I was about to post all about the horrific coffee date I had yesterday, in full detail with arrows and exclamation points to further express my point, but sometimes the delete button is my best friend. What purpose would it serve to write it all out? Would it help anyone if I spoke poorly of another mother's parenting choices? No. The more important things to remember are those I learned from yesterday's outing:
1. Trust your gut. If someone seems like a Big Sigh when I pass them in the hall three times a week, their drama like a cloud around their shoulders, they are probably not someone I am going to want to hang out with. Giving people the benefit of the doubt is a worthwhile application of my optimism in most circumstances, but that sinking feeling in my gut should also be listened to. Yesterday's ugly scene could have been avoided if only I had trusted my gut about this particular person.
2. Stick to anonymous places when having a first, and dubious, coffee date. It's not about saving face, it's about respecting the people and business you have come to know and love, and understanding that they don't need that sort of customer.
3. Memorize the phrase "I'll have to go home and check my calendar".
4. When things get ugly, I do have the right to leave or suggest that the other party leave.
5. We all have ugly parenting moments. We all have moments, perhaps even days, that we would like to rewrite. If only we could go back and hand oursleves the edited script for that moment in time, so that we could be more patient, more in the moment, less grumpy and lousy. If only we could go back and recognize that giving in to the child's polite request for a cannoli would not break any profound law of the universe, but perhaps it might buy us an hour's peace, an enjoyable cup of coffee, the respect of someone who has taken a chance on you. I think the other mom would take yesterday back if she could, at least I hope she would. I hope she would take back the yelling, the screaming, the bullying, the setting of her three year old on the stoop of a business located 15 feet from a busy street by herself, to wait until said mother had finished her cup of coffee. If I could take yesterday back, rewrite the script and hand it to myself, I would not have gone to coffee at all. Of if I had gone I would have spent less time trying to disarm the awkwardness of the situation and asked the mom if she needed help...with parenting, with her kids, with anything at all. Because looking back at yesterday I see a woman floundering, grasping, clinging with her fingernails to an edge of what she saw as control but what the rest of the world perceived to be chaos and mean-spiritedness.
6. Children can be unruly, rude, bratty, and out of control, but they are still kids and more often than not it is our reaction to their actions that sets the tone for our relationship in any given moment or even a lifetime. React wisely.
7. I have the best kids in the world and I am a good enough mom.
8. Above all else, be kind.
Showing posts with label always learning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label always learning. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
What She Said
“One of the tricks is to ALLOW a child to be bored; NOT to fill up every minute with options and extracurriculars; not to allow electronics to be clicked on in a moment of down time. The boredom forces invention; the invention gives a clue as to what deeply amuses a child.”-Mellisa Fay Greene
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Dear Harrison,
You are tired. You play harder than most kids I know, you go to school where learning new things requires an intensity of concentration that takes enormous amounts of energy to maintain, and your body and mind are growing up fast; all of these things together wear you out to the point that you are on the verge of tears nearly every day by the hour of five o'clock. By the end of each day you have the tendency to become a puddle, to push boundaries and the limits of our patience until we, too, feel like puddles. At those moments, the moments in which I want to throw up my hands and call uncle as I make a mad dash for the door, I find myself hoping that you will have a son of your own one day. And you might think that is a hateful thing to write, but I don't wish a son upon you in vengeance, rather I wish a son upon you so that you, too, will know the depths of love that I know, the love that keeps me from running out the door. The love that makes me hug you and hold you close rather than keeping you in a constant time out. The love that makes me secretly giggle when you try, yet again, some thing that I have told you not to do no fewer than a million times.
We've been doing better this week, you and I. I had long since given up all hope of naps for you because as you got older you just seemed to grow out of them and I grew weary of returning you to your bed twenty times an afternoon. It was exhausting and I will admit defeat; I simply gave up. But then a funny thing happened. I snuggled you close on the couch earlier this week, tucked a blanket around your shoulders to ward off any chill, and thought to myself that in the absence of a nap we could at least enjoy a quiet time together. I turned on some boring show about politics and you laid your head on my arm until, quite suddenly and soundlessly, you were asleep. Your little body sagged in relief as your slumber replenished the depleted stores of energy in your cells. Your face relaxed, you started to snore, and I realized that in all of the time we spent arguing about naps I was getting it wrong. Instead of putting you away in your room, alone, to sleep off your naughtiness and bad moods, I should have held you close for just a little while because what you needed, more than sleep, was me. You needed to know that, in spite of all of the changes in your little life these days, I am going to remain a constant. I failed you, in a way, when I didn't recognize what you needed and I am so sorry, my little man. But now I know.
We've kept up the couch cuddle time for a few days now and each afternoon as I tuck the blanket around your shoulders you look at me and smile; it is not the triumphant smile of one who has won a battle, but the contented smile of one who has finally gotten exactly what they needed. And me? I found out that I am getting exactly what I needed to: time with you to hold you close, to remember that you are still a very little boy. Time to slow down and relax, to watch my son sleep. I have also gotten the gift of a son who is not a puddle at five o'clock any longer; instead you are ready to help me make dinner, ready to clean up the mess of our day, and ready to play very kindly and patiently with Emma. We are each changed by the stillness of one hour; we are replenished.
Maybe one day you will have a son, and that son will go to school for the first time and he won't take a nap afterward, and the busy days of young boyhood will wear him out to the point that you won't quite know what to do with him. If that day comes I will let you read this so you'll know how clueless I was some days. Hopefully you, too, will have the opportunity to learn that slowing down long enough to hold him and love him is the answer to a great many disputes and aggravations. I do so hope you'll have a son someday.
Love, Mom
We've been doing better this week, you and I. I had long since given up all hope of naps for you because as you got older you just seemed to grow out of them and I grew weary of returning you to your bed twenty times an afternoon. It was exhausting and I will admit defeat; I simply gave up. But then a funny thing happened. I snuggled you close on the couch earlier this week, tucked a blanket around your shoulders to ward off any chill, and thought to myself that in the absence of a nap we could at least enjoy a quiet time together. I turned on some boring show about politics and you laid your head on my arm until, quite suddenly and soundlessly, you were asleep. Your little body sagged in relief as your slumber replenished the depleted stores of energy in your cells. Your face relaxed, you started to snore, and I realized that in all of the time we spent arguing about naps I was getting it wrong. Instead of putting you away in your room, alone, to sleep off your naughtiness and bad moods, I should have held you close for just a little while because what you needed, more than sleep, was me. You needed to know that, in spite of all of the changes in your little life these days, I am going to remain a constant. I failed you, in a way, when I didn't recognize what you needed and I am so sorry, my little man. But now I know.
We've kept up the couch cuddle time for a few days now and each afternoon as I tuck the blanket around your shoulders you look at me and smile; it is not the triumphant smile of one who has won a battle, but the contented smile of one who has finally gotten exactly what they needed. And me? I found out that I am getting exactly what I needed to: time with you to hold you close, to remember that you are still a very little boy. Time to slow down and relax, to watch my son sleep. I have also gotten the gift of a son who is not a puddle at five o'clock any longer; instead you are ready to help me make dinner, ready to clean up the mess of our day, and ready to play very kindly and patiently with Emma. We are each changed by the stillness of one hour; we are replenished.
Maybe one day you will have a son, and that son will go to school for the first time and he won't take a nap afterward, and the busy days of young boyhood will wear him out to the point that you won't quite know what to do with him. If that day comes I will let you read this so you'll know how clueless I was some days. Hopefully you, too, will have the opportunity to learn that slowing down long enough to hold him and love him is the answer to a great many disputes and aggravations. I do so hope you'll have a son someday.
Love, Mom
Thursday, June 19, 2008
It's All About Balance
I probably spend too much time on the Internet. In my defense, though, a lot of that time is spent in the adoption realm, reading the blogs of other adoptive parents (APs), of adult Korean Adoptees (KADs), of birth/first mothers and participating in a forum or two with a central focus of adoption. The Internet can be a wonderful tool for the adoptive parent. There just aren't hordes of adoptive families in my neighborhood or community; sure, there are others, but finding other families that we connect with on a personal level and can maintain a healthy, positive, constructive relationship with has proven a hard thing to do locally. We have met a few absolutely wonderful families, but we've also had our share of trainwrecks. On the Internet it is possible share insight, knowledge, ideas, and experiences without necessarily having to become best friends forever.
Through use of the Internet I try to stay abreast of the latest developments in the greater adoption community. I've learned an incredible amount from other bloggers, an education that our agency never mentioned might be important, nor tried to provide us with. I've become aware of a need for and lack of ethics in adoption and the struggle to figure out what exactly that means. Whose rights come first? First parents' rights? Adoptees' rights? The rights of the adoptive parents? I've learned that in the adoption triad the APs have the most power, and that misuse of that power is prevalent and often unconscious. I've learned about white privilege, racism (both subtle and outright), devastating losses that our children experienced on their way to our family. I've learned that as an AP, I cannot just raise my child like any child I might have given birth to, though that was something I had to swear to be willing to do when filling out our applications to adopt. As an adoptive parent I have to be more vigilant, more tuned in, more aware, more willing to go the extra mile when my kids are in trouble. I have to be willing to share the role of mother with other women, because my motherhood does not negate theirs. And I have had to step entirely out of my comfort zone in order to do some of these things and learn some of these things. I've learned that I can't ever stop learning about these topics, I can't ever turn my head away because the lessons are ever evolving, ever shifting with lives of their own. I've learned that due diligence as an adoptive parent means more than just writing letters to foster parents twice a year. Most importantly, I have learned that it is not about me, it is about the children I love beyond measure and what is best for them.
I try to keep abreast of the adoptions news, to learn and know and be proactive about all of these things while my children are young, before they ask the tough questions so that I will be more than prepared when the time comes; at the same time I am trying to potty train, teach good manners, and update lifebooks. I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I no longer have preschoolers in the home; I am trying to be a socially and environmentally conscious citizen of the world, and I am trying to be a wife, daughter, sister, and friend. The realm of adoption is sometimes overwhelming, always humbling, and I am often blown away by what I learn to the point that I regularly question and examine my ethics, morals, spirituality, and basic beliefs. It can be easy to be swallowed by the enormity of it all, to become depressed, to feel nothing but guilt in the role of an AP.
But I also want to say this, because although it ought to be obvious maybe it is not to some:
Adoptive parenthood is not just about acknowledging loss. It is not just about honoring first families, or keeping in touch with previous caretakers of our children, or even fighting for the rights of adoptees and first parents. It is not just about the aspects that are hard or heartbreaking. It is also about the heartswelling moments of parenthood, the regular kind of parenthood that involves sleepless nights and skinned knees, diapers and first words. It is about the moments that take your breath away with their beauty. It is about living in the moment, each and every day, and acknowledging the amazing child who stands before you in all his/her glory, waiting for your face to light up. It is about being a mother or a father, and all of the different things those titles imply, putting questions and grief and doubt on a shelf for another, quieter time, and simply being there. It is flawed, yes, but it is also beautiful, worthy of being treasured, worthy of letting go of some of the pain to let the joy shine in.
I say all of this because one of my aforementioned trainwrecks has a blog, and up until now I have read it. Today I deleted the bookmark, and I am going to try like heck to forget the URL. Some APs have a knack for pulling in the pain, grief, and loss that others endure, claiming it, twisting it around, and regurgitating it to make it all about them, as if it was their very own pain to begin with. As if they invented pain itself. They feather their nests with tokens of all of the things they think their children have lost and wallpaper it with their own guilt, causing their children to endure not only the inherent pains of adoption, but also the loss of the parents they now know to the remorse, regret, and guilt those parents feel. It makes me sad to think of these very young children seeing their parent do nothing but cry on occasions that are meant to be celebratory. It makes me incredibly sad that this person feels the need to constantly stand on a soapbox, screaming diatribes about what the rest of us APs should be doing, when they themselves seem to be overlooking some of the fundamental aspects of adoptive parenting: the parenting part, which includes joy and living in the moment. That is not to say that we should not acknowledge loss and grief, but that it should be in balance with the amount of time we spend being present and joyful. The greatest lesson I have learned in all of my time spent on the Internet in the realm of adoption is this: In the face of the struggle, don't lose sight of the joy.
And so I will no longer expose myself to threatening, doomsday diatribes, or endless lamentations of loss and pain, but I will continue to open my eyes wider to those who have insight to share, stories to learn from, and constructive criticism or advice to offer.
(I'll stop ranting now, I promise.)
Through use of the Internet I try to stay abreast of the latest developments in the greater adoption community. I've learned an incredible amount from other bloggers, an education that our agency never mentioned might be important, nor tried to provide us with. I've become aware of a need for and lack of ethics in adoption and the struggle to figure out what exactly that means. Whose rights come first? First parents' rights? Adoptees' rights? The rights of the adoptive parents? I've learned that in the adoption triad the APs have the most power, and that misuse of that power is prevalent and often unconscious. I've learned about white privilege, racism (both subtle and outright), devastating losses that our children experienced on their way to our family. I've learned that as an AP, I cannot just raise my child like any child I might have given birth to, though that was something I had to swear to be willing to do when filling out our applications to adopt. As an adoptive parent I have to be more vigilant, more tuned in, more aware, more willing to go the extra mile when my kids are in trouble. I have to be willing to share the role of mother with other women, because my motherhood does not negate theirs. And I have had to step entirely out of my comfort zone in order to do some of these things and learn some of these things. I've learned that I can't ever stop learning about these topics, I can't ever turn my head away because the lessons are ever evolving, ever shifting with lives of their own. I've learned that due diligence as an adoptive parent means more than just writing letters to foster parents twice a year. Most importantly, I have learned that it is not about me, it is about the children I love beyond measure and what is best for them.
I try to keep abreast of the adoptions news, to learn and know and be proactive about all of these things while my children are young, before they ask the tough questions so that I will be more than prepared when the time comes; at the same time I am trying to potty train, teach good manners, and update lifebooks. I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I no longer have preschoolers in the home; I am trying to be a socially and environmentally conscious citizen of the world, and I am trying to be a wife, daughter, sister, and friend. The realm of adoption is sometimes overwhelming, always humbling, and I am often blown away by what I learn to the point that I regularly question and examine my ethics, morals, spirituality, and basic beliefs. It can be easy to be swallowed by the enormity of it all, to become depressed, to feel nothing but guilt in the role of an AP.
But I also want to say this, because although it ought to be obvious maybe it is not to some:
Adoptive parenthood is not just about acknowledging loss. It is not just about honoring first families, or keeping in touch with previous caretakers of our children, or even fighting for the rights of adoptees and first parents. It is not just about the aspects that are hard or heartbreaking. It is also about the heartswelling moments of parenthood, the regular kind of parenthood that involves sleepless nights and skinned knees, diapers and first words. It is about the moments that take your breath away with their beauty. It is about living in the moment, each and every day, and acknowledging the amazing child who stands before you in all his/her glory, waiting for your face to light up. It is about being a mother or a father, and all of the different things those titles imply, putting questions and grief and doubt on a shelf for another, quieter time, and simply being there. It is flawed, yes, but it is also beautiful, worthy of being treasured, worthy of letting go of some of the pain to let the joy shine in.
I say all of this because one of my aforementioned trainwrecks has a blog, and up until now I have read it. Today I deleted the bookmark, and I am going to try like heck to forget the URL. Some APs have a knack for pulling in the pain, grief, and loss that others endure, claiming it, twisting it around, and regurgitating it to make it all about them, as if it was their very own pain to begin with. As if they invented pain itself. They feather their nests with tokens of all of the things they think their children have lost and wallpaper it with their own guilt, causing their children to endure not only the inherent pains of adoption, but also the loss of the parents they now know to the remorse, regret, and guilt those parents feel. It makes me sad to think of these very young children seeing their parent do nothing but cry on occasions that are meant to be celebratory. It makes me incredibly sad that this person feels the need to constantly stand on a soapbox, screaming diatribes about what the rest of us APs should be doing, when they themselves seem to be overlooking some of the fundamental aspects of adoptive parenting: the parenting part, which includes joy and living in the moment. That is not to say that we should not acknowledge loss and grief, but that it should be in balance with the amount of time we spend being present and joyful. The greatest lesson I have learned in all of my time spent on the Internet in the realm of adoption is this: In the face of the struggle, don't lose sight of the joy.
And so I will no longer expose myself to threatening, doomsday diatribes, or endless lamentations of loss and pain, but I will continue to open my eyes wider to those who have insight to share, stories to learn from, and constructive criticism or advice to offer.
(I'll stop ranting now, I promise.)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Recipe For A Saturday Afternoon
Begin with a few planks of board leftover from house projects. Stack them to make a table. Set the table with old pots and pans, buckets and empty bubble containers. Bring in running water with a hose set to drip. Add plenty of sandy soil from a lawn that just won't grow grass, and two small children who are very eager to play in the sunshine after a week of cold rain. Mix well, and don't even think about the inevitable mess of it all.
Never underestimate the entertainment power of dirt and water.
They played outside in this very spot all day, stopping only to collect dry sand and the occasional "pet" caterpillar.
Never underestimate the entertainment power of dirt and water.
They played outside in this very spot all day, stopping only to collect dry sand and the occasional "pet" caterpillar.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Small Framed Portrait
A long time ago, when I was young and naive and determined more than educated, I thought I would change the world. I thought I would do something that would be hugely meaningful to humanity as a whole, or something that would rescue us from our own obvious destruction of the planet we call home. I was idealistic and outraged (and maybe had a bit of a super-hero complex?) and wanted nothing more than to storm out the front door of my house and get started. I was also 14.
That is not to say a 14 year old cannot change the world, it is just to say that particular 14 year old did not change the world. Somehow love and life and children and houses and dogs and jobs and other goals and aspirations nudged their way into the space between myself and my outrage, and suddenly I was 3o and had not changed the world.
I am ok with that because life took me in different, beautiful directions.
But I sit here in my middle class life, with my warm safe house around me, my healthy children tucked soundly in their beds, my husband due home from his good job soon, and my two well-fed dogs asleep at my feet, and I feel...not guilt, exactly, but a renewal of an internal pull in the direction of change. I find myself wanting to to DO something.
What does a middle class stay at home mom do to change the world? She looks to the need most close to her heart: children. This SAHM, also an adoptive mom, looked in the direction of the world's orphans.
Written a few weeks ago (details changed for privacy):
And so I didn't turn out to be a super-hero; I didn't save the world. But maybe we have made a big difference in the life of one child, and maybe when his updated picture and bio arrive, the boy in the small framed portrait will be smiling and I will get to see the dimples I know are there beneath layers of heartache and loss.
Maybe he will save the world one day.
That is not to say a 14 year old cannot change the world, it is just to say that particular 14 year old did not change the world. Somehow love and life and children and houses and dogs and jobs and other goals and aspirations nudged their way into the space between myself and my outrage, and suddenly I was 3o and had not changed the world.
I am ok with that because life took me in different, beautiful directions.
But I sit here in my middle class life, with my warm safe house around me, my healthy children tucked soundly in their beds, my husband due home from his good job soon, and my two well-fed dogs asleep at my feet, and I feel...not guilt, exactly, but a renewal of an internal pull in the direction of change. I find myself wanting to to DO something.
What does a middle class stay at home mom do to change the world? She looks to the need most close to her heart: children. This SAHM, also an adoptive mom, looked in the direction of the world's orphans.
Written a few weeks ago (details changed for privacy):
It came in the mail today, a thick envelope with many stamps that had traveled across the country from Seattle to reach my mailbox. I knew what would be inside the moment I saw it. Half of me wanted to rip it open and read the papers within to absorb the information and feel good about what we had done, and the other half of me wanted to set it aside unopened, suspecting that unimaginable sadness was enclosed within it's white paper pages.Right before I turned 31 this year, we sent in our donation to AHOPE for Children, an organization I first read about in Melissa Fay Greene's book There Is No Me Without You. Since then I have been in contact with people who volunteer at the AHOPE orphanages in Ethiopia and I know that our money, our expendable $180, is being well spent.
I opened the envelope carefully, and as I withdrew the folded paperwork a photograph fell out of it and landed softly on the kitchen counter. I picked it up and examined the face looking back at me. A boy. He has short, dark hair. He is thin and looks tall; he has the most beautiful skin, and eyes that bear the sadness and early wisdom of incredible, unfathomable loss. His cheeks look as though they would have wonderful dimples if he smiled, but he is not smiling.
I unfolded the stack of papers and held his photograph with my thumb at the top of the page as I read so that I would be able to look at him as I learned the hard facts of his life, the details that brought bits of his file, his life's story, to my mailbox on the other side of the world. He lost both of his parents to AIDS. Then his extended family, stretched too far with their own troubles (perhaps poverty and HIV/AIDS?) could no longer care for him and his younger sibling. They were brought to an orphanage, and then the boy in the photograph fell ill, too. He was tested. Then he was moved to an orphanage for HIV+ children where he is able to get treatment, but is separated from the last bit of family he has left, his younger sibling. All of this happened to a ten year old boy within the last six months.
And here is what I know: the boy in this photograph in one of the lucky ones. He is in a place where he will receive the miracle drugs that will turn his HIV+ status from a death sentence into a chronic disease. He will be educated. He is not begging on the street, and there is some hope that he and his sibling will find an adoptive family. His odds are good.
I put the papers back in the white envelope, but I tuck the picture into a small silver frame that had been kicking around our loft for some time. I put the small framed portrait of a boy I will likely never meet on the sideboard in our dining area. I can see his face when we eat dinner. I see him when I sit and have my morning tea, and he is still there when my children are raucously eating their lunch. I think about him, and I cannot help but be outraged that there are 5 million orphans in Ethiopia alone, a country 2/3 the size of Alaska, a country where generations of doctors, teachers, clergy, leaders, and parents are being wiped out by AIDS, and children line the city streets begging, being sold into prostitution, and dying alone. It is unfathomable. The sheer magnitude of the math goes beyond what my brain can comprehend. But this is math that I can do: for $180 (or three nice dinners out, one night in an ok hotel, one day of Christmas shopping, one trip to the vet with one of my dogs, two weeks worth of groceries for a household of four...) we were able to help provide food, clothing, school materials, and anti-retroviral drugs for one orphaned boy in Ethiopia for six months. SIX MONTHS. That math seems simple, really.
And so I didn't turn out to be a super-hero; I didn't save the world. But maybe we have made a big difference in the life of one child, and maybe when his updated picture and bio arrive, the boy in the small framed portrait will be smiling and I will get to see the dimples I know are there beneath layers of heartache and loss.
Maybe he will save the world one day.
Sunday, September 3, 2006
The mirror image
Do you ever catch an unexpected glimpse of yourself in a mirror or window, and find yourself looking away quickly, and then looking back just as quickly because you are actually startled?
I don't mean those moments we all spend in the morning or before leaving the house when we put our best angles forward for ourselves, pose our faces the way we'd like them to look in photographs, and have our tummies sucked-in for good measure and good self-esteem. Rather, I mean those rare glimpses when we truly see ourselves, perhaps as others see us...hair a mess, belly very obviously not sucked-in, and with random looks on our faces.
This has been happening a lot to me lately, as we've moved Harry's changing table into the bathroom as potty training prep (the idea being that all things related to diapers are also related to going on the potty), and I have to walk past the mirror several times per day to get to the changing table. And I keep seeing myself, or rather this...this ADULT. This adult with a CHILD!
Sometimes I anticipate it, and Harry and I make funny faces at each other, giggle, and proceed with the business at hand. But other times I catch a certain angle and I am struck by how different I look from the 'girl' I see in the mirror each morning.
Sometimes the face I catch in the mirror looks pale, with slightly baggy eyes, eyebrows that droop in a frownish way, and a mouth that is pursed in concentration...and when I see this reflection of (could it be?) me I can't help but think that Harry's mom is a bit of a downer. She should smile more and look more animated, and her face should be a reflection of the love she feels for him.
Sometimes the face I catch looks distracted, like the mind behind it is a million miles away, and I think Harry's mom should live more in the moment...she should be enjoying every minute of time she has with him because already it seems like it is going by too fast.
Sometimes the face I catch looks harried and I think Harry's mom needs a time out.
Sometimes the face I catch is laughing with twinkling eyes, and you can just make out the beginning of crow's feet at the corners of those eyes. There are grooved laugh lines by the rounded cheeks, and a deep dimple in the right cheek. Her hair is a crazy mess, her clothes are splotched with food from the meals of the day and dotted with dog hair, and the toddler in her arms is a giggling, squirming bundle of boy who shouts "Omma!!" into the mirror. When I catch this face I think Harry's mom is doing just fine. This is the face I like to catch because it is the face I imagined I would have someday, the one I focused on when I was hoping to be a mom. This is the face I strive to live up to...the mom who can live through food throwing, temper tantrums, spilled milk, broken furniture, dogs out of control, endless loads of laundry, and day after day of no naps, and still look happy. This mom seems fearless and in control, even without pulling herself together.
I'm working on seeing that reflection more, and those vacant, exhausted, frustrated, and droopy ones less. The thing about catching an unexpected glimpse of yourself in the mirror is it gives you a chance to see the unprepared, unmasked side of yourself. The question is, do you like what you see?
I don't mean those moments we all spend in the morning or before leaving the house when we put our best angles forward for ourselves, pose our faces the way we'd like them to look in photographs, and have our tummies sucked-in for good measure and good self-esteem. Rather, I mean those rare glimpses when we truly see ourselves, perhaps as others see us...hair a mess, belly very obviously not sucked-in, and with random looks on our faces.
This has been happening a lot to me lately, as we've moved Harry's changing table into the bathroom as potty training prep (the idea being that all things related to diapers are also related to going on the potty), and I have to walk past the mirror several times per day to get to the changing table. And I keep seeing myself, or rather this...this ADULT. This adult with a CHILD!
Sometimes I anticipate it, and Harry and I make funny faces at each other, giggle, and proceed with the business at hand. But other times I catch a certain angle and I am struck by how different I look from the 'girl' I see in the mirror each morning.
Sometimes the face I catch in the mirror looks pale, with slightly baggy eyes, eyebrows that droop in a frownish way, and a mouth that is pursed in concentration...and when I see this reflection of (could it be?) me I can't help but think that Harry's mom is a bit of a downer. She should smile more and look more animated, and her face should be a reflection of the love she feels for him.
Sometimes the face I catch looks distracted, like the mind behind it is a million miles away, and I think Harry's mom should live more in the moment...she should be enjoying every minute of time she has with him because already it seems like it is going by too fast.
Sometimes the face I catch looks harried and I think Harry's mom needs a time out.
Sometimes the face I catch is laughing with twinkling eyes, and you can just make out the beginning of crow's feet at the corners of those eyes. There are grooved laugh lines by the rounded cheeks, and a deep dimple in the right cheek. Her hair is a crazy mess, her clothes are splotched with food from the meals of the day and dotted with dog hair, and the toddler in her arms is a giggling, squirming bundle of boy who shouts "Omma!!" into the mirror. When I catch this face I think Harry's mom is doing just fine. This is the face I like to catch because it is the face I imagined I would have someday, the one I focused on when I was hoping to be a mom. This is the face I strive to live up to...the mom who can live through food throwing, temper tantrums, spilled milk, broken furniture, dogs out of control, endless loads of laundry, and day after day of no naps, and still look happy. This mom seems fearless and in control, even without pulling herself together.
I'm working on seeing that reflection more, and those vacant, exhausted, frustrated, and droopy ones less. The thing about catching an unexpected glimpse of yourself in the mirror is it gives you a chance to see the unprepared, unmasked side of yourself. The question is, do you like what you see?
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