of two whole weeks at home together when the baby is born.
Matt has not had a regular weekend day off in five years. Oh, he's had a day here and there, and we had those five perfect days in Napa Valley in 2010. But for the past several years, we have operated on an entirely split shift. It has saved us so much in daycare money. It has also been a strain that I am not sorry to see partially disappear.
Wednesday through Friday, we are awake in the house together for about 15 minutes total. We are those neighbors whose lawn is just past embarrassingly long, and those people who wade through 47 loads of laundry, only to leave them languishing in clean piles for two weeks. Without a full day to get through the regular stuff, we have no chance of getting to the batteries that need changing or the garage that needs organizing.
A full day off together will change our lives, which sounds dramatic, but there's truth in it. When he's home, I breathe easier. We pull strength from our togetherness and cease to operate like a long-distance business, fulfilling duties and updating only over the phone. Cramming groceries dishes bills mopping diapers raking scheduling vacuuming and all else into a few hours a week leaves us little time for the kids or each other. A full day seems luxurious and long, 75-minute hours rolling out in slow motion, with possibilities of fully clean rooms, three meals with six people, and potential trips to the amazing places like the zoo.
When we told our daughter that daddy would be home on Sundays, her face lit up and she said, with joy and disbelief, "Both my parents home on the same day?" That reaction alone told us that it had been too long.
Sundays belong to us again, and this is what I am thankful for today. That, and the potty-training and the love. What is wonderful in their world is in mine, too.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Get Thee to Daycare
Chef Matt and I are a DILOK family. The slightly more crowded cousin of DINKs, DILOKs are Double Income, Lots of Kids, and that distinction comes with the challenges you might expect: the chaos, the four wildly different levels of ability and neediness, the lack of time to get anything done.
And then there's the challenge that I did not expect to be one. In our DILOK family, both of us love our jobs. Like really love our jobs. They are careers that we sought out and have cultivated for almost a decade, and aside from the normal off-day, we enjoy going to work every day.
The problem lies with the jobs we have chosen. My job, in the nonprofit world, is not likely to be very lucrative. Matt's job, in the restaurant world, is shackled with unusual hours. When a stagnant salary is mixed with night and weekend shifts, I can't help feeling that the ones who suffer from our job choices are our kids.
We had a lot of kids for a number of reasons: 1. we love having them, 2. we could, 3. a big family is important to us. As parents, it is our responsibility to bestow upon them all of the time, talent and treasure that we have to give, but in some ways, our jobs plus our large family limit the amount of time and treasure available. We don't have weekends together as a family, or most evenings, either. We won't be able to take a lot of vacations or pay for every lesson our kids want to take.
We could fix that if we wanted to make different choices. I could get a job in the corporate world, and Matt could find a job with banker's hours. And believe me, we've talked about it and the benefits for our family. Two whole days a week together! Piano lessons for everyone!
But I've started to wonder, as I wade through the mommy guilt, if loving our jobs isn't equally beneficial for our kids. Kids are smart. They can sense tension and stress and frustration in your voice, posture and emotions, just as much as they can sense contentment and passion. Since going back to work two weeks ago, I feel more centered and inspired, because every day I work at a job I believe in, with people who also believe. I adore my kids, but I'll admit that I am a mediocre stay-at-home mom. I am a much better mom when I am spending my days doing what I'm good at and what drives me.
Someday, when they start to take more notice of our conversations and the things in our house, they'll see the piles of cookbooks their daddy reads like comic books, and the stacks of books on historically famous and obscure topics, which their mommy is simply unable to part with. They'll hear Matt talk about his halibut dish that's going like gangbusters, and hear me talk about some old document like it's a Rembrandt, and what they'll really be hearing is pride. And enthusiasm. And motivation. I want them to know that aspiring to be successful can also mean that you have found a calling, and are making it happen.
Do I wish we had more time and money? Sure I do. And I know how we can get both of those things, but at the moment, we'll stay put. It seems a little selfish, like we're indulging in a great luxury at our kids' expense. But if we make the most of the time and treasure we have to give, our talent can be one of the best lessons we offer.
And then there's the challenge that I did not expect to be one. In our DILOK family, both of us love our jobs. Like really love our jobs. They are careers that we sought out and have cultivated for almost a decade, and aside from the normal off-day, we enjoy going to work every day.
The problem lies with the jobs we have chosen. My job, in the nonprofit world, is not likely to be very lucrative. Matt's job, in the restaurant world, is shackled with unusual hours. When a stagnant salary is mixed with night and weekend shifts, I can't help feeling that the ones who suffer from our job choices are our kids.
We had a lot of kids for a number of reasons: 1. we love having them, 2. we could, 3. a big family is important to us. As parents, it is our responsibility to bestow upon them all of the time, talent and treasure that we have to give, but in some ways, our jobs plus our large family limit the amount of time and treasure available. We don't have weekends together as a family, or most evenings, either. We won't be able to take a lot of vacations or pay for every lesson our kids want to take.
We could fix that if we wanted to make different choices. I could get a job in the corporate world, and Matt could find a job with banker's hours. And believe me, we've talked about it and the benefits for our family. Two whole days a week together! Piano lessons for everyone!
But I've started to wonder, as I wade through the mommy guilt, if loving our jobs isn't equally beneficial for our kids. Kids are smart. They can sense tension and stress and frustration in your voice, posture and emotions, just as much as they can sense contentment and passion. Since going back to work two weeks ago, I feel more centered and inspired, because every day I work at a job I believe in, with people who also believe. I adore my kids, but I'll admit that I am a mediocre stay-at-home mom. I am a much better mom when I am spending my days doing what I'm good at and what drives me.
Someday, when they start to take more notice of our conversations and the things in our house, they'll see the piles of cookbooks their daddy reads like comic books, and the stacks of books on historically famous and obscure topics, which their mommy is simply unable to part with. They'll hear Matt talk about his halibut dish that's going like gangbusters, and hear me talk about some old document like it's a Rembrandt, and what they'll really be hearing is pride. And enthusiasm. And motivation. I want them to know that aspiring to be successful can also mean that you have found a calling, and are making it happen.
Do I wish we had more time and money? Sure I do. And I know how we can get both of those things, but at the moment, we'll stay put. It seems a little selfish, like we're indulging in a great luxury at our kids' expense. But if we make the most of the time and treasure we have to give, our talent can be one of the best lessons we offer.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Losing a Hometown
When I was in high school, the musical "Rent" exploded into American culture with extraordinary music and lyrics that captured our obsessive attention, lingering today in my ability to sing every one of those songs. The song that was attached to the musical's publicity is "Seasons of Love," which ponders the measure of a year in someone's life, beyond that of seconds and minutes.
"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife." When I first heard it, on the brink of adulthood, I was sure I knew what that meant. It means something a little different to me now, as I measure my own years upon my children's, but this week in particular, it tears at my heart on yet another level.
This week, I am losing my hometown. We moved in 25 years ago and my parents have been in the same house for 19 of those years, a house they are vacating in a couple of days. Our family moved in the month before I started high school and for 19 years, despite my occupation of various other places, including two homes with my husband, it has always been "home."
It was the home where I set the kitchen on fire (accidentally) one cold January morning while my parents were in Las Vegas. It was the home where I parked my first car (1986 Ford Taurus station wagon), where our trees were attacked by hundreds of rolls of toilet paper, and where my friends always knew they were welcome. It was the home I always came back to, as a college student, as a broke twentysomething fired from a job, and as a wife and mother between houses.
It was the site of three high school graduation parties, three college graduation parties, a wedding rehearsal dinner, a post-wedding breakfast, and two baby showers, not to mention dozens of birthday parties, family reunions, pool parties, and gatherings convened as an excuse to get together and play cards and drink. All my kids and my nephews were babies in this house, although all but one will forget its rooms within the next year.
Logically, it seems silly to be so attached to a house, when it is the memories that are important. But loving a home is an illogical thing. I will never see my grandma or grandpa again, but just being in the rooms, knowing that they were here a year and a few months before they died, makes me want to roll up the carpet and remove the sheet rock and carry it with me. My oldest starts kindergarten this fall, but sometimes when I look at her in my parents' house, all I can see is a beautiful baby with no hair rolling around on the living room floor.
I cannot go back to see it one last time with no furniture, and there is not much reason for me to visit the town again, either. And I know that my heart is not the only one that is breaking a little bit. For my parents, on the verge of their sixtieth decades, pulling up roots and walking away from the home where they raised three children and watched the growth of their family as we added two sons-in-law and six grandchildren is painful.
But here is what is wonderful about it. The easiest course for them, with such a large family and such a connection to the house, would have been to stay and let further generations commit its walls to memory. But for 20 years, they have wanted a lake home. This summer, they decided it was now or never, and they pulled the trigger. It was the most selfish thing they have ever done, and I say that with the most positive meaning possible.
They will not be the couple whose dream is neatly tucked away in a basement closet, waiting for just the right "someday." Of all the lessons we have learned in our house, this might be one of the most important: the time will come when your dreams are within your reach and you have to snatch them up before the door closes again. We know that this is true, we know that some wishes should not remain so, but how often do we actually act? These are people acting, out of their comfort zone and for once, not solely in the best interest of their kids. The lake that's been shimmering like a mirage outside their back door is a real thing.
We will see more daylights and midnights, drink more coffee and feel more laughter and strife, just as we did in the old house. This will be the house of my children's memories, just as the old one is the house of mine. And they will look out the windows of the only home they have ever known as Grandma and Grandpa's to see a landscape that is reflective of their grandparents' character.
To the lake we go.
"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee. In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife." When I first heard it, on the brink of adulthood, I was sure I knew what that meant. It means something a little different to me now, as I measure my own years upon my children's, but this week in particular, it tears at my heart on yet another level.
This week, I am losing my hometown. We moved in 25 years ago and my parents have been in the same house for 19 of those years, a house they are vacating in a couple of days. Our family moved in the month before I started high school and for 19 years, despite my occupation of various other places, including two homes with my husband, it has always been "home."
It was the home where I set the kitchen on fire (accidentally) one cold January morning while my parents were in Las Vegas. It was the home where I parked my first car (1986 Ford Taurus station wagon), where our trees were attacked by hundreds of rolls of toilet paper, and where my friends always knew they were welcome. It was the home I always came back to, as a college student, as a broke twentysomething fired from a job, and as a wife and mother between houses.
It was the site of three high school graduation parties, three college graduation parties, a wedding rehearsal dinner, a post-wedding breakfast, and two baby showers, not to mention dozens of birthday parties, family reunions, pool parties, and gatherings convened as an excuse to get together and play cards and drink. All my kids and my nephews were babies in this house, although all but one will forget its rooms within the next year.
Logically, it seems silly to be so attached to a house, when it is the memories that are important. But loving a home is an illogical thing. I will never see my grandma or grandpa again, but just being in the rooms, knowing that they were here a year and a few months before they died, makes me want to roll up the carpet and remove the sheet rock and carry it with me. My oldest starts kindergarten this fall, but sometimes when I look at her in my parents' house, all I can see is a beautiful baby with no hair rolling around on the living room floor.
I cannot go back to see it one last time with no furniture, and there is not much reason for me to visit the town again, either. And I know that my heart is not the only one that is breaking a little bit. For my parents, on the verge of their sixtieth decades, pulling up roots and walking away from the home where they raised three children and watched the growth of their family as we added two sons-in-law and six grandchildren is painful.
But here is what is wonderful about it. The easiest course for them, with such a large family and such a connection to the house, would have been to stay and let further generations commit its walls to memory. But for 20 years, they have wanted a lake home. This summer, they decided it was now or never, and they pulled the trigger. It was the most selfish thing they have ever done, and I say that with the most positive meaning possible.
They will not be the couple whose dream is neatly tucked away in a basement closet, waiting for just the right "someday." Of all the lessons we have learned in our house, this might be one of the most important: the time will come when your dreams are within your reach and you have to snatch them up before the door closes again. We know that this is true, we know that some wishes should not remain so, but how often do we actually act? These are people acting, out of their comfort zone and for once, not solely in the best interest of their kids. The lake that's been shimmering like a mirage outside their back door is a real thing.
We will see more daylights and midnights, drink more coffee and feel more laughter and strife, just as we did in the old house. This will be the house of my children's memories, just as the old one is the house of mine. And they will look out the windows of the only home they have ever known as Grandma and Grandpa's to see a landscape that is reflective of their grandparents' character.
To the lake we go.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Oh Pinterest, You Evil Temptress
Not too long ago I was seduced by Pinterest for the first time. We had been dancing around each other for a while, hesitant to define a relationship. It dangled all kinds of beautiful things in my face, and my willpower began to crumble. Then, one day at work when I was hugely pregnant and hungry, I saw a picture of S'mores bars and all bets were off.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, emboldened by the short ingredient list and the fact that, like any good American, I've made many a S'more around a summer campfire. And then Pinterest deceived me. The picture showed a crumbly bar with perfectly melted chocolate and a picturesquely gooey marshmallow filling, without any sort of warning that cooking with marshmallow fluff will destroy you.
The stuff is like thick, gloppy cobwebs. It doesn't mix well, spread well, divide well, or do anything well except aggravate anyone who touches it. Trying to layer it over graham cracker crust is probably not even possible, so I tried to spread it over the chocolate bars, first with a knife, then with a spatula, then with a spoon. I stopped spreading and just started throwing globs of fluff in a fit of slightly hysterical frustration.
This is where Pinterest failed me. The picture was so pretty, and the recipe came from a blog that looked far more professional than mine, and so many other people had repinned it that I figured it had to be relatively easy. We live in an era of DIY "Food Network" simplicity, and Pinterest does nothing if not foster this false sense of comfort in our abilities. Look at all this amazing stuff that other people do so beautifully! You can do it, too! I promise you won't end up angry in the kitchen with marshmallow fluff all over your counters and hands and oven.
I am no stranger to images of perfect food, professionally staged and floating next to a recipe: we have about 75 cookbooks in our house. Pinterest is a different animal; it's this endless dream list of gorgeous things and brilliant ideas, floating out there on the cloud for us to drool over, largely because these things and ideas are often the work of regular people and not always a professional chef who had to go through the rigmarole of publishing an actual book. In a way, it's empowering and seductive. A casserole or dessert on Pinterest seems far more attainable than something in "The French Laundry" cookbook.
Therein lies the danger. Suddenly, you're wrist-deep in marshmallow fluff and you end up with a whole section of bars with no chocolate. You go back to the picture online and cry a little inside because that is decidedly not what your bars look like. And then you say a little prayer of thanks that your husband and co-workers aren't sticklers about pretty food, and resign yourself to the fact that you are not actually going to be the next big thing in the world of food blogging.
And ultimately, it turns out okay. Because ultimately, you have S'mores bars.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home, emboldened by the short ingredient list and the fact that, like any good American, I've made many a S'more around a summer campfire. And then Pinterest deceived me. The picture showed a crumbly bar with perfectly melted chocolate and a picturesquely gooey marshmallow filling, without any sort of warning that cooking with marshmallow fluff will destroy you.
The stuff is like thick, gloppy cobwebs. It doesn't mix well, spread well, divide well, or do anything well except aggravate anyone who touches it. Trying to layer it over graham cracker crust is probably not even possible, so I tried to spread it over the chocolate bars, first with a knife, then with a spatula, then with a spoon. I stopped spreading and just started throwing globs of fluff in a fit of slightly hysterical frustration.
This is where Pinterest failed me. The picture was so pretty, and the recipe came from a blog that looked far more professional than mine, and so many other people had repinned it that I figured it had to be relatively easy. We live in an era of DIY "Food Network" simplicity, and Pinterest does nothing if not foster this false sense of comfort in our abilities. Look at all this amazing stuff that other people do so beautifully! You can do it, too! I promise you won't end up angry in the kitchen with marshmallow fluff all over your counters and hands and oven.
I am no stranger to images of perfect food, professionally staged and floating next to a recipe: we have about 75 cookbooks in our house. Pinterest is a different animal; it's this endless dream list of gorgeous things and brilliant ideas, floating out there on the cloud for us to drool over, largely because these things and ideas are often the work of regular people and not always a professional chef who had to go through the rigmarole of publishing an actual book. In a way, it's empowering and seductive. A casserole or dessert on Pinterest seems far more attainable than something in "The French Laundry" cookbook.
Therein lies the danger. Suddenly, you're wrist-deep in marshmallow fluff and you end up with a whole section of bars with no chocolate. You go back to the picture online and cry a little inside because that is decidedly not what your bars look like. And then you say a little prayer of thanks that your husband and co-workers aren't sticklers about pretty food, and resign yourself to the fact that you are not actually going to be the next big thing in the world of food blogging.
And ultimately, it turns out okay. Because ultimately, you have S'mores bars.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Still Mixing After All These Years
Thirty-six years ago this month, my parents were married on a rainy-sunshiny day in central Illinois. They were barely old enough to drink at their own wedding and didn't have two pennies to rub together; my mom always said that in those early years, they were living on love.
One of the wedding gifts that they received was an avocado green hand mixer, a historically popular color for kitchen utensils and appliances in the years before Reagan. Life was good if you had a fridge and stove in matching avocado green; a hand mixer was another accessory for a well-coordinated kitchen.
My mom loves to bake, so that hand mixer occupies a solid place in my memory. My childhood recollections waver between crystal clear and fuzzy around the edges and completely opaque, but always, the avocado hand mixer is there, sitting on the kitchen counter in the four houses that I remember well.
It was the kitchen utensil that I learned to use because hand mixers, as far as cooking tools go, are relatively harmless. I remember learning important lessons about putting the mixer in the batter first before turning it on, and not the other way around. I learned how to mix while scraping the sides of the bowl to catch all the flour. I learned that being offered a beater after the cookie dough was mixed is one of life's greatest treats (salmonella risk aside).
When I moved into my first apartment, my mom gave me the mixer. At first, I didn't use it much. In college and then directly after, I didn't cook so much as assemble sandwiches and put waffles in the toaster. But I began to experiment with baking and learned that it calms me. There is something so lovely about the precise art of baking, and something so satisfying about modifying that precise recipe into something even better.
I have had that mixer for almost 15 years. In my apartments and houses, it has made cookies, brownies, pie fillings, whipped cream, and a hundred other things. In the last year or so, my kids have started to prop a stool against the counter and watch semi-patiently for the avocado mixer to stop so they could commandeer a beater.
After 36 years of use, that mixer still works and shows no signs of dying on me. I bought another one years ago, one that was new and white and had sleek-looking beaters. I think I have used it twice. I much prefer to use the one that was gifted to a young couple, starting life with not much else than each other and some things for their house. I don't have the avocado green appliances to match, but that great old mixer is nothing but at home in its second-generation family of bakers.
One of the wedding gifts that they received was an avocado green hand mixer, a historically popular color for kitchen utensils and appliances in the years before Reagan. Life was good if you had a fridge and stove in matching avocado green; a hand mixer was another accessory for a well-coordinated kitchen.
My mom loves to bake, so that hand mixer occupies a solid place in my memory. My childhood recollections waver between crystal clear and fuzzy around the edges and completely opaque, but always, the avocado hand mixer is there, sitting on the kitchen counter in the four houses that I remember well.
When I moved into my first apartment, my mom gave me the mixer. At first, I didn't use it much. In college and then directly after, I didn't cook so much as assemble sandwiches and put waffles in the toaster. But I began to experiment with baking and learned that it calms me. There is something so lovely about the precise art of baking, and something so satisfying about modifying that precise recipe into something even better.
I have had that mixer for almost 15 years. In my apartments and houses, it has made cookies, brownies, pie fillings, whipped cream, and a hundred other things. In the last year or so, my kids have started to prop a stool against the counter and watch semi-patiently for the avocado mixer to stop so they could commandeer a beater.
After 36 years of use, that mixer still works and shows no signs of dying on me. I bought another one years ago, one that was new and white and had sleek-looking beaters. I think I have used it twice. I much prefer to use the one that was gifted to a young couple, starting life with not much else than each other and some things for their house. I don't have the avocado green appliances to match, but that great old mixer is nothing but at home in its second-generation family of bakers.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Are You Ready for Us, Baby?
Dear Baby,
Today, I forgot to pick up your sister from school, and then I cried. On the surface, this does not bode well for you: you will be born to a mother who leaves her child stranded at school and is an emotional wreck.
You may as well know now that I am not perfect. From your warm and cozy little home, it may seem unbelievable that you could be born into a world and a family that are chaotic and flawed. Your entry into this life will certainly be a shock, and you will not be happy about it at first.
But when you arrive, and you hear my voice in the outside world, you will not care that I am not perfect. You will not care that I have eaten approximately my weight in ice cream in the last month. You will not care that I sometimes make my kids watch "Harry Potter" movies when I am too tired to play and too irritated to watch any more cartoons. You will not care that every once in a while I am "that mom" who forgets school-picture day or lets your brothers go to bed with dirty knees.
Someday you might care that I am not Donna Reed, so I think it is only fair to warn you now about what you can expect out of me as a mom. At least then I can throw this back at you in fourteen years when you wish, silently or not, that I was like the other kids' moms.
I will kill spiders, bees and centipedes in your room, but if I see a mouse, you are on your own. I love my job, so you will always be in daycare. Sometimes I just want to hang out with your dad, with no kids. I do not do crafts, but we can make as many pies as you want. I will yell at you, probably more often than I should. Our house will not always be clean, but I promise we will never end up on "Hoarders." You will try Brussels sprouts, venison, and blue cheese and all kinds of other crazy foods, when all you want to eat are chicken nuggets. We will unintentionally hurt each other's feelings, but we will also intentionally lift each other up.
Do not be afraid to join us in our imperfect world. Because what you will see in your first moments of life will be the people who love you most. It will be evident to you, every day of your life, that you are loved and wanted. Despite all of my flaws and un-Carol Brady behavior, and the grief that we will cause each other, all of that will be easily overshadowed by the wonder you will see in life and the wonder I will see in you.
If all this sounds reasonable to you, then feel free to join us at any time. We cannot promise a perfect life, but we can promise love and warm jammies and a full tummy. Come and see us when you are ready, Baby. We are ready for you to complete our wonderful, chaotic family.
Today, I forgot to pick up your sister from school, and then I cried. On the surface, this does not bode well for you: you will be born to a mother who leaves her child stranded at school and is an emotional wreck.
You may as well know now that I am not perfect. From your warm and cozy little home, it may seem unbelievable that you could be born into a world and a family that are chaotic and flawed. Your entry into this life will certainly be a shock, and you will not be happy about it at first.
But when you arrive, and you hear my voice in the outside world, you will not care that I am not perfect. You will not care that I have eaten approximately my weight in ice cream in the last month. You will not care that I sometimes make my kids watch "Harry Potter" movies when I am too tired to play and too irritated to watch any more cartoons. You will not care that every once in a while I am "that mom" who forgets school-picture day or lets your brothers go to bed with dirty knees.
Someday you might care that I am not Donna Reed, so I think it is only fair to warn you now about what you can expect out of me as a mom. At least then I can throw this back at you in fourteen years when you wish, silently or not, that I was like the other kids' moms.
I will kill spiders, bees and centipedes in your room, but if I see a mouse, you are on your own. I love my job, so you will always be in daycare. Sometimes I just want to hang out with your dad, with no kids. I do not do crafts, but we can make as many pies as you want. I will yell at you, probably more often than I should. Our house will not always be clean, but I promise we will never end up on "Hoarders." You will try Brussels sprouts, venison, and blue cheese and all kinds of other crazy foods, when all you want to eat are chicken nuggets. We will unintentionally hurt each other's feelings, but we will also intentionally lift each other up.
Do not be afraid to join us in our imperfect world. Because what you will see in your first moments of life will be the people who love you most. It will be evident to you, every day of your life, that you are loved and wanted. Despite all of my flaws and un-Carol Brady behavior, and the grief that we will cause each other, all of that will be easily overshadowed by the wonder you will see in life and the wonder I will see in you.
If all this sounds reasonable to you, then feel free to join us at any time. We cannot promise a perfect life, but we can promise love and warm jammies and a full tummy. Come and see us when you are ready, Baby. We are ready for you to complete our wonderful, chaotic family.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Moms That Keep on Giving
As children, we do not always have a clear sense of the small and big sacrifices that our mothers make for us. Even as adults, when we start to understand the degree to which our lives shaped our parents' lives, we can never quite grasp the hundreds of ways our mothers put themselves second. Whether it is always taking the burnt piece of toast, or starving so we might eat, our moms give, and they give whether we are grateful or not.
I have been reading a lot of mommy blogs lately, for reassurance and solidarity, because I have learned that as a mom, second-guessing becomes second nature. We do not hesitate to sacrifice but we always wonder if we are doing enough. As a mom, looking at my growing circus of children, I would say that I am not doing enough to ensure that my kids are well-rounded, well-mannered, well-adjusted individuals. I obsess about the manners, knowledge, instruments, sports, languages, arts and community engagement that my kids probably will not master because I don't have the time to indulge them, and tend to forget that I am not Superwoman.
But as a daughter, looking back at my childhood and adolescence, I would say that my mother's sacrifices, both the ones I saw and the ones I did not, were not lacking. And since the best people to reassure mothers of their fine mommying are kids themselves (no matter how many times other people might say it, I always believe it more when my five-year-old identifies my good mommy skills), I want to tell my mom that all she invested is appreciated.
Sorry you had to attend so many two-hour torture sessions known as junior high band concerts.
Making me learn how to do laundry at 10 years old was really smart. I totally get it now.
I know now why I couldn't have a veil for my First Communion, and I'm sorry I was so sullen about it.
I understand now how exhausting it was for you when Dad was traveling.
You didn't fulfill your dream of Australia until this year because, among other things, you were spending precious travel money on family trips planned around my academic competitions.
Thanks for listening to me ramble on about whatever latest obsession, even though there was probably some show that you really wanted to watch instead.
You probably took the burnt piece of toast, the piece of cake with less frosting, and the butt of the loaf of bread.
I know that your heart broke every time I treated you poorly and every time I was hurting. I never quite appreciated that until my three-year-old said he didn't like me.
I don't know if you feel like a success or a failure, or if you still second-guess yourself. I don't know if you remember all the things you gave. I can't remember all of them, either, but you should know that I will take the burnt toast, go to the torturous band concerts, and listen patiently, and in that lies your success as a mother. I will do anything I can for the hearts living outside of my body, as you did for the heart living outside of yours.
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