Balance

Summer winds down, and I find myself both anxious for fall to really get here and already regretting the things I didn't do over the past couple of months.

A trip to see friends and a new baby didn't happen.

We didn't go to the pool enough.

We watched too much TV when it rained outside.

I didn't get a garden planted.

These things clog up my brain, pushing aside the memories that were made.

Colin learned to swim. And by "learned," I mean, took off his floaties and flung himself across the pool declaring himself independent and capable.

Christopher learned to ride his bike. And by "learned," I mean, I took off his training wheels, and while I was busy turning my back for five seconds, he got on and rode the bike down the driveway declaring himself a big boy bike rider who doesn't need my help, thank you very much.

In June, we drove down to Mississippi and spent a week with my family in which the children played until they collapsed at night, snuggled in Nana's bed to read stories, and got to spend unstructured and unscripted time with their cousins. And as a bonus, I actually stayed the whole time this year with no erupting fights with my brother.

I got to go to BlogHer again and room with two amazing people who just so happened to enjoy hanging out in the room late at night unwinding together - which was exactly what I needed. I met some fabulous people. I saw some old friends. I was inspired - which, let's be honest - if you go to BlogHer and don't leave inspired in some way, you may have no soul.

Good things happened this summer. Momma is still brave, still taking chemo, and still watching it work. It's been harder on her than ever before, but she does it anyway, and I love her so much for doing it.

I don't know what's wrong with my head that all of these good things happened, and yet when left idle, my brain says, "You didn't take the kids to DC," and "You didn't go to the pool all last week," and "You didn't do any of the writing and reading you said you were going to do with the boys." These things, while I wish they had happened, I let them define the summer.

Why is that?

Good things. Bad things.

I need to find the balance.

Pee hole

Since we're on the subject of penises (What? I have two small boys. We are always on the subject of penises), there is this conversation I accidentally had and now they know how they got here. Dang.

Colin, the three year old, started it. I had to pee, and I opted to shut the door. Gradually, I'm attempting to reestablish some privacy in this house. When I came out of the bathroom, Colin throws out,

"Did you pee out of your peeeeeeenis?"

He shrieks with laughter, because penises are funny.

I knew that he wasn't confused, but I felt obligated to correct him.

"Colin, Mama doesn't have a penis. Only boys have penises."

Christopher, who is five and always eager to share his vast knowledge of all things potty related, piped up,

"That's right! Mama has a vaginis!"

Don't judge. We are close to the right terms, but dang it. The way he rhymes vaginis with penis is just so cute.

Here's where I could have stopped, but noooooo. I just had keep talking.

"Actually, pee doesn't come out of my vagina."

Christopher raised an eyebrow and asked, "Well, what does it come out of?"

Dang it. All I could think of was "pee hole." Not exactly the right response. I issued a guess of "urethra" and mumbled that we would have to look it up to be sure.

Of course, we weren't done. Christopher was still curious.

"What's your vagina for, then?

Okay. Easiest answer. Go for the easiest answer.

"Well, it's what babies come out of."

The look on that little boy's face was one of pure and utter disgust. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. First came the denial,

"Nuh-uh! I did not come out of your vaginis!"

Oh yes you did, and I have the scar to prove it.

Then came the arguing,

"Babies come from a mama's tummy!"

Right. Wishing I had stuck with that one for a few more years.

Next he went for the potty punchline,

"Ewwwww! You got pee on me when I was a baby!"

Yep, but not from my vagnis, little one. And if you think that's gross, then we certainly don't need to talk about the rest of it.

Finally, the logic,

"But Mama, there is no way I fit through your vaginis."

Sigh.

"That's what I thought too, sweetheart, but here you are."

And as quickly as we moved into that treacherous territory, we moved right out again thanks to  Popsicles and the insatiable appetites and short attention spans of little boys.

Dang.

Deliberately

I'm not going to lie. 2012 sucked giant donkey balls. 2011 wasn't that much better.

Declaring that 2013 is going to be better just seems like a dare to the universe to whack me even harder than ever. Not something I want to even tempt.

So, I will declare only what I know will happen.

In 2013, I will turn 40. There won't be any complaining from me. I feel good. I'm lucky to get to turn 40. 

In 2013, Christopher will start kindergarten. I don't know where, and I don't know that I'm altogether alright with any of it. It causes me more anxiety than I would like to admit.

In 2013, Colin will start at Arts Together. I'm happy we have two more years to be there.

In 2013, Mallory will start her last year of high school. So we have one starting preschool, one starting kindergarten, and one starting her senior year. 

In 2013, Kevin and I will have been married for seven years. How is that even possible?

There are goals I have for 2013. I want to keep the house neater. I want to be in the 140's before I'm 40. I want to have my the way I eat when I'm counting points become more natural for me - have it not be a diet, but just the way I eat. I want to sew more. Write more. Play more. Sing more.

I want to be more present in my life in 2013. Aware of my children and their needs. Aware of my husband and his needs. Aware of my friends and their needs. And of course, aware of myself and my needs. 

It's so easy for me to just get stuck in my head. It doesn't take much for me to curl up like a pill bug and roll into my little hole. I'm going to let that be alright if it happens deliberately, but I'm going to try not to let it happen with me unaware.

In 2013, I will try to live deliberately, making thoughtful choices in my body, my mind, and my soul.

It's not a resolution. At least, not a New Year's resolution. It is a goal. One that my whole life has been leading up to. I think I have the tools to reach it finally. 

I guess we will see.

Nurse nurse

He slips into my room in the middle of the night. Or in the very early morning. Either way you look at it, I'm still in a deep sleep.

I know he is there even though he doesn't make a sound other than his breathing. He stands at the side of my bed and waits for me to lean over the edge, scoop him up under his arms, and lift him into bed with me.

Most nights, he slips into the crook of my arms and falls right back to sleep. A few nights ago, he quietly asked, "Nurse nurse?"

He is almost three. During the day, he couldn't be bothered with nursing. There are bad guys to fight, dogs to chase, costumes to wear, cars to race. He doesn't have time for the "nuh-nuh's." When I put him down for a nap, he usually likes to nurse to sleep. I let him, and then I slip out of his bed and back downstairs to get some work done.

Only, lately, he has been too busy to nap. No nap, no nurse nurse.

So a few nights ago, he asked, I obliged, and we rolled over onto our sides and scooted into position for a little side lying nursing. I barely even woke up. I don't know how long he tried. All I know is that the next thing I hear Colin saying is,

"Mama? I really want for the milk to come out."

Then my heart broke just a little bit.

My last baby. My last nursling. And the end just snuck up on us.

It's alright. I knew it wasn't going to last forever. I've sold the cloth diapers. The crib and the toddler bed are long gone. Cups don't automatically have lids snapped on them before being given over to the small people. Booster seats have replaced convertible car seats.

It's been a long time coming. He's almost three. I love who he has become in his three years. He is smart and funny and I wouldn't trade him in for a newborn for anything.

But, just, ooooph. It's just a little bit hard to be letting him go. My baby.

Into the ether

Some days I feel like a nonperson. Like I just take up space in the universe, but no one really pays attention to me. Which is ironic, because I am the single person capable of doing anything for the boys. I mean, if I'm gone, and the boys are home with Kevin, the moment I walk in, it's, "Mama! Can I have a glass of water? Please? I'm thirsty. Will you get me something to drink?"

It's like Kevin has starved them, denied them hydration, refused them bathroom privileges, and never ever changed a diaper. All of which is ridiculous, of course.

Other than my superpowers to "get people stuff," I seem to be pretty useless. I say, "Please clean your crayons off the table, it's time to eat," and the sound vibrations disappear into the ether. I say, "Please stop dancing and twirling in the aisles; you are going to run into someone," and the words are mysteriously transformed into magical dance music that makes four year olds unable to control their feet.

I say, "Don't forget to take Mallory her flowers," and my voice is so heavy, it weighs the bouquet down to the counter, and makes it impossible to pick up and carry to the concert.

Logically, I know it's perception. And if I had an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, we would talk through this, I would cry, and we would get back to the fact that my cheerleader, the one person who constantly told me the good about myself, is gone.

So yeah. Maybe I'm supposed to be moving on. Maybe I'm not supposed to still be writing about grief. Maybe I'm annoying and whiny. So be it. 

The truth is, it's been insanely difficult to write everyday this month without writing about grief. And I can't avoid it today. Today is one of those days we would have talked through all of these things and the things in her day, and the words really would have disappeared into the ether. They would have lifted from us and floated away together, leaving us to comfort each other, fortify each other, and laugh with each other.

Surely not everyone has that person in their life. What I want to know is this: how do they manage without it?

Mother Daughter

I am not her mother.

She is my sons' sister. She is my husband's daughter. I cannot claim her.

I am not her mother.

She is her own person. She is smart. She is talented. She is kind. I passed no genes to her.

I am not her mother, but she is my daughter.

A child of my heart. I love her with the love I have for her brothers. When she leaves, I feel part of our family slipping away, leaving a huge hole where she belongs. When she is here, I curse her teachers for giving her so much homework that she can't spend time with me in the evenings, and I simultaneously burst with pride that she is so conscious of her work on her own.

So I take her M'n'M's to munch on while she studies. I make her a sandwich to take for lunch. I try to remember to get her brothers' things out of her bathroom and make sure they stay out of her room.

It's not much. I'm sure she doesn't know how much I love her. I'm positive she doesn't know how much I'm going to miss her when she goes to college in a little over a year.

I've kept my distance. It is so important that she have a good relationship with her mother. A child needs that. I want her to always have that.

But can it be time for her to know that we are also parent and child? Stepmama and stepdaughter. Family. Friends.

Before she is gone, I want her to know that she can always come back. We will always be here for her, waiting for hugs, playdoh, coloring, TV marathons, family movie nights, and brownie baking.

I want her to know that I love her, and that even though I am not her mother, she is my daughter. My only, quite perfect, daughter.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I will try again. I will start over in the morning and try harder not to yell. When they prance into my room just before daylight, I will be happy to see them. If they need something even earlier, I will get it for them and remember that they are only little for a short time.

Tomorrow I will start getting everyone dressed earlier so that there is no rushing to get out the door on time. I will put muffins on the table and milk in their cups and sit with them before we start our day. By 8:00, we will be upstairs, picking out clothes and brushing teeth because there is no need to rush two small boys who have been up since 6:00.

Tomorrow I will plan ahead for an earlier lunch so that the littlest won't be hungry before we have to pick up his brother. I will feed him on time so that he won't have to melt down. He will be more comfortable with a full belly, and he won't be so short tempered.

Tomorrow I will vote. I will take my boys to the polls with me and explain to them the importance of what we are doing. I will vote for all families. I will vote for women. I will vote for my daughter. I will vote for continued economic revitalization. I will have hope instead of fear. I will anticipate instead of worry about the outcome.

Tomorrow I will make time to play. I will prioritize my own responsibilities to include at least one puzzle, one round of Candyland, and a half hour of swingset time with my boys. I will enjoy their laughter. When they insert the word "poop" into song lyrics, I will laugh with them and add a verse about boogers.

Tomorrow I will get up and try again. I will try harder. I cannot fix today. I can only hope to outweigh the days like today with days like tomorrow will be.

Because as of right now, tomorrow is all I can do.

And then I melt

He's in my bed again. The little one, Colin. Somehow he knows when I go to bed before his daddy does. Some toddler sixth sense.

"Why you wear Elmo pants to go downstairs?"

Because they're comfortable.

"Can I have some water bottle?"

Yes.

"Do you remember when I was a baby? I a big boy now."

Yes. I remember. You are so big now.

"Mommy? I really want a snuggle."

Alright.

I can't resist him. I can't resist the questions, the requests, or even the screaming. He is irresistible.

"Thank you, Mama, for taking me to Trick or Treat."

And then I melt. He thanks me randomly throughout the day for things that I would think were just passing events. Dinner, a kiss, changing his diaper, buckling his car seat are all worthy of a "thank you"  sprinkled into our daily life.

He is so sweet. Until he's not. I have learned that in my family, you don't get one extreme without the other. The sweet it worth it. Possibly not in the exact moment that I'm being whacked in the face by him mid-tantrum, but in the end, the sweet is worth it.

Deep enough

Some days, I wonder if I love my children enough. I have had this recurring horrific thought of, "Would I really miss them if they were gone?"

I know. It's awful. I've thought for a long time that it made me not fit to be a mother. Like I would never be good enough to deserve my children.

Then we went to Disneyworld.

There was such incredible joy every time the boys got to meet a character. Christopher learned to be a Jedi and fought off Darth Vader. Jack Sparrow taught the boys how to be a pirate. We rode roller coasters and Dumbo and It's a Small World and Toy Story Mania. We ate with Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Pluto, Goofy, Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, Eeyore, Chip, and Dale.

Everyday was as magical as they claim it will be.

None of that was what made me realize that I do, in fact, love my children more deeply than I thought possible. It wasn't the fictional Disney magic that confirmed for me that I would be wrecked without my kids.

It was a rain shower on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom. It was a sea of ponchos in which my four year old got lost. It was the fifteen minutes I spent battling the logic in my head of, "This is DISNEY. They will find him. They are used to this," against, "OH MY GOD. WHERE IS MY SON?"

One second he was with us, and the next he wasn't. It was raining, so everyone in the park seemed to be wearing identical ponchos. Between the rain and the ponchos, it was impossible to see him in the crowd by the time we realized he was gone. We look for maybe 90 seconds, and then I grab the first Disney employee I see by both arms and wail, "My four year old is missing. You have to HELP ME."

He does. They all do. We were sent to the front of the park who then told us to go back where we were, where they told us to go to Baby Care, which is where Christopher was. That was is it. It maybe took fifteen minutes.

We found Christopher surrounded by young female Disney employees who were reading him books and watching Lady and the Tramp with him. He had his own stuffed Mickey Mouse and only started crying when he saw his mama come running towards him, sobbing.

I did. I sobbed. Big, heaving sobs. The fifteen minutes that he was separated from me and I had no actual control over whether or not I ever saw him again? That quarter of an hour tore my heart to shreds. I wasn't panicked; I was devastated.

But when I saw him sitting there with his little Mickey, and I could hold him again, I knew right then that it was alright. I loved him deeply enough, and I wasn't ever going to lose him again.

The magic of Disney at work, people.