One:
She is doing some dishes and I am sitting on a stool chatting with her, just passing time. We've been friends for 12 years now and there is always something to talk about.
"He's been gone for 7 full days now and I am done! I've never been away from him for that long and I hate it! I feel like just going there and telling him to get in the car and come home!" Her back is to me and she can't see my face. She is laughing at herself and doing dishes and I am sitting there with tears streaming down my face.
She is talking about her son, a boy the same age as mine, a boy I've known for 12 years and whom I tease and chat with easily even now. He is her firstborn, a son she sees everyday except for this year, this 10 days of summer camp. She misses him because out of almost 14 years she has never been away from him for so long. She keeps talking about missing him and I am thinking about all the days I've missed MY son. I think about how I had never been away from MY son before either, and now it's been week after week after week for months and months. I hate her almost, because she can miss her son but yet NOT miss him - because in a couple of days he'll be back in her arms, in her house, in the room she nags him to clean, eating the food she cooks, and their time apart will be nothing more than a hiccup.
She turns off the tap and folds the dishtowel while saying, with an embarrassed laugh, "I mean, really, how can anyone expect a mom to go so long without seeing her kid?!"
You'd be surprised at what people expect a mom to do.
Two:
We are sitting at the dining table chatting over a glass of wine. Her husband is watching tv in the other room and both her sons are in their rooms. It's nice quiet girl time for us. Special time because we have it so rarely. We are talking about her youngest and how he's changing as he moves into puberty and how she has some fears about what is up ahead. He is the same age as my youngest, but with some significant differences that make anticipating normal changes something worth fretting over and discussing.
"I don't know," she says, "it's always something these days and I can't tell if it's supposed to be happening or if it's a symptom of something I have to worry about!" I murmur to her, wordless mutterings of empathy, listening intently. "Like, his sleeping pattern is different now and it's driving me crazy. He has trouble sleeping even with his usual medicine. I guess it's the age, is it like that with Bear too?" She is so worried, stressed, and seeking understanding that she doesn't register what she has said.
My eyes tear up instantly and when I speak, my voice is thick and quivery. "I don't know..." and then she gets it. I mean it really, I don't know.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, I know I know, it's ok..." and she is holding me and I am sobbing into her chest because the truth is that I don't know - I'm not there to know if my baby is having a hard time sleeping, if she is sad or lonely in the middle of the night, if she is scared or has funny dreams or is too tired. I'm not there, and no one tells me.
Important point about those speechless moments:
She never means any harm. Ever. This is my truest bestest friend who has seen all the parts of my life over the past years and has been instrumental in helping me be with my kids whenever possible. I know she would never deliberately pose such questions and the truth is that I don't want her to NOT pose those questions. I want to speak freely and for HER to speak freely. I want to talk about her missing her son - I know how it is to miss your child. I want to talk about her fears with her other son - I know how it is to fear for your childs future. I don't want her to stop talking about things just because they hurt me.
These moments happen all the time to me with other people. Moments when I find myself having to explain or justify or change the subject even. Moments when I have to bend down and pick up some peice of lint off the floor to disguise my tears, or start coughing to cover up the quiver in my voice. It's easier when they happen with her because I don't have to hide. I don't have to censor or explain - and I hope she never does either.
There are times I'm speechless, yes, but I'm still the mom.
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Friday, November 12
Thursday, November 11
Picking Peices
I drive 70 miles, one way, to see my children. It's about an hour and 20 minutes most of which is a straight shot of interstate.
On a "long" visit, I drive the hour plus long/70 miles, pick them up and drive an hour plus long/70 miles back to my house where we all try to reconnect for the day before we pile into the car for the hour plus long/70 mile ride back to drop them off... and I turn around and drive that long trip all by myself back to my house. On a "regular" visit, it's 280 miles, and over 5 hours of travel time all on ONE DAY just so I can be with my children for 3 hours. "He" won't do half of it - and hasn't been ordered to by the court so I have no choice but to do it on my own. It's been a complete solid year of that now. You do the math.
There have been times when I had to pick between gas money for the trip or gas money to get to and from work for the week.
There have been times when I have packed up every bit of food I could rummage from the cabinets and fridge into a cooler to bring with me so I could feed my children dinner and use cash on hand for tolls and gas.
There have been times I could not go see my children because there wasn't gas in the car or money to buy any.
It's all about picking the right option, and about picking out time and picking over funds on a day to day basis. It's about picking up extra hours at work, picking ramen over rice, picking staying home over driving to the library, picking up scrap paper and lost pennies, picking up discarded soda cans to return, picking the shorter time route or the less distance drive, picking the dollar menu items over the meal deals, and picking quantity over quality which they hate or quality over quantity which I hate: no matter what the experts spout.
It's about picking which lie to buy, which shade of rose to paint on my glasses, which child to please, which way to pose the truth, and which fucking breath to breathe, and which peices of our lives to pick up and hold tight and which ones to let die away forevermore.
It's always about picking. I used to pick up the laundry, pick up the legos, pick up the piles of mail and homework and discarded dishes. I used to pick up children, prescriptions, friends, and birthday cakes. I picked up socks, dog poop, used kleenex, and the newspaper. Now I just pick up peices of memories, peices of life.
I keep this little red pic from my son to remind me that no matter what guitar (or what life force) is being used, and no matter what song (or what note) is being
played, the difference between just grabbing on with your hands or finely picking with a pick is noticeable. It can create a sound that is worth stopping to listen to instead of a sound to ignore.
Picking matters. Picking on a guitar, or picking this over that in life.
And so I pick.
And I hold onto this red plastic pick that my son has created music with so I can remind myself of that one fact.
Picking matters.
Even when the difference is unnoticeable to the untrained, it matters.
On a "long" visit, I drive the hour plus long/70 miles, pick them up and drive an hour plus long/70 miles back to my house where we all try to reconnect for the day before we pile into the car for the hour plus long/70 mile ride back to drop them off... and I turn around and drive that long trip all by myself back to my house. On a "regular" visit, it's 280 miles, and over 5 hours of travel time all on ONE DAY just so I can be with my children for 3 hours. "He" won't do half of it - and hasn't been ordered to by the court so I have no choice but to do it on my own. It's been a complete solid year of that now. You do the math.
On a "regular" visit, the trip is just me driving all the way out there, spending a few hours with the kids for dinner, and then driving back home alone. 114 miles and almost 3 hours of driving all by myself with my thoughts and regrets and grief.
There have been times when I had to pick between gas money for the trip or gas money to get to and from work for the week.
There have been times when I have packed up every bit of food I could rummage from the cabinets and fridge into a cooler to bring with me so I could feed my children dinner and use cash on hand for tolls and gas.
There have been times I could not go see my children because there wasn't gas in the car or money to buy any.
It's all about picking the right option, and about picking out time and picking over funds on a day to day basis. It's about picking up extra hours at work, picking ramen over rice, picking staying home over driving to the library, picking up scrap paper and lost pennies, picking up discarded soda cans to return, picking the shorter time route or the less distance drive, picking the dollar menu items over the meal deals, and picking quantity over quality which they hate or quality over quantity which I hate: no matter what the experts spout.
It's about picking which lie to buy, which shade of rose to paint on my glasses, which child to please, which way to pose the truth, and which fucking breath to breathe, and which peices of our lives to pick up and hold tight and which ones to let die away forevermore.
It's always about picking. I used to pick up the laundry, pick up the legos, pick up the piles of mail and homework and discarded dishes. I used to pick up children, prescriptions, friends, and birthday cakes. I picked up socks, dog poop, used kleenex, and the newspaper. Now I just pick up peices of memories, peices of life.
I keep this little red pic from my son to remind me that no matter what guitar (or what life force) is being used, and no matter what song (or what note) is being
played, the difference between just grabbing on with your hands or finely picking with a pick is noticeable. It can create a sound that is worth stopping to listen to instead of a sound to ignore. Picking matters. Picking on a guitar, or picking this over that in life.
And so I pick.
And I hold onto this red plastic pick that my son has created music with so I can remind myself of that one fact.
Picking matters.
Even when the difference is unnoticeable to the untrained, it matters.
Tuesday, September 28
Current Events - pt 2
You need to take responsibility for your actions. You haven't taken responsibility for your actions! When are you going to take responsibility for yourself?
Those are words I heard him say to me and assume it is what he says about me to others. Words I know he says to himself about me when he tells himself why it's ok that he's behaving the way he is.
She seems to minimize her behaviors and shift responsibility off herself. ...blames others... Has minimized her role in this matter. Explains away events. Does not accept responsibility for personal role. Did not cry or show emotion, was serious.
Statements and fragments of statements written about me by a "professional" after a "brief interview" with me and then a lengthy discussion with him.
For more than a week now I've thought nonstop about these things, about the theme expressed by those words. About the constancy of it's being brought up over the past year. If I remove all emotion from my thoughts, remove my attachment to the meaning and my need to respond, then I can see the way in which these things might have a foundation in truth. But only if I remove emotion and attachment and involvement, only if I try to stand outside it all. And then I see too, how my every effort to explain ANYTHING about my behavior, my actions, my FEELINGS even, appears to be blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing.
If the shoe were on the other foot.... as the cliche states so accurately.
I don't necessarily accept that the statements and resultant theme held over me are true or valid - but I do accept that it is a believed (and believable) stance from which he has made his argument. And only by doing that, by seeing how he's arrived there at that point and how he's made it his absolute truth, am I able to finally, finally, oh God finally, let go of my futile attempt to figure out what to do to make this whole thing better.
I can't change his truth. I can't change his perception, nor can I change the tremendous damage I have done over the past year in my efforts at trying to change his truth (aka blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing...).
What I can do is accept all of that and work with it instead of against it.
I can do what I expect HIM to do and that is to accept responsibility for my actions regardless of WHY those actions were committed. I can stop explaining why I've done something and simply sit with what I've done and the way that is perceived by others... and then respond to that. Not by explaining any reasons, but simply by responding.
I will do this because this is what grown ups do: take responsibility. I will do this because it is what a mom does, what a mom wants her kids to do, and I am, after all is said and done, Still The Mom.
Love, Mia
Those are words I heard him say to me and assume it is what he says about me to others. Words I know he says to himself about me when he tells himself why it's ok that he's behaving the way he is.
She seems to minimize her behaviors and shift responsibility off herself. ...blames others... Has minimized her role in this matter. Explains away events. Does not accept responsibility for personal role. Did not cry or show emotion, was serious.
Statements and fragments of statements written about me by a "professional" after a "brief interview" with me and then a lengthy discussion with him.
For more than a week now I've thought nonstop about these things, about the theme expressed by those words. About the constancy of it's being brought up over the past year. If I remove all emotion from my thoughts, remove my attachment to the meaning and my need to respond, then I can see the way in which these things might have a foundation in truth. But only if I remove emotion and attachment and involvement, only if I try to stand outside it all. And then I see too, how my every effort to explain ANYTHING about my behavior, my actions, my FEELINGS even, appears to be blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing.
If the shoe were on the other foot.... as the cliche states so accurately.
I don't necessarily accept that the statements and resultant theme held over me are true or valid - but I do accept that it is a believed (and believable) stance from which he has made his argument. And only by doing that, by seeing how he's arrived there at that point and how he's made it his absolute truth, am I able to finally, finally, oh God finally, let go of my futile attempt to figure out what to do to make this whole thing better.
I can't change his truth. I can't change his perception, nor can I change the tremendous damage I have done over the past year in my efforts at trying to change his truth (aka blaming, shifting responsibility, minimizing...).
What I can do is accept all of that and work with it instead of against it.
I can do what I expect HIM to do and that is to accept responsibility for my actions regardless of WHY those actions were committed. I can stop explaining why I've done something and simply sit with what I've done and the way that is perceived by others... and then respond to that. Not by explaining any reasons, but simply by responding.
I will do this because this is what grown ups do: take responsibility. I will do this because it is what a mom does, what a mom wants her kids to do, and I am, after all is said and done, Still The Mom.
Love, Mia
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
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