I'm trying hard to muster up Thankfulness without bitterness this year. For every thing I should be thankful for I find myself enveloping it in sarcastic bitterness.
I'm thankful I have 3 healthy children... even if my oldest lives 3000 miles away and my youngest are being kept from me.
I'm thankful I could talk to my children this morning and share some thanksgiving memories with them... even as they go to another woman's house to help prepare a feast to share with her, not me.
I'm thankful my children are having a full thanksgiving meal today... even though their excitement and joy about it wounds my heart with jealousy, loss, regrets, and irrational anger.
I'm thankful my daughter gets to make cookies today... even if she makes them with another woman, and eats them at someone elses thanksgiving day table.
I'm thankful for the 18 years of memorable thanksgivings I have in my heart... even if each one reminds me of everything that's been taken from me.
I'm thankful my family is safe, happy, warm, and loved... even though I can't provide that or share that with them.
I'm thankful that even if the whole world forgets about it, I know that I am still the mom. I am... even if I'm the only one who remembers...
Mia
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Thursday, November 25
Friday, August 20
Sweet Dreams, Sleep Tight, Don't Let The Bedbugs Bite
I sighed in exasperation as I peeked in the doorway to her bedroom. 20 years old and she still can't make her bed before she leaves for work in the morning.
I laugh sheepishly as I peek in my own bedroom doorway at my own unmade bed. I shrug. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree says my friend Holly. Hell, the apple ain't even OFF the tree!
I read another bloggers heartfelt post about her younger kids messily made beds and how she can choose to be irritated or sentimental about the lack of tight even corners and straight aligned edges on the beds they've made all by themselves. And I think about how it's been a year now since I've had the opportunity to be either irritated OR sentimental about my own younger kids and their bed making talents.
I remember the mornings of "before" - when I would arrive home after driving my youngest to school and set about making beds, gathering laundry, folding, straightening, fluffing, piling; and inevitably sighing, griping, rolling my eyes as I did so - and on a good day weaving in a blessing and a prayer for each child as I did the scut work that is hand in hand with mothering.
Now - well, now is not "before", now is sooo very "now". I try very hard to appreciate "now" because I know all too well the concept of Perspective and also the concept of Like Vs Like. What I have is what I have and I could have less (like so many others) or I could have much more than some (comparatively) so I try to accept and bless and enjoy what IS, and what is NOW instead of dwelling on "before". But it's hard.
Thinking about the simple act of making beds, and the lack of opportunity to do so leads to the bitter inescapable truth that I have also not had the opportunity to tuck my children in their beds. In a year.
A years worth of missed bedtimes: the loss of whispered secrets between my daughter and I, the loss of intimate moments of truth and discovery between my son and I, the lost moments of tenderness, tickling, teasing, teaching. An entire year, and then some, of nights that can't be recovered - nights I didn't pull the blankets up tight to my childs chin, seeing their eyes bright and full of light peeking over the quilt edges in the sharp winter air... nights I didn't turn the fan on a notch higher, crack the window a little more, and kiss a warm flushed cheek in the humid summer stillness... nights I didn't return time and time again to lay a knowing palm on a fevered forehead, determining if it was time for fever reducing medicine or time to let it burn itself out still... nights I didn't come upon a wide eyed pre-teen consumed with some pre-teen trauma that needed deconstructing, listening, encouragement. So many nights missed, so much growth stunted, so much loss.
Not just for me - oh, my loss is as relatable as the mouth-watering-feet-running-in-place feeling you get when you bite the inside of your cheek while chewing your dinner; but their loss, my kids loss, which I can't even begin to try and imagine. When I think about nights they cried and I wasn't there to hold them, nights they were scared and I wasn't there to chase away the fear, nights they were troubled and I wasn't there to shine a light - nights when they missed their momma and I wasn't there - it makes my stomach churn as if I were in serious trouble with the law, as if I were witnessing an act of brutality that others were laughing at, as if I were being held down forcibly while awaiting random acts of torture. My stomach turns itself inside out when I think about what my children have gone through this past year.
And when I read about or listen to the tale of another momma who is feeling overwhelmed by the work involved in parenting - I feel so much more like reaching out and smacking them with a dose of harsh reality than smiling sympathetically and getting that warm fuzzy blog-sistah feeling.
I can still remember the way it felt to face another morning of unmade beds, socks stuffed under a pillow, and wet towels behind the closet door. Before... but my current reality is the constant ache of missing my own heart, the emptiness inside of not having my full breath, the grief and loss of what is, essentially, the death of all I ever knew. My reality now is getting up every day and smiling, laughing, loving - because while I have lost a full year of my children, there is still a future ahead of us and I am still, in spite of it all, The Mom. I may have missed a year of bedtimes and bedmaking but I have had just enough to sustain me (and them) of laughing with my children, whispering secrets, getting through a disagreement, working through an angry moment, assigning a chore, sharing a private joke, having a memory of an event that is JUST ours to have, and other small but valid and important mommy moments.
Just... just, don't let the small things get you down and pass you by because what you have is what I would give up my eyesight for - what I would willingly and eagerly give a body part for - a bedtime, a morning of sighing over unmade beds, another load of dishes or mismatched socks, I would trade you my own internal organ just to have that as part of my life NOW.
Perspective. You see?
And now, because I am still the mom, I have to go and set up a new bed, pull up the blankets over an empty mattress, and bless the space that is available. A mom doesn't give up, doesn't give in, and doesn't let the dark still night steal her soul - even if she wants to - because her kids are still there, still waiting. This mom won't be able to recover what is lost but she can create new moments out of potential.
I'm still the mom - a year later, I am still the mom. And you can't take that away from me.
Love, Mia
I laugh sheepishly as I peek in my own bedroom doorway at my own unmade bed. I shrug. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree says my friend Holly. Hell, the apple ain't even OFF the tree!
I read another bloggers heartfelt post about her younger kids messily made beds and how she can choose to be irritated or sentimental about the lack of tight even corners and straight aligned edges on the beds they've made all by themselves. And I think about how it's been a year now since I've had the opportunity to be either irritated OR sentimental about my own younger kids and their bed making talents.
I remember the mornings of "before" - when I would arrive home after driving my youngest to school and set about making beds, gathering laundry, folding, straightening, fluffing, piling; and inevitably sighing, griping, rolling my eyes as I did so - and on a good day weaving in a blessing and a prayer for each child as I did the scut work that is hand in hand with mothering.
Now - well, now is not "before", now is sooo very "now". I try very hard to appreciate "now" because I know all too well the concept of Perspective and also the concept of Like Vs Like. What I have is what I have and I could have less (like so many others) or I could have much more than some (comparatively) so I try to accept and bless and enjoy what IS, and what is NOW instead of dwelling on "before". But it's hard.
Thinking about the simple act of making beds, and the lack of opportunity to do so leads to the bitter inescapable truth that I have also not had the opportunity to tuck my children in their beds. In a year.
A years worth of missed bedtimes: the loss of whispered secrets between my daughter and I, the loss of intimate moments of truth and discovery between my son and I, the lost moments of tenderness, tickling, teasing, teaching. An entire year, and then some, of nights that can't be recovered - nights I didn't pull the blankets up tight to my childs chin, seeing their eyes bright and full of light peeking over the quilt edges in the sharp winter air... nights I didn't turn the fan on a notch higher, crack the window a little more, and kiss a warm flushed cheek in the humid summer stillness... nights I didn't return time and time again to lay a knowing palm on a fevered forehead, determining if it was time for fever reducing medicine or time to let it burn itself out still... nights I didn't come upon a wide eyed pre-teen consumed with some pre-teen trauma that needed deconstructing, listening, encouragement. So many nights missed, so much growth stunted, so much loss.
Not just for me - oh, my loss is as relatable as the mouth-watering-feet-running-in-place feeling you get when you bite the inside of your cheek while chewing your dinner; but their loss, my kids loss, which I can't even begin to try and imagine. When I think about nights they cried and I wasn't there to hold them, nights they were scared and I wasn't there to chase away the fear, nights they were troubled and I wasn't there to shine a light - nights when they missed their momma and I wasn't there - it makes my stomach churn as if I were in serious trouble with the law, as if I were witnessing an act of brutality that others were laughing at, as if I were being held down forcibly while awaiting random acts of torture. My stomach turns itself inside out when I think about what my children have gone through this past year.
And when I read about or listen to the tale of another momma who is feeling overwhelmed by the work involved in parenting - I feel so much more like reaching out and smacking them with a dose of harsh reality than smiling sympathetically and getting that warm fuzzy blog-sistah feeling.
I can still remember the way it felt to face another morning of unmade beds, socks stuffed under a pillow, and wet towels behind the closet door. Before... but my current reality is the constant ache of missing my own heart, the emptiness inside of not having my full breath, the grief and loss of what is, essentially, the death of all I ever knew. My reality now is getting up every day and smiling, laughing, loving - because while I have lost a full year of my children, there is still a future ahead of us and I am still, in spite of it all, The Mom. I may have missed a year of bedtimes and bedmaking but I have had just enough to sustain me (and them) of laughing with my children, whispering secrets, getting through a disagreement, working through an angry moment, assigning a chore, sharing a private joke, having a memory of an event that is JUST ours to have, and other small but valid and important mommy moments.
Just... just, don't let the small things get you down and pass you by because what you have is what I would give up my eyesight for - what I would willingly and eagerly give a body part for - a bedtime, a morning of sighing over unmade beds, another load of dishes or mismatched socks, I would trade you my own internal organ just to have that as part of my life NOW.
Perspective. You see?
And now, because I am still the mom, I have to go and set up a new bed, pull up the blankets over an empty mattress, and bless the space that is available. A mom doesn't give up, doesn't give in, and doesn't let the dark still night steal her soul - even if she wants to - because her kids are still there, still waiting. This mom won't be able to recover what is lost but she can create new moments out of potential.
I'm still the mom - a year later, I am still the mom. And you can't take that away from me.
Love, Mia
Wednesday, July 28
Parent Number One
Recently I took a few days and sorted through boxes of "stuff" I finally pulled from the attic storage room.
When I left my home originally, left my husband, I'd been secretly stashing things for quite awhile - a photo or frame in this box, a keepsake memento of a vacation in another box, a small stash of kids artwork in a file folder I took to work... and when it was finally suddenly time to go I just stuffed randomly as quickly as I could. It's good that I started slow and got the things I did because I haven't been allowed back in since that time.
There are things I missed of course, but I got a good deal of very important treasures. Those treasures have been all mixed up in boxes of varying sorts; rubbermaid containers, diaper boxes, sturdy cardboard boxes that paper comes in, and some office file boxes with lids. I've been needing to sort it for some time. As the first year of being gone, of having my life so changed is coming to a close I decided it was as good a time as any.
I opened all the boxes and began making piles on the floor. Each box was a disorganized mix of papers, photos, old christmas cards, childhood mementos, fragile china figurines from my mother, and even odds and ends of toiletries or music cd's. Once it was all laid out and categorized in a way that makes sense to me, I reboxed them.
This whole process took forever, and truthfully isn't even quite complete, because I kept getting sidetracked by my now teenagers old kindergarden artwork or their third grade "family history" booklets. And of course along with that, I got sidetracked by grief.
I was reading through my 14 year old son's kindergarden "All About Me" notebook. Some of it is in his teachers handwriting, some of it in an unknown 'helper' or 'aid' handwriting, and his own early attempts of scrawled words, and the rest is my own printing. There is a whole page of "family traditions" dictated by him but written out by me. Another page wherein we describe the events of a particular teddy bear that had come home with him for a weekend visit. Lists of his friends, his favorite things, his dreams. So tender, so innocent, and so full of a boy and his mommy working together. Daddy is mentioned of course, but daddy didn't write anywhere in that book. In all the papers for my 14 year old son, and for my 12 year old daughter, there is one constant thing. Report cards for all the years were signed by me. Some progress notes bear both my signature and dads, but always always mine. Both 100% correct papers and the papers full of red check marks bear my signature of acknowledgment. I look over old physicals and copies of enrollment forms, folders of letters from camp, notes from teachers, thank you cards from teams - all focused on "dear Mom" or "dear Mrs. Miaheart" or "To thisgirls Mom".
In all the official paperwork there is a Parent section where you list the parents name and address separate from the childs. There is a Parent Number One and Parent Number Two and then Child sections. In these accumulated papers from 14 years of parenting, the Parent Number One section is always me. The mom, me. In the Parent Number Two section all the papers list daddy's name but just have scrawled "same" for the address and phone. Because that's how it was. I was the primary parent and daddy was there and with us and part of it all but it was ME who was Parent Number One on every form.
This year my kids are away at a camp they've both been to every summer. I'm glad they are there and having fun but I didn't get to sit down and go over the brochure and collectively choose which programs they enrolled in. I didn't get to discuss the varying dates and choose which weeks worked best. I didn't get to scramble for copies of physicals and immunizations and extra socks and a replacement canteen for the one we couldn't find. I just got an email, 4 days before they left, telling me that they were going and when they'd be back. I had to call the camp to confirm the dates, their programs, their cabin assignments... and to see if my name and contact information were accurate on the paperwork.
My name was listed under Parent Number Two. Just my name. The city where I live and an illegible phone number were listed but that's all. I want to say that it was my imagination that the camp secretary was suspicious and cold, because I had been on a first name basis with her these past 4 years, but I don't think I imagined the indifferent offer of "oh, well, if you want us to have your number down I guess I can put it in for you" response she gave when I suggested that she place my correct phone number down in case of emergency. I hope she actually DID put my number down correctly. Even if it is under Parent Number Two, it will take another 14 years to erase the fact that in the beginning I was always the Parent Number One.
And in spite of my new status as Parent Number Two, I'm still the mom.
Love, Mia
When I left my home originally, left my husband, I'd been secretly stashing things for quite awhile - a photo or frame in this box, a keepsake memento of a vacation in another box, a small stash of kids artwork in a file folder I took to work... and when it was finally suddenly time to go I just stuffed randomly as quickly as I could. It's good that I started slow and got the things I did because I haven't been allowed back in since that time.
There are things I missed of course, but I got a good deal of very important treasures. Those treasures have been all mixed up in boxes of varying sorts; rubbermaid containers, diaper boxes, sturdy cardboard boxes that paper comes in, and some office file boxes with lids. I've been needing to sort it for some time. As the first year of being gone, of having my life so changed is coming to a close I decided it was as good a time as any.
I opened all the boxes and began making piles on the floor. Each box was a disorganized mix of papers, photos, old christmas cards, childhood mementos, fragile china figurines from my mother, and even odds and ends of toiletries or music cd's. Once it was all laid out and categorized in a way that makes sense to me, I reboxed them.
This whole process took forever, and truthfully isn't even quite complete, because I kept getting sidetracked by my now teenagers old kindergarden artwork or their third grade "family history" booklets. And of course along with that, I got sidetracked by grief.
I was reading through my 14 year old son's kindergarden "All About Me" notebook. Some of it is in his teachers handwriting, some of it in an unknown 'helper' or 'aid' handwriting, and his own early attempts of scrawled words, and the rest is my own printing. There is a whole page of "family traditions" dictated by him but written out by me. Another page wherein we describe the events of a particular teddy bear that had come home with him for a weekend visit. Lists of his friends, his favorite things, his dreams. So tender, so innocent, and so full of a boy and his mommy working together. Daddy is mentioned of course, but daddy didn't write anywhere in that book. In all the papers for my 14 year old son, and for my 12 year old daughter, there is one constant thing. Report cards for all the years were signed by me. Some progress notes bear both my signature and dads, but always always mine. Both 100% correct papers and the papers full of red check marks bear my signature of acknowledgment. I look over old physicals and copies of enrollment forms, folders of letters from camp, notes from teachers, thank you cards from teams - all focused on "dear Mom" or "dear Mrs. Miaheart" or "To thisgirls Mom".
In all the official paperwork there is a Parent section where you list the parents name and address separate from the childs. There is a Parent Number One and Parent Number Two and then Child sections. In these accumulated papers from 14 years of parenting, the Parent Number One section is always me. The mom, me. In the Parent Number Two section all the papers list daddy's name but just have scrawled "same" for the address and phone. Because that's how it was. I was the primary parent and daddy was there and with us and part of it all but it was ME who was Parent Number One on every form.
This year my kids are away at a camp they've both been to every summer. I'm glad they are there and having fun but I didn't get to sit down and go over the brochure and collectively choose which programs they enrolled in. I didn't get to discuss the varying dates and choose which weeks worked best. I didn't get to scramble for copies of physicals and immunizations and extra socks and a replacement canteen for the one we couldn't find. I just got an email, 4 days before they left, telling me that they were going and when they'd be back. I had to call the camp to confirm the dates, their programs, their cabin assignments... and to see if my name and contact information were accurate on the paperwork.
My name was listed under Parent Number Two. Just my name. The city where I live and an illegible phone number were listed but that's all. I want to say that it was my imagination that the camp secretary was suspicious and cold, because I had been on a first name basis with her these past 4 years, but I don't think I imagined the indifferent offer of "oh, well, if you want us to have your number down I guess I can put it in for you" response she gave when I suggested that she place my correct phone number down in case of emergency. I hope she actually DID put my number down correctly. Even if it is under Parent Number Two, it will take another 14 years to erase the fact that in the beginning I was always the Parent Number One.
And in spite of my new status as Parent Number Two, I'm still the mom.
Love, Mia
Sunday, July 25
I'm Still The Mom
It's been a year since I left.
I thought that I'd be living in one of those condo's that are over by the golf course, and that maybe my ex would be living there too in another unit, maybe on a different floor. I thought that the kids would be moving back and forth between us, at will but with some standard of boundary or structure. I thought that my ex and I might not be necessarily friendly, but that we'd be polite and able to communicate. I thought I'd be still tucking my daughter into bed most nights, and sighing over my son's report card, and heaving my tired self off the couch to drive someone to some practice or rehearsal or friends house or sometimes saying, "dad said he'd pick you up and you can stay the night at his place tonight" interspersed with "you are with dad mostly this week so don't forget your backpack and your key ok?"
I never imagined, a year ago, that I'd be seeing my kids an average of 72 hours a MONTH... that is, 3 days a month.
It never once occurred to me, a mostly stay at home mom for 14 years, that I would go an entire year without tucking my daughter in to bed, without making a school lunch complete with silly note scribbled on a napkin, without being there when my son was hurt or sick. I would have laughed if you'd suggested it.
But it all happened.
Even 6 months ago I still thought it was all a mistake, a momentary "thing" and that it would sort itself all out and that by now, July, I'd be spending days and weeks at a time juggling the kids and their bickering and the laundry and veto-ing potato chips while giving 'the look' over a serving of broccoli.
It's been a year of being surprised, shocked, bewildered, broken. A year of loss, day by day and breath by breath. A year of days that wouldn't end, for God's sake they just wouldn't end, and nightmares that happen in broad daylight every day over and over again. And now, the realization, finally, that this year wasn't just a momentary "thing" but has become a precedent for the years that are to come.
What I've lost this year, what has been stolen from my children, is only the beginning of what is going to be more loss. And at the end of each day I remind myself that I Am Still The Mom.
This blog is for me, for my children, and it's for you and your children. It's for every parent who finds themselves empty but it's also for those parents who find themselves bitterly and angrily witholding, denying, and controlling. It's time to let go.
I thought that I'd be living in one of those condo's that are over by the golf course, and that maybe my ex would be living there too in another unit, maybe on a different floor. I thought that the kids would be moving back and forth between us, at will but with some standard of boundary or structure. I thought that my ex and I might not be necessarily friendly, but that we'd be polite and able to communicate. I thought I'd be still tucking my daughter into bed most nights, and sighing over my son's report card, and heaving my tired self off the couch to drive someone to some practice or rehearsal or friends house or sometimes saying, "dad said he'd pick you up and you can stay the night at his place tonight" interspersed with "you are with dad mostly this week so don't forget your backpack and your key ok?"
I never imagined, a year ago, that I'd be seeing my kids an average of 72 hours a MONTH... that is, 3 days a month.
It never once occurred to me, a mostly stay at home mom for 14 years, that I would go an entire year without tucking my daughter in to bed, without making a school lunch complete with silly note scribbled on a napkin, without being there when my son was hurt or sick. I would have laughed if you'd suggested it.
But it all happened.
Even 6 months ago I still thought it was all a mistake, a momentary "thing" and that it would sort itself all out and that by now, July, I'd be spending days and weeks at a time juggling the kids and their bickering and the laundry and veto-ing potato chips while giving 'the look' over a serving of broccoli.
It's been a year of being surprised, shocked, bewildered, broken. A year of loss, day by day and breath by breath. A year of days that wouldn't end, for God's sake they just wouldn't end, and nightmares that happen in broad daylight every day over and over again. And now, the realization, finally, that this year wasn't just a momentary "thing" but has become a precedent for the years that are to come.
What I've lost this year, what has been stolen from my children, is only the beginning of what is going to be more loss. And at the end of each day I remind myself that I Am Still The Mom.
This blog is for me, for my children, and it's for you and your children. It's for every parent who finds themselves empty but it's also for those parents who find themselves bitterly and angrily witholding, denying, and controlling. It's time to let go.
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