Not A Slice

I read something the other day that really bothered me.  It said, in effect, that motherhood was a small slice of womanhood.  It’s not that I didn’t understand the sentiment or respect this person’s opinion.  Motherhood does not happen for all women.  It is not wanted by all women.  And even for those who experience it, and love it, motherhood has boundaries of years and influence.  But motherhood being a slice of womanhood?  That simply does not ring true to me.  It seems so backward.  So dropped on its head.  We are women to be mothers.  Mothers in a myriad of ways.  But mothers.

I have many things I love to do in life.  I love to write.  I love to read.  I love to create things (unless they are meals).  I love to dance.  I love the outdoors.  I love naps.  Many of these things – in the moment – I enjoy more than “motherhood.”  And I don’t just mean that I love them more than the mundane details of motherhood: laundry, homework, meals.  That’s obvious and apparent.  The thing is, that sometimes I even love them more than the glorified aspects of motherhood.  More than convincing my children to love each other and seeing them treat each other respectfully.  More than cuddling before bed and hearing about the day’s adventures.  The truth of the matter is, I am not a natural for even this portion of motherhood.  I like solitude.  I like quiet.  I like spareness; clean and simple lines.  Motherhood is anything but solitary, clean or simple.  It is being held at any hour of the day by any number of people who insist they have the right to do so.  It is chaos operating within the bubble of a woman, rather than outside it. 

But even though I often enjoy other activities and uses of my time more than I love the life of a mother, I cannot agree that motherhood is only a slice of womanhood.  All that other, all that extra, all those things that I really want to prize – those are the slices, and they are interchangeable for each person based on who they’re meant to become.  Seeing these slices as the forest instead of the trees ignores an entire world beyond such a narrow operating lens.  It ignores the essence of what woman is.  I am glad women have education.  I am glad women have causes.  I am glad women solve problems.  I am glad women achieve and enjoy and live and hold freedoms.  I know the strengthening of woman has enormous impact on the world around her.

But I assure you, as my life has progressed, as I’ve sorted things both in and out of what I find necessary for each day, there is one thing that remains.  It is the hard thing, the thing I don’t always like doing, the thing that oftentimes seems completely beyond me.  It is motherhood.  And the truth of the matter is that I would drop all those starry ideals and experiences to hold and comfort a newborn in my arms.  A newborn that needed to be loved, and taught, and prized.  A newborn that needed a mother to realize that for that moment her life revolved around his.

And, in fact, I have.

It’s very trim and tidy to say this truth is mine alone.  That every woman finds her own center, be it business, talent, political cause, or child.  It is very trim and tidy to say I don’t believe in an absolute truth, in an absolute necessity of motherhood for women.  It makes a nicely wrapped package that people would happily accept.  And while I do believe that each and every woman has this decision to make, and that her choice should be respected when she does so – the truth I see is that motherhood for every woman is not a slice.  That motherhood pulses at the core and, given permission, can radiate outward like the sun, giving energy and meaning to all the rest.  It is the truth I feel, it is the truth, which for me, must be spoken.

Where they get to have each other.

This is the reason, I want to say.  This right here:

Two girls, in a tennis lesson.  Nervous, because it's the first time.  Awful at smacking the ball, because their mother's never shown them how, because their mother doesn't know herself.  Awkward and unable, but not alone.

Two boys, stuck behind the fences while they wait the hour out.  Rattling the chains, climbing up two leg lengths before falling down again.  Throwing rocks into the flowers.  Playing in the water fountain until both their shirts are wet.

Oh, they fight.  Eighty percent of the time, they fight.  They yell words like "hate" and "mean" and "stupid."  They hit each other, and steal toys - to make the other cry, not to get the toy.  And there are times I want to send them to the four furthest corners of the house and leave them there in lonely isolation until their father comes home with a grain more of sense than I have.  In hopes that he can end the screams.

But these times.  These times right here:

A call for partners, and they already have one.

Mind-boggling boredom, that they navigate together.

When I was small, my brothers and sisters were grown.  I came behind them by ten years, the last car on a train that left the station long ago.  Of course, they dragged me about.  They fed me and watered me.  They yanked me along on hikes, let me try on their wedding veils, brought me books to disappear inside, and picked me up from car crashes where I'd smashed some man's blue truck.  They loved me, and I loved them.  But I wasn't part of the screaming and the fights.  And I wasn't a part of this.

People stop me in the grocery store.  They deliver smart comments, and count the children up and down my cart.  They mark their ages, and they mark mine.  And they pass judgment on my seeming inability to know that 1+1=yet another 1 more.

Well, this is the reason, I want to say.  This right here.

This part where they get to have each other.

Bus

Today I saw a bus on the way to Justin’s work.  It said “Out of Service.”  I think mothers should have signs to wear that say that:  “Out of Service.”  Yes, I am here.  Yes, my bus is empty.  Yes, it would appear that I am driving to where you need to get.  But I am currently “Out of Service.”  Please wait for the next bus.  I’m sure it will come.

School Halloween Parade

We went to school for Ellie's Halloween Parade.  I love when I can visit her in her classroom.  She won the bingo game that they were playing, which she was very excited about - even if her neighbor Nate had to point it out to her.  I guess that's what Captain America is for: saving the world one bingo game at a time.

These kids were pretty good waiting.  Until Spencer wasn't.  Until he wandered around the class trying to eat the plugs, the CD players, the books, and everyone's dropped goldfish.  In the spirit of survival, I let him eat goldfish off the 1st grade classroom floor.  I am such a good mother, it is amazing.  Still, while he did momentarily have the plug for the CD player in his mouth - I did take that away.  Gold star.  I know.

Mental Problems

After I picked up E at school today, I was feeling a little guilty.  Like I had not accomplished anything.  So, I thought about it.  Today I had: scheduled summer swimming lessons, deposited some checks, gone to the library, read my scriptures, fed my children repeatedly (oh, if only they didn't have to eat!), cleaned up the house, orchestrated naps, did M's reading lesson, written my "one page a day", changed several diapers, and delivered and picked up from school.  And, honestly, that's a pretty good list.

So, why did I feel guilty?

Because of what I had not done, which included: catch-up on laundry, emptying the dishwasher, cleaning any bathrooms, cleaning the kitchen, thinking about dinner, bathing the children (a task I undertake a little less than often), catching up on the blog, writing "thank you" notes for gifts for S, and any other hundreds of myriad tasks which I promptly remember and forget at all times of the day. Sometimes I wonder about these forgotten tasks... what happens to them? where do they go? does something horrible happen that I either don't know about or don't connect to them?

This, to me, is one of the most difficult things about motherhood.  This constant battle of "What should I do today?"  This constant question of which tasks are going to make it to the top of my list.  The measuring of repeated tasks like laundry and cooking, with timeless tasks like reading to your children, and tasks that others require of you for callings, work, service, or friendships. 

What is supposed to get done each day?
And who decides?

I can tell you this much... it is good that newborns cry, or I might forget that nursing thing.  It is good that E runs out of underwear, or I might forget that laundry thing.  And it is good that M and GQ start fighting like banshees when they are hungry, or I might forget to feed them too.

Speaking of nursing... S is not so happy with my current prioritizing of tasks.  So, off I go.

Meanwhile, downstairs the other children are drawing swords with blood on them and discussing how if you stab someone in the heart they will die.  This is because I made the decision to read "Treasure Island" to them at night.

Obviously I have several mental problems.

Give me a P O P U L A R.

On the way to school this morning, E announced that a certain girl at school was very popular,and she didn't know why. Since a main goal of mine with school is to not insert my strangeness (which is manifold) into E's consciousness, I said "What is popular?" E informed me that this is when everyone knows who you are. I asked how she felt about this, and she said "Fine, but I am running out of friends."

Hmmmm.

I believe this is when I - as the mother - am supposed to have some enlightening advice to give.

But hello - this is me.... nerd central. I'm pretty sure that only popular people produce popular children, so my kids are pretty much out of luck. Not exactly the kind of happy information to be sharing in carline.

Not that I want them to be popular. But I would like E to have one really good friend to go about being normal and well-adjusted with. As far as I can tell, the closest option for this is one girl who will play with E in the classroom (they are both "readers" and so they like to write stories and such) but ditches her on the playground. Since this often reminds me of my West High days, I don't have much fondness toward this fair weather friend - a fact I have kept to myself (and forced Justin to hear in late night long-winded speeches.)

But all this inner - and useless - dialogue aside... what am I supposed to say.

Is E bossy and a little intense? Yes, but she has enough of a complex about this and I've decided to lay off it for awhile.

Does E wear extremely strange outfits? Yes, and I'm sure she looks funny, but I really don't want to start dressing for peers at age 6.

Does E read at a pretty high level for her age? Yes, and I've seen how this bothers other kids myself. But I'm not going to tell her to go read in the corner.

So, how do I teach her to seek out that one good friend who cares about the right things? And how do I tell her to be that kind of friend when she is 6 and is prone to normal 6 year old fits and obsessions? And what do I say to her in the meantime?

Frankly, I've got nothing.

An Unfortunate Story Where I Must Unfortunately Show Myself IN ALL MY GLORY

Below is a picture of my bangs.  One week out.  Which means they were worse a week before this picture.  Just so you know. 

It is also a picture of me wearing a Grandma's Nightgown, with a Blue Robe that is Too Long, and Black Slippers with PomPom Balls on them.

Oh, yes.

Without make-up on (which I don't really know how to put on anyway, when I am trying.)

It is also a picture of M wearing Orange Pants, a Pink Shirt, a Yellow Sweater, and Pink Socks.

Which I must say is actually quite normal, but still....

Yes, indeed, why don't you check that out again:

After all we wouldn't want to forget the 10 month pregnant belly, would we????????

Now, why did I post this online????? 

Oh, yes.  Because on Friday I decided to take the library books back to the library drop-box.  This drop-box is located at a Bank ATM, which means that no one will see you when you go there.  It's very safe.  So, off I went after dropping E off at school. 

I also told M that she could bring her "Thank You" cards to mail.  She has been waiting FOR DAYS.  She colored them, wrote her name on them, put the stamps on them, and was sooooo happy it was time to put them in the mailbox.

But when we arrived at the little post office box for M to mail her letters I discovered two things:

1.  M had forgotten in her great excitement that she should probably put on shoes if she wanted to mail her letters.

2.  The post office box had been built on a stand....  WHY?... which made it impossible for M to reach the mailbox by herself.

Which meant:

I got to get out of the car IN ALL MY GLORY and pick up my 4 year old daughter so she could mail her letters. 

And if they got to see it, shouldn't you?

(I am currently having mice pully on my bangs at night to make them grow faster.)

Compliment

On Monday, Justin had a final that went until 9:15.  Since E has school (and the idea of having to tend my children from 7:30 until 9:15 freaked me out) I begged Justin to beg one of his fellow students to bring him home.  As a coercive device, I offered chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.  That seemed to do the trick.

Anyway, the day had been an interesting one.  My mom had been in town last week - so I had a lot of catch-up with cleaning, projects, church stuff, and Christmas cards.  Since I am slightly OCD I spent the day cleaning the house.  This made me feel better (although it didn't really accomplish my most needful tasks in a timely matter, sigh).  The day had ended and I'd gone upstairs to finally take a shower.  (I know that's supposed to take place at the beginning of the day, but oh well.)

Earlier, I had gone to the store with E (end of school day, staticky hair from beanie), M (dressed herself in pumpkin orange pants and bright pink shirt, wearing yesterday's hair-do), and GQ (still in his jammies).  I was wearing my pregnant pants (aka sweats) and a sweatshirt.  Let's just say I got some funny looks at the store.  Apparently it is okay to have 3+ children when they look cute and adorable and you happened to shower.  On other days it is a mortal sin.

Then, just before bed I had yelled at M because she would not put her books away for Family Home Evening.  (Way to feel the Spirit Mommy!!!)  E picked the story to read from the Friend, which was about not speaking in wrath to others.  (Okay, okay, okay... I get it.)

Finally, Justin got home.  And then, he came upstairs and told me a little story.  He said that when he got home, he forgot to be polite and invite his friend in (he had just finished a final exam and wanted to eat his chocolate cupcake).  He handed the cupcakes I'd made to his friend and went to shut the door when Brad stuck his head in the house.

"Wow," he said, "it must feel so nice to come home to a real home with a family."

Justin said this, and then told me he appreciated me... which was very nice... but what was more nice what this un-thought out compliment that yes - somehow - when I am vacuuming, dusting, putting away, and scrubbing I am in fact creating a home.

It's not pointless, you see.  It made something.  It made a feeling.  And even if I am slightly OCD, and don't always dress my kids or do their hair, and yell at them when I should be "building family moments" - we are making a home.

And that is such a relief.

So, tonight, when everyone has gone to sleep - and no one can mess anything up or say something annoying - go downstairs by yourself - turn on the Christmas lights - and enjoy the home you're creating.

At least that's my two cents for the day.

The Deep End

Ruminate with me a moment…



Carrying life is complex.
It is complex for those who wish to do it, and cannot.
And it is complex for those who can do it.

I offer this statement up front:

Neither’s complexity is capable of white-washing the difficulties of the other. Not if we’re being honest.

And by seeking to understand my own difficulties and situation, I do not diminish the difficulties or situations of others. I merely learn more of “self.”

***

I am a mother and I carry life.

I thought of this yesterday as Justin unburdened himself to me.

Justin’s life differs from my own in every way imaginable. I used to exist in a life similar to his, but even the memories that do remain after eight years are suspiciously cloudy and indistinct. I do not have hard and fast deadlines, I do not have superiors evaluating my progress, and I do not have colleagues competing with my every step.

At least, not in that way.

If I get fed-up and overworked, I leave the laundry in the basket for another day and read a book.
If I don’t want to make dinner, I pull something out of the freezer and read a book.
If I can’t stand the thought of cleaning the bathrooms, I tidy them to “ok” standards, and - yes - read a book.

Measured by my ability to control my own situation, this life seems to be one that is lived on pretty good terms.

“But!” I thought - as I considered this seeming inequality between Justin's proscribed rat-race and my own "calm jaunt"…

“But!…”

For what about that other part of it?

***

This other part is the part that mothers are told it is wrong for them to think about:

because of the blessing, the completely immeasurable blessing of motherhood

This is a strong and viable argument.
But does it mean that I deny this truth of unmeasured motherhood bounty if I acknowledge the “But!”?

Because I am a mother and I carry life.
And that is not easy.

Even if I get to read a book.

***

Inside me, a baby squirms. Justin does not get to feel this like me. What would he pay to feel this!
But he also does not think daily of another body that did not squirm or move. Nor does he lose space inside of his own body for the regular rhythms of breathing, eating, sleeping, or - oh yes, it must be said - going to the bathroom.

Inside me, a baby grows. Justin does not get to watch this happening as clearly as me. He does not get to see it poke its leg upward while he bathes, or have it wake him in the night with its own sleeping adjustments.
But he also does not pine for sleep or food like me. A twenty-four hour obsession meant to build the body-fat of that growing entity inside, while my own stores of vitamins and energy dwindle to obscurity.

And while I am one of the lucky ones who does not deal with throwing up, growing dehydrated, becoming ill, or feeling concretely crazy… these are all possible additions to this particular experience. All possible risks a mother takes to carry life.

And once the life comes?
The amazing, heart-rending life of a child?

To have your child hug you, smile at you, giggle with you, reach for you, cuddle you, call for you.
Who can describe the emotions associated with such things?

To have your child scream at you, bite you, tell you you’re mean, whine at you, demand of you, throw things at you.
Who can describe the emotions associated with such things?

***

I thought today of many mothers that I know.

Each has a different story, a different task, a different trial that she faces.

babies gone, babies interminably awake, babies that are sick, bodies that are sick with carrying baby, bodies that are waiting for babies, or bodies that are “simply” meeting the demands and desires of baby

And I wondered, is it meaningful to acknowledge the load that “mother” carries, to speak of the other?
Is it a negative or a positive exercise?

Does it diminish the joy she gains as “mother”?
Does it imply she would not choose her tasks again?
Or does the truth allow a greater understanding of the task of motherhood to awaken?

I thought of the constant reminders in the Bible to the Israelites.

Reminders to remember their fathers, to remember their captivity.

Not to remember that one good day they had that one time twenty years ago.

No, they were to remember their captivity - not the good times, and then to remember the mercy of The Father to their fathers.

Always I thought that remembering the captivity only implied remembering that it ended.  Always I thought the mercy came after - that the mercy came in the release from captivity. 
But is that right?
Is not captivity and trial merciful???
And remembering it, acknowledging it - in the moment we have sunk to our knees in heaviness - realizing that this burden is our Father’s mercy, is his gift to help us grow - is that not what is asked for?

Not a wallowing, not a slide into depression, not a chance to list the faults and insecurities and difficulties of life.

And not because our children are a captivity - but because sometimes the trials associated with giving them life and raising them up do seem that way.

But because knowing this, seeing this, is it not a chance to see the mercies of our Father?
As they are - the joys and the pains.
And to give acknowledgment that we see it, that we know it, that we feel it.


And that we choose it.
As our mothers did.
And that we would choose it again.