Today several of my friends linked to Momastery's recent
post on parenting. If you happen to be a parent, you should take a minute and read it. When I finished reading it, I felt like she could have pulled that straight out of my head because that's exactly what I've been thinking (only it was quite a bit less eloquent in
my head).
I've had Momastery's blog in my blog roll for a few years because one of my friends told me about her. In fact, I believe they're friends
in real life. (Or I could be completely confused about that friends
in real life part. That's also highly likely.) Anyway, like I was saying, Momastery has been on my blog roll for a few years so it was kind of random when three different Facebook friend linked to that post today because up until then, I sort of felt like Momastery was my private thing...well...private to me and our mutual
real life friend (or not).
The post struck a chord. I've been in a weird place trying to figure out how to be me, in the midst of being a mom and a wife. Plus I'm feeling some sort of middle-aged thing going on. I suppose technically I'm not
middle-aged, but that's what it feels like because it feels very much like I'm between things. So I'm trying to figure it all out. How can I be a good parent and a good wife but still be me? Where's the appropriate balance? And how do I find my way there without feeling guilty about claiming that for myself?
This particular chapter in my life started in October of 2002. I found out that I was pregnant. Somewhere between that moment and the following July, when my son arrived, I became a mommy. By the time I laid eyes upon my son, I already loved him with an overflowing heart. I loved every perfect detail...because in my eyes, of course every detail *was* perfect. I didn't even know him, but I loved him with an intensity that was overwhelming.
Before he turned six, our household had grown to include three wonderful little girls. After each of their births, I was amazed yet again by that magical love that you can feel for someone you don't even know yet. I would admire their perfect little mouths and hands and toes. I would marvel upon these amazing little people who were mixtures of my husband and myself. With perfect clarity I can remember holding each of them in those first few hours after their birth. And yet, those early years of parenthood are a blur. I had four young children and it was all I could do to survive the day. The days that felt successful were the days I managed to entertain the kids long enough to wash the dishes or pay some bills or fold some laundry or sweep the floors or some combination of the millions of things that mommies do. And now, nine years later, after so many years of trying to tune the kids out, I don't quite know how to tune them back in.
It scares me a little...okay, it scares me a lot. Every time someone tells me that these are the best years of my life I think "Oh crap! Is this seriously the highlight?" followed closely by, "What the heck am I doing wrong if I'm supposed to be enjoying this?!" I try to remind myself to enjoy this special time of my life because I KNOW that some day I'll look back on it and miss it. I've been informed. But it really doesn't work. Oh sure, I could live in the moment and skip the chores but it *would* catch up with me. Even if it's nothing more than a grumpy husband who's annoyed at the mess, I'm telling you, it *will* catch up with you. There's no escaping the responsibility of being a parent.
I think we can all agree that we're going to love these little beings to a degree that we never knew possible. And it's totally amazing. Plus they kind of look like mommy, they kind of look like daddy, which of course makes them pretty much the cutest thing ever. And they say all the stuff you say, but in cute little kid ways which makes it absolutely adorable. Yep, they are cute to the nth degree.
But what you don't quite realize at first is that they're like giant tethers. You won't be able to leave the house because a) it's a pain in the butt or b) it costs too much money. Okay, I may have over simplified things a bit. But it is kind of true. Kids require that you be very responsible, and as we all know, being responsible is NOT exactly what comes to mind when you're trying to have a good time.
I don't enjoy taking my kids to their various activities but I do
it because I love them. If I didn't have to feed my kids, I would probably skip dinner as often as not. I certainly never
feel like doing the dishes. I don't like helping them with their
homework. I absolutely detest resolving their squabbles. I do not enjoy
picking up after them. It breaks my heart to watch them struggle with
friendships and social missteps. I could go on and on listing all the
"parental baggage" that I get bogged down with every day. And I don't
feel bad admitting that to you. Why should I?! Who *would* enjoy that
stuff?! Why should I feel guilty for not enjoying it?
Am I enjoying my
three year-old sitting on my lap right at this very moment...moving my mouse around and
occasionally making this screen disappear? Kind of, actually. I really
do love her a lot and she is pretty cute. Her hair is soft and smells sweet. Plus it's kind of funny that I'm sitting here complaining about parenting but since she can't read she has no idea. I've
kissed the back of her head several times and played several rounds of
"Mommy, close your eyes" so I'm pretty sure she has no clue that she's actually driving me a little crazy.
I guess the trick is figuring out how to enjoy them. I love them and I know that they're totally awesome, but somehow I need to figure out how to just chill out and have fun with them. (And not just from behind my camera either!) So I think that's priority #1 for this year.
And in the meantime, my back up plan is this blog. Years from now, when these days have become fuzzy memories and I start to feel nostalgic about the years gone by, I'll pull up these blog posts and remind myself of how much work these years were! And then I'll sit right back down in that rocking chair on my porch and enjoy the peace and quiet while I read another chapter on my Kindle.
Post script
As I sat here reflecting about this post and poking around online, I ended up at
An Inch of Gray. I read
this post which eventually lead me to the post about Jack's tragic death. The crazy thing is that I suddenly realized this must be someone who lives in this area because I remembered reading about this story back when it happened. Suddenly everything I'd been thinking about the misery of parenting sounded very trite. I'm no longer feeling lighthearted and sarcastic. I've lost interest in trying to "pull it all together".
I do hope to find a better balance in my life. But as much as I beat myself up about my failures as a parent, there's one thing that I can unequivocally pat myself on the back for. All four of my children know that they are loved beyond measure. They are confident, joyful children who feel comfortable being their quirky selves. And for that I am humbled and grateful.
