A Pocketful of Pennies

When we were young, my sisters and I were allowed to roam the neighborhood on our bikes. We'd be gone for hours, unsupervised. As long as we were home by dinner time, which we always were, all was well. When it was raining, we stayed inside and played Barbies, or My Little Ponies, or house with our dolls, always barring our baby brother from the play. But you can only play nice with conventional toys and be cooped up inside for so long, before you start getting rambunctious and creative. We'd run around the house like crazy, bouncing off of everything, and climbing the walls, literally. We lived in a single wide trailer which is pretty small for a family of six. The hallways were narrow and perfectly spaced to climb when you were bare foot, bracing yourself on the moulding. I liked to do this daily. Dad would always yell at me and say I was going to warp the walls.

Sometimes we'd take over the living room and play a made up game of "don't touch the floor" in which you'd pretend that the floor was a swamp filled with alligators, the pillows and removed couch cushions were rocks that jutted above the surface, and the couch was a boat that occasionally sank into the depths stranding us on the precarious rocks. A jump rope was a perfect rescue line that helped to get pulled to safety on the shore - the kitchen.

But one of our favorite games was baseball - inside. We'd use the couch, pillows, and bar stools as the bases. We usually used a pillow as the bat too. Various items played the part of the ball. It was only a few steps between bases, even for a child, in that cramped space. But we imagined it to be a vast ballpark. We each played the role of multiple ball players on each team since there were only three of us - we didn't include our brother most of the time. (He was just a baby so he was probably napping.) Being the oldest and bossiest, I also filled the role of the announcer. I would invent different names for each player. We even had pinch runners, a Cabbage Patch Kid, who would be stand ins when the bases were loaded. Now don't get me wrong here, we were not allowed to play ball inside. We were definitely not permitted to throw things, no matter how soft. But we did these things anyway reassuring our mother that we were careful (as we bounced off the walls from a combination of sugar and boredom).

There is one particular game that sticks out in my mind as I do believe it was the last game of our illustrious careers as amateur pre-adolescent indoor ball players. It was a rainy day, not a downpour, but wet enough that we were inside until it tapered off. The bases were loaded. Our mother had once again told us to "knock it off" because we were "going to break something". And wouldn't you know, a few moments later, we did just that.

One of us hit a fly ball to right field, a homer for sure. It flew just over the television and into one of our mother's prized knick-knacks, a small porcelain wishing well. We watched helplessly as it came crashing down and shattered into pieces on the living room floor. We froze for a moment, waiting to sprint to the bedroom as our mother rushed into the room to see what had just happened. Instead of turning angrily towards us, she began to pick up the pieces and then she began to cry. Overwhelmed with shame, we three began to cry as well. We slowly and silently went to our room, punishing ourselves.

While wallowing in our pity, we began to talk about how sad we had made our mom. She had never cried like that before and it was more punishment than if she had chased us to our room yelling threats of "wait til your father gets home." We devised a plan to make it right. We scrounged together what little change we had in our piggy banks and filled our pockets with the loot. We then did something we had never done before. We left the house without permission.

We snuck out the back door and onto our bikes. We rode as quickly and as silently as we could down the street and out of ear and eye shot of our home. We then roamed the neighborhood, stopping at every yard sale in search for the perfect replacement. We found a small crystal bud vase and a porcelain figurine of two doves. We pulled the change out of our pockets and offered it to the seller. We forked over handfuls of mostly pennies, not sure if we had enough to cover it. But the man, seeing our tear stained faces and overhearing our conversations, decided that we had paid him enough and it was a fair trade.

We swiftly and carefully returned to our home, giddy with pride. We snuck back inside and found our mother in the fragrant kitchen standing over a bubbling pot on the stove. We were sure she hadn't noticed we were gone. We cautiously approached her and gave her the gifts. We told her how sorry we were for breaking her wishing well. She silently took the gifts and once again began to cry. Confused and contrite, we returned to our room to cry some more and wait for the real punishment when our father got home from work. But at dinner that evening, Mom didn't even mention the incident.We had made our peace.

My mother barely recalls that day, but she did confess that although she never let on, she knew we had snuck out as our whispering and the squeaky back door gave us away. That day I learned all kinds of invaluable lessons. I learned to respect others - especially my mother's things, everything is replaceable, silence can speak volumes, never play ball inside, what your father doesn't know can't hurt you, and it is not good to make your mother cry (unless it is from happiness - but that's another story).

Confessions of Un-Confidence

I have been having a rough time lately with my role as "mom".

I sort-of broke down the other evening to Big Daddy R and came somewhat clean that I felt like a failure as a mother.  I say "sort-of" and "somewhat" because I only cried a little and only touched on the tip of the iceberg.  I was not ready to completely divulge my true feelings.

I confided to him that this should be easy.   I am smart but this boggles me.  Why is it I can't do it?  Why can't I handle two small children?  I should be doing better.

I feel so awkward every time someone tells me what a good mom I am to my two little Rs.  My neighbors continually gush about it and I have found myself avoiding them (which is difficult because they are like grandparents to my kids) just because I don't want to hear about how wonderful of a mom I am to them.

I feel like I have a dark dirty secret that no one but me and my poor children know about.  My poor kids that have to suffer with the truth everyday.  And my poor husband who can see that something is bothering me but doesn't understand because I refuse to burden him with the depth of my troubles.

But to the keen eye, an outside observer may see the unclean house, the half-naked kids, the piles of laundry, the overworked husband, the too-clean stove, and the empty bottles of wine and deduce that either these kids need to have protective custody from neglectful and addictive parents, or that this is a case of a mom who has no confidence in her skills.

When I'm low, I'm under the barrel.  No, I'm the muck that grows under the stuff that lives under the barrel.

But then there are days when I can breathe and just "let it be".  Instead of fighting against the current, I just float downstream and have faith that I won't hit a waterfall.  Or if I do happen upon one, that it won't be too scary, it may actually be thrilling, and that I will not drown.

It is all about faith I guess.  I have to blindly believe that it will all be ok.  And if I put my whole heart into that belief then my confidence grows.

I can see that my children are beautiful and healthy.  I can see that my kids kiss and hug and laugh and play together.  I can see that there is a creative ingenuity in their messes.  I can see that the fridge & cabinets are filled with healthy foods that they actually love to eat.   I can see that my three year old started to read, can do simple math, and can recite books word for word with such enthusiasm and drama it's no wonder he's my child!  I can see that even though my 18 month old utters few words, her mind is working and she understands completely.  I can see that there is more laughter than screaming.  And I can see that Ryan proclaims everyday, sometime several times a day, that "We are the best & happiest family in the world!"
And I would have to agree with him wholeheartedly!

Tomorrow I may be losing my mind once again, continually following their path of destruction, but today I will savor every moment of the results of my "mom" abilities.

disappearing me

I spent so much time working on "who I am", defining my existence, making a niche for myself in this world.  It was important to me.  It was a driving force behind all of my decisions.  I wanted to stand out, be unique, an individual, a rare example.  It turns out that none of it mattered.  I was selfish and didn't know it.  I know it now.

Not everything changed once I got pregnant.  That's when it started, but I was still over confident.  I thought I had it all figured out.  I could continue working full time.  We could live comfortably in this cute little house I bought.  We would be healthy and happy and want for nothing.

When I first held him in my arms I became a mama bear.  Nothing mattered except him.  For the first time ever, I was focused on someone other than myself.  The intensity of this feeling overwhelmed me.  The sight of him had me grinning uncontrollably.  I cried tears of joy at the very thought of him.  I forgot all about my needs, desires, and comfort and spent up every ounce of energy into giving myself completely to this tiny ball of life that I created.

Suddenly who I was, and who I used to be no longer mattered.  The only thing that matters is who I am now.  My children do not know or even care about who I was.  They only know me for who I am now.  I try to be the best mom I can be for them.  I try really hard and some days I feel like I failed them.  Other days I don't try at all and I feel successful.  I do it all for them.  I am focused on them instead of myself.  I let the old me waste away.  She's no longer important.  Her dreams have faded and instead have been replaced by the new hopes and dreams of what I want for my children.  I want them to be happy, healthy, and good.

When you have a critically ill child, this feeling intensifies a hundred-fold.  Nothing else matters but him.  It is hard to even think about simple things like eating, sleeping, & hygiene.  There are a zillion other things to worry about and stay focused on.  And time is precious.  Why waste time doing stupid, non essential things when you don't know how much time you really have.  It is frustrating.   

I define myself now by my children.  Who they are, is what I am.  I am nothing without them.  The thought of losing him... it would be like losing myself.  Who am I without him?  I would be nothing.  I am scared.