Dear Kids, smell the roses, eat ice cream, be grateful

I've always been a stop and smell the roses kind of girl.  And while each of my lovely children is like a beautiful meadow of sweet-smelling flowers covered in rainbows and sunshine, I fear that I spend far too much time running frantically through a rain storm with my head down, huddling under an umbrella with four children in tow, insisting that they “HURRY UP!” because “WE’RE LATE!” (We are always late.)

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The other day, after dinner, my kids and I decided to walk over to their grandmother’s house to see if she had any dessert for us. (Of course she did. It’s part of what makes her grand.) As we walked through the woods on our very own love-carved path, with the pretty summer sunset glistening through the trees, I thought about how lucky my kids are that they can literally walk over our driveway and through the woods, to grandmother’s house they go, for Grandma’s homemade peach cobbler. It was enchanting.

I took the opportunity to remind them (and myself) how very fortunate they (we) are. Their summer has been filled with art camps and cooking camps, swimming in our own backyard and every swimming hole in the county, frolicking with the neighborhood kids in our beautiful little neighborhood, chasing down the ice cream truck as it drives right down our street, eating ice cream every day (sometimes twice a day), playing with their cousins who come from as far as Russia to gather here on their grandfather’s beautiful apple farm, quad riding through the orchards and fishing in the ponds, eating fresh delicious strawberries, peaches, watermelon, and corn on the cob straight from Grandpa’s farm stand, visits to Grandma’s house just steps away, through the woods, whenever they need that one-of-a-kind grandma love (and dessert), and much, much more. What more could a kid ask for?

I have often described my own childhood as magical. But it took me a good 15 years of hindsight and reflection to truly appreciate its magic. When I started taking my kids to visit my late mother’s grave, in my very tiny hometown, I would always feel like my entire childhood passes before my eyes. In my nostalgia, I would take my children on a tour of my childhood. We stop at my favorite ice cream stand, drive by my old house, through my old neighborhood, stop at my old elementary school (which is a closed down, little red school house, the last of its kind), and play on its very run down playground.  

Our favorite summer spot quickly became "the bridge".  It was a sweet little swimming hole complete with rope swings and a very old little bridge, just the right height to throw my fearless babies off of just as i used to throw myself.   They had a blast and it made me so happy to see them breathe some young life back into my old memories. It made me feel like I was the luckiest kid in the world. But I’m sure that even in all of those magical moments of my childhood, there were still plenty of those typical childish and ungrateful fits of “hey, that’s not fair” and “I’m bored” and endless amounts of “I want … I want … I want” no matter how much I already had. I’m sure that I took it all for granted, and I don’t want any of us to make the same mistake with my children’s childhood because it so very hectic.

Summertime can be very busy and stressful. Whomever coined the term “lazy days of summer” obviously didn’t have kids. And particularly when you are trying to ensure that your children have an unforgettable, magical, enchanting childhood, it can be downright exhausting. I am always so consumed with what I “have” to do, and so used to sacrificing what I want to do, that I forget to stop and relish in what I AM DOING. I am so hopeful that they will enjoy their childhood and not be in a hurry to grow up, and yet I spend so much time hustling them along and eagerly anticipating bedtime, that some if it is probably just a passing blur. I must remember to slow down and bask in the glorious glow of my children. I must encourage them to keep shining and lighting the way. I want them to pause because they are fascinated by a rock or a cloud, and I want to have the patience to follow their lead. What I want for my children, and myself, is for all of us to remember to stop and smell the roses, and taste the ice cream, and let it melt all over us.

As I reminded my children how lucky they are, and pleaded with them to appreciate the little things, my 8-year-old said, quite sincerely, that she is very thankful, while my 5-year-old confessed, quite honestly, that he will be more thankful when he gets a little older. I also promised myself that it wouldn’t take another 15 years of hindsight to appreciate the magic of their childhood and my motherhood.

post baby body to be edited

The last time my girlfriends and I got together, we sat around talking (whining, with lots of wine) about our post-baby bodies. “This never used to jiggle, and these never used to sag, and those stretch marks were never here before, and where did these go, and will I ever be able to squeeze this into a size 6 again? And why are my feet still a whole size bigger two years after my last child?” I feel like a deflated balloon … in clown shoes.

Has your child ever pointed to your stretch marks and asked “what happened?” or grabbed your post-baby fat roll like it’s a handle used to be used get your undivided (and horrified) attention? Have you ever spent years doing sit-ups only to learn that that final layer of pudge covering anything resembling your long lost abs will NEVER go away, no matter what you do? Or maybe you have racked up thousands of miles jogging, chasing the memory of a smaller waist line, only to realize that your child-bearing hips will forever be “curvier” now? How many times have you tried on your skinniest skinny jeans from many years and a few children ago, only to prove to yourself, once again, that your thighs will NEVER be the same.

Sometimes I think that my children have kidnapped my 25-year-old body and are holding it for ransom. But what more could they possibly want from me? I have given them everything I’ve got, and then some: my heart, my undying and unconditional love, my patience, my sanity, my personal space, every fiber of my being. I just want my body back. They can have the rest of me, forever.

One would think that waiting on, I mean, caring for, four kids every waking moment of my life, without a moment to sit down and rarely a moment to eat, would melt the pounds away. And it only seems fair that my selfless acts of preparing delicious treats for my family, while torturously denying myself the indulgence would earn me my old thighs back.

I realize that parenthood is all about sacrifice. And I’m cool with that. I don’t really miss my social life, my alone time, my personal space, adult conversations, peace and quiet, going to the bathroom alone, hearing myself think, sitting down during meals, sitting down … ever, eating a hot meal, having enough room in my own bed, hearing someone call me anything other than mommy. Okay, I miss all of this. But I thrive on the dream of one day reclaiming all of these things … someday … a long, long time from now, when I have to re-fill my empty nest. But I have not yet come to grips with the fact that I will NEVER have my pre-baby body back.

I fear I may never stop yearning for her. Those pre-baby jeans will forever sit in my closet on my “maybe some day” shelf. And I will continue to confront and negotiate with my scale every day, hoping for a more comforting and recognizable number. After all, “You look great” just isn’t quite as flattering when followed by “for having four kids.”

Part of me is proud of my pregnancy/childbirth blemishes. Part of me wants nothing more than to embrace all of the changes in my body (since they are here to stay and all.) Part of me wishes to read my scars as road map of the journey I took while growing these children inside of me and enduring pains straight from the deepest depths hell just to finally meet them. And while a part of me knows I should cherish my newest imperfections as badges of maternal love, and hail my post-baby body as a sacred temple of motherhood, there is another part of me that would be happy having only the searing memory of the worst, most unforgettable pain and gut wrenching agony of natural childbirth to mark that beautiful journey.

I just want my body back.

How do you feel about your post-baby body? Go ahead, let it out! It will burn a few calories.

Mid Summer break...

We are already halfway through summer vacation. Or: we are ONLY halfway through summer vacation, depending on your perspective. I’m usually a “glass half full” kind of girl, but, it’s going to be a long five weeks.

I didn’t need a calendar to tell me that I am in the thick of it. I can tell by my “Mommy?” overdose. I am being strangled by that one little word and suffocated by all of its demands. OK, that’s dramatic, but I am a bit overwhelmed, and it shows. Like when one of my children has pelted me with the 500,000th “Mommy” of the day, and I say, “WHAT?!” and it just keeps getting louder and louder until I gag and choke on my own frustrated screams. I swear, sometimes, they don’t even need anything. It’s like they’re just making sure I’m on standby. Or when they finally make me snap because they have been driving me CRAZY for days and then they look at me like I’m … CRAZY!
Also indicative of the mid-summer break meltdown (BREAK? ha ha ha ha ha!), are all of the great blog posts from moms, confessing that they are … STRESSED. I really enjoy them. When I read a story about a mom who can’t leave her house with her children because disaster will inevitably ensue, or a mom who thinks she may have found a technique to make a child stop asking “why,” or a mom who feels like she lives in complete chaos all the time, I feel a lot better about myself. I breath a sigh of relief, and I chuckle because, I understand. I’ve been there. I feel for you. And I really appreciate your confession of not having it all under control, or your advice on how to control the chaos, or the whys. I thank you. And I would never judge you. I do however, judge those suspiciously perfect parents.

I recently posted on Facebook that I REALLY need September to get here. I need teachers to listen to my children’s NON-STOP chatter for a few hours and to answer their endless questions. I need a bus driver to take my children away from me for a bit. I need a schedule that justifies my putting our children to bed just as their father is getting a chance to enjoy them. I need to wake up to an alarm clock rather than waking up to “so, what fun thing are we doing today, Mommy?” because they know that my mental well-being depends on getting us out of this house to do something “fun.” (Which means hauling around four kids and a few large bags of necessities, buckling them in and out of car seats multiple times, ignoring pleas to stop at every fast food restaurant we pass, someone pooping in their diaper just seconds after we leave the house, one kid wanting the air conditioner on in the car and another one wanting the windows open, while my just-cleaned car is being trashed by beach sand and filthy children … FUN!)

But, it is very hard to get any sympathy from non-moms (not to mention the teachers who were cursing me for even saying “September.”) Non-mothers can’t imagine what it is that could make it THAT stressful. How do you explain the stress of being utterly selfless every waking moment of your life to a single man or woman with no kids? How can you whine about never having a moment to yourself or not even being able to hear yourself think most of time when you both know how blessed and fortunate you are to have these precious, space-invading, children? And it’s hard to explain because a “good mother” would never confess that she just needs her child to stop talking for a while or to just … go away … for a few minutes. It just sounds too horrible to say out loud no matter how much you might think it.

I’ve got the very best of intentions for motherhood. But it’s really hard not to doubt myself when I find myself so burned out in the middle of summer “vacation.” (I can’t even type that word with a straight face). And I know that there are women who homeschool their children and spend every single day with them. And I have seen all those other mothers getting teary-eyed and wondering “where has the time gone” when they speak of sending their precious babies off to kindergarten while I’m eagerly watching the seconds tick by on the countdown clock and anticipating tears of joy when that bus comes! And I have even heard another mother sound sincerely crushed that her children’s new school starts in August instead of September. They must love their children more than I love mine. No, they don’t. Maybe they don’t have four kids? Maybe they won’t still have a 1- and a 2-year-old at home when school starts, so they are worried that they will be lonely in September? I can imagine that when all four of my kids are in school, I will miss them terribly and feel a little lonely. But I am REALLY looking forward to missing them and feeling a little lonely once in a while.

So thank you, stressed mothers, for sharing your confessions of imperfect mothering. Thank you for being open and honest, and human. Thank you for reminding me that this motherhood thing is hard and all of my shortcomings are understandable. Thank you for reminding me that my children are perfectly normal crazy children, and I am their understandably crazy mother. You are the life support that is getting me through five more weeks.

What's the C-word?

My 8-year-old has a crush on a boy band. Watching her get a little twinkle in her eye over everything One Direction makes me want to break out my New Kids on the Block cassette and stare at their full-size cardboard cutout. (Don’t judge me.) I totally get it. It’s so dreamy to pretend that these cute boys are as charming as they sound in their songs and that they would be the best boyfriend ever! Jordan Knight was my very first imaginary knight in shining armor, once upon a time.

But, the other day, she came home and presented me with this question:

“Mommy, one of my friends told me that one of the boys from One Direction swore at a group of his fans. He called them the c-word. What does that mean?”

At that moment, the mother in me was eager to ground that young boy and forbid him from being a pop star ever again. The proud, self-respecting, furious, speechless women in me wanted to throw something at him. And it wasn’t just that he has it coming for being so unacceptably rude and vulgar to a group of young, starry-eyed, adoring, and impressionable girls, but it was more so because my daughter asked me a question whose answer was too despicable to utter. Thanks a lot, you little [bleep].

I refused to answer the question. (I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to.) I told her that because she is a sweet, kind, young girl, she didn’t deserve to know that word. All she needs to know is that this boy is NOT cool (that’s as nicely as I could put it.)

She wasn’t happy that I was knocking one her boys off of his pedestal. But I wasn’t about to cut this kid any slack. I’m not one of those moms who is ultra-sensitive to the trampy attire of Miley Cyrus and the like. And I’m willing to face the tough Demi Lovato inspired “What is rehab?” question. I think these are some teachable moments for my daughter to learn about self respect and self control, and about being who are are, and not trying to be who someone else is. I think she gets it. (I pray she gets it.)

But I have no tolerance for THAT word. It’s a word that people use when they want to be as vile and disrespectful to a women as they can possibly be. It’s a word that they know is going to sting on a whole other level. It’s despicable and unacceptable. So while I won’t fill in the blanks for her, I will happily explain to her that when she does learn THAT word, she too, should not tolerate it. I will tell her that this boy doesn’t deserve her admiration, or the admiration of those fans whom he insulted (to say the least.) 

She seems a little disappointed in the boy. But she tells me that he apologized (I’m sure he did, they always do), and looks at me like she would like to forgive him, but needs my approval. All I can do is imagine this conversation happening in seven or eight years, only this time we are talking about her actual boyfriend instead of her imaginary boyfriend.

It feels like a pivotal moment. I want to teach forgiveness, and I want her to NOT tolerate THAT word. I suggest that while she may still enjoy the music, that boy doesn’t deserve the bubble, the pedestal, an ounce of her admiration, or a moment of her time. Take him for what he’s worth; a catchy tune.  But peg him for what he is, a little (bleep)!

Kindergarten

And I don't feel feel bad about it, either

It’s back to school time! Not a moment too soon (and about three weeks too late.) And while so many of you are wondering “where has the summer gone?” I can tell you that it over-stayed its welcome at our house. But I survived summer vacation, and as a reward, I get to send another child off to kindergarten. That’s two down, and two to go. But who’s counting? (I am.)

While I feel somewhat obligated to pretend that I am sad and weepy to be sending another of my babies off on their own into the great big, unknown world of kindergarten, I am not. I have had mild bouts of guilt over it (very mild), induced by so many other sweet mothers who are heartbroken and find it “so hard” to send their child off to school and who will miss them terribly, or who can’t figure out where the time has gone or how their baby got so big. But after spending the summer completely smothered by my four lovely children, with a very few-and-far-between moment of peace and quiet or even a chance to sit down, that bus couldn’t get here fast enough. And it took everything I had not to allow my 2-year-old to follow his brother onto that bus as he insisted he was going to school too.

After sending the kids off this morning, with still not so much as a lump in my throat, I asked their father why I don’t feel the way those other moms feel when they send their babies to kindergarten. He said they feel that way because, “it’s obviously either their first kid, their last kid, or their only kid.” I think he’s right. I was chatting with one of these sad kindergarten moms who had sent her firstborn off this morning. Our other children were napping and she was saying that it was too quiet and she was feeling lonely during nap time. I was not lonely during nap time. I was blissful.

I often worry that I take some of this mothering stuff for granted because I am blessed with four children and the privilege of being a stay-at-home mom, with them, every day, all day. I have been in the baby and diaper phase for so long now that I haven’t even had a chance to wonder where my baby has gone. I was pregnant so much that by the time I hit my fourth pregnancy, the process had gone from a beautiful, miraculous, enjoyable blessing to a serious pain in the ass! I have been a stay-at-home mom for so long that I just can’t help jumping for joy when a few kids start school and won’t be staying at home with me every day. And I spend so much time (every waking moment) trying to fulfill all of their needs and plenty of their wants that I cannot imagine ever shedding a single tear at the idea of them not needing me anymore. (I’m sure that will change some day.)

And this morning, as I stood at the bus stop with my little boy, I wasn’t scared or nervous for him. I was excited for his new adventure. I wasn’t worrying about how he would possibly get through this big day without me. I was confident because I know he is ready, and he is going to be awesome. I wasn’t sad because he insisted that I could NOT go to school with him. I gave myself a pat on the back for raising such an independent boy. I wasn’t wondering where my little boy went. I was eager to see where this new adventure will take him. And as I gave him one last gentle nudge to stop sucking his thumb before he got on that bus, his dad gave me a gentle nudge to back off. He’s (still) just our little boy, no matter how big he gets.

I adore my kids. I live and breath for them and I would do anything and everything for them (and I do.) But it doesn’t break my heart to watch them grow up and be able to fend for themselves. It flatters me. I am not disappointed when they grow capable and independent. I’m proud. And the silence of nap time is not lonesome. It is soothing.

I am really enjoying the opportunity to get to know my two youngest loves a little better with some rare one-on-one time. And I have had some fascinating conversations with myself now that I can hear myself think from time to time. And I confess, I miss my kids. But I really, really, appreciate the opportunity to miss them, rather than having to lock myself in the bathroom just to get away from them for five minutes. I can’t wait to hear all about their day, and then send them off to do it all again tomorrow! Back to school is my new favorite time of year.

Have Kids. Trust me.

Whenever I hear someone say that they don’t think they want to have kids, my heart breaks for them a little bit. I feel sad for them. It’s hard to convey to someone who is on the fence about it, that while it is the hardest, most challenging, selfless, sacrificing, and under-appreciated thing you could do with your life, there is nothing better. Nothing.

My 8-year-old daughter often tells me that she doesn’t think she wants to have kids. She is the oldest of my four beauties and is obviously aware that being “Mommy” is A LOT of work. We have had negotiations that go something like this:

Me: “I think I deserve some grandchildren after all my hard work, don’t you?”
Daughter: “OK, maybe one kid.”
Me: “How about four kids?”
Daughter: “NO WAY! DO I LOOK CRAZY TO YOU?! I WOULD NEVER HAVE FOUR KIDS! THAT’S JUST CRAZY! NEVER!”

And there have been many long days when, after she has observed my tireless efforts and watched me collapse in exhaustion or heard me growl at the child who has just slapped me with the 3,274th juice request of the day, she gently reminds me that “It’s your fault for having four kids”, to which I muster up enough energy to emphatically respond; “What do mean ‘my fault’? I’m the luckiest mommy in the world! There is NOTHING else I would ever dream of doing. Nothing! This is the best!” I have told her many times, that each of their four natural childbirths were the most painful and torturous and wonderfully miraculous days of my life and I would do them all over again a hundred times just to have my children. I don’t know if she is convinced that I love my job, but I know that she knows that I love her.

I think that a lot of men, in particular, have a harder time convincing themselves that they are “ready” for fatherhood. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a uterus pulling on their heart strings in anticipation. I recall one night early in our relationship when the future father of my children and I were out with another couple and one of them asked us if we wanted to have kids. I responded quickly (just to be clear) “yes.” He responded, hesitantly (just to be unclear), “yeah … probably … I think.” He was, obviously, still in the process of convincing himself. The other night (nearly ten years and four kids later), I watched him watch as our two sons played together on the floor. He was in awe. And when he snapped out of it, he said, “I can't imagine what I ever thought i was going to do that would be better than this."  Four kids and a beautiful life later, he is convinced.

It is certainly a daunting task, and I can understand those who worry about screwing it up. After all, we have all screwed up, a lot. We are only human, and it is inevitable that we will make mistakes as parents, and screw up our own innocent and helpless offspring who never even asked to be here. The other day, I was talking to a young women who isn’t sure she wants kids. She said she worries about being the kind of parent her father has been. She told me a story about how her father taught her how to break a priest’s nose if one were to ever attempt to touch her inappropriately, and then he would force her to go to confession and sit across from her priest, alone and terrified and plotting her attempts to bust his nose if he got out of line. As a child, she was scared and rightfully resentful that her father would leave her alone with a potentially dangerous man, and as an adult she is understandably faithless and uncertain about the parenting skills she runs the risk of inheriting. And her well-intentioned father was simply trying to cleanse his daughters soul and protect her innocence.
The question is, how badly will we damage our children? Will our undying good intentions win out over our innate human imperfections? Will the obvious fact that I love and adore my children and that my world happily revolves around them, win out over the equally obvious fact that I am only human and sometimes, I get a bit tired and impatient and overwhelmed with trying to be the best mom that I can be? There are no guarantees, and it is scary.

But parenthood is extraordinary. Quite literally, there is nothing like it. You can’t even begin to understand how miraculous, challenging and life-changing it is until you have done it. You cannot prepare yourself for it and you could spend a lifetime waiting to be “ready” to do it.
If you want to know what to expect, expect the unexpected. If you need to feel more prepared first, prepare to be knocked off your feet. It is the hardest job you will ever love.

Life Lessons from Little House on the Prairie

I often find myself longing for the days of “Little House on the Prairie.” I realize that would mean that a common cold could result in a near death experience, but it might just be worth it to hear my children respond to my every request with a polite “Yes, ma’am.” And I think I would be OK with getting up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows and gather eggs rather than having to pack up four kids and drive to the store just for those two must-have items.

I have been trying, for years, to get any of my four children to watch and appreciate this epic saga as I did. So far, just the other night, my oldest daughter came out of her room in tears telling me that she finally watched some “Little House” and “a sweet puppy died and it was really, really sad” and demanded to know WHY I would make her watch something so sad!

While I feel bad that her first viewing experience was a bit heartbreaking, I believe it would serve my children well to discover a time when children had nothing but the clothes on their back and the love of their Ma and Pa, and felt like the luckiest kids in the world. I would love for them to see Laura Ingall’s face light up at the sight of a only single shiny penny in her Christmas stocking.

I want them to see kids who worked hard, really hard, for the greater good of the whole family, and they never complained. I want them to admire kids who never thought of themselves, who asked for nothing, and who felt genuine remorse if they NEEDED a pair of shoes or a new pencil because they knew and appreciated how very hard their Pa worked for his money.

I would love for my children to witness how much these children enjoyed life without television and cell phones and computers and how they could blissfully entertain themselves for hours and make up hundreds of games with a ball or a stick and a buddy or two.

I want them to take note of the fact that their chores thus far consist of feeding their pets, folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher, and if they are not careful, they could be out plowing fields, (or something equally laborious.)

I need them to appreciate the fact that while I am chauffeuring four kids all over town, to various activities, children used to walk three miles just to go fishing with their pal.

I want them to count their blessings that they have never been punished with a belt.

I think that they could learn a lot about how to turn the other cheek to a persistent bully, and how to push her down a hill in a wheelchair when she crosses the line and has it coming.

I want them to see and learn that money does not buy happiness or good manners.

I want them to have faith, even when life is full of struggles and sacrifice.

I want them to believe in “love at first sight” and “’til death do us part,” even when things are not always so “happily ever after.”

I want them to be more thankful for their beautiful life, but to know that life is full of hard knocks: pets die, young girls go blind, little sisters fall down an abandoned well, crops get destroyed, kids get trapped in snow storms while walking three miles home from school. And I want them to remember all of this when they are whining about their “annoying brothers” barging into their room all the time, or because I didn’t get the “sparkly” pencil case for back-to-school, or how I make them take the bus to school instead of driving them.

And perhaps most importantly, I want them to appreciate the values of a society that genuinely cared about its own. I want them to observe and believe in a “love thy neighbor/help thy neighbor/do unto others” kind of world. The kind where people actually live that way, rather than just preaching about it, and demanding that everyone else live that way, and constantly arguing over exactly which way is actually “the Lord’s way.”

We could all learn a lot from the Ingalls family and the residents of Walnut Grove. They were not easy times, but they were simpler, more compassionate times when nothing was taken for granted. In the wise words of Charles “Pa” Ingalls, “How can you ever know true happiness if you never feel real sorrow?”

About the Author

Mothering Without my Mother

A few days ago, I was at the playground with my children, surrounded by three lovely grandmothers who were out with their grandchildren. My 5-year-old was on the swings. I was coaching my 2-year-old up a ladder, when suddenly I saw all of the grandmothers lunge and gasp in one direction: toward the swings. I turned around just in time to see my son stand up, dust himself off, and say “I’m okay, Mom.” And all I could think in that moment was how happy my late mother would be if she could be here to have a mild panic attack watching her daring grandson fling himself off the swings.

Today is the third anniversary of my mother’s death. April 6, at 5:56 a.m. I can’t remember the exact time that each of my children were born, because I was too enamored with my new baby in my arms to hear a stranger tell me what time it was, but I will never forget the moment when one of my mother’s best friends announced her time of death right after we watched her take her last breath.

I gave my mother her very first (and dare I say, favorite) grandchild four years before she died. My daughter, Madeline, changed my mother’s life. She had spent her entire life searching for happiness and struggling to meet unrealistic expectations, some that were self-inflicted, and some that others had scarred her with. She just wanted to be good enough, and never felt like she was. But when she became “Grandma,” she was perfect. In my daughter’s eyes, Grandma could do no wrong. And that was all that mattered to her.

All of the sudden, her once heavy-hearted spirit was light and laughing, and her sad and worried eyes were twinkling and dancing. She had finally found the person who had no expectations of her, the person who would never find fault in her, the person she made blissfully happy without even trying. My mother was the ultimate grandmother. In fact, “grand” was an understatement.

One of the hardest things about watching someone slip away slowly over months and months, is watching so many other things slowly slip away with them. For me, it was “Grandma.” I thought I might be okay without “Mom” (and maybe someday I will), but I was not ready to lose Grandma, and I certainly was not prepared for my daughter to lose her very first best friend. One day, I sat at her bedside in the hospital showing her pictures from our family vacation and she asked me who the pretty little girl was. It was her beloved granddaughter. I was crushed. Grandma was gone. Her brain tumor had erased her grandchildren.

I have four children now, two of whom my mother never met. I told her about No. 3 as she laid on her death bed, right after we were told she wouldn’t make it through the night. I’ll never know if she heard me, but she did make it through that night. And my youngest daughter, little Ginger, is my mother’s namesake. She is so glowingly happy to be alive and here with us that I am convinced she is the keeper of her grandmother’s soul.

There are still the occasional days when I need my mother. But there is not a single day that goes by when I don’t desperately need my children’s grandmother.

A grandmother’s love is magical and enchanting. It is filled with ice cream and candy and laughter and song. Grandma’s house is where our children go to escape from the word “no.” Grandma’s house is where the world revolves around little people. Grandma’s house is where a 2-year-old gets to be in charge.

Grandma was my saving grace. She would eagerly babysit her grandchildren, and pretend that she was doing me a favor, when we both know she considered it a gift. Grandma loved my children as much as I do (maybe more, if that’s even possible.) Grandma was the one to listen to me whine about how my children drove me crazy and laugh in my face because I had it coming. Pay-back is a … grandchild.

It seems to me that while our children take ten years off our lives with worry and aggravation, grandchildren give them back with joy and celebration. I am so very thankful that I was able to make my mother a grandmother before she died. I owed it to her. And while I didn’t think it was possible, I think it helped me redeem myself after my rocky teen years. But now that she’s gone, I can’t help feeling like we have all been cheated.

Living without my mother is hard. Mothering without her is heartwrenching.

I Want a Guy..

Madeline: I want a guy who is tall and really hot and has gorgeous eyes and beautiful hair and who has some money and works hard and provides for our family but also makes time for his family and who supports me and whatever I want to do and who really loves me and is a really good father to our children.

Me: yes. That's exactly what you deserve. And don't give up until you find that.

This little declaration from my newly 13 year old daughter brought me some serious validation and peace of mind.  I don’t know how, at 13 years old, my girl has more wisdom than some of us will die wanting.  But I like to think I had something to do with it.  In fact, I like to think that her father and I, and our sincere but failed efforts to live happily ever after, taught her everything to do and not do.  

She is determined to have a hard working man who makes her feel safe and cared for.  Her father taught her that.  He has an unmatchable work ethic and knows how to earn and take very good care of his family.  His children want for nothing.  I mean, they’re kids, so they always want something.  But they have more than enough.  They’re childhood will never be forgotten.  

But that work ethic cost us at times.  My dad once told me, when I called him in tears because I was so lonely because my boyrfriend was a workaholic, “you can’t fault him for working hard.”  I’m not so sure that’s true.  There is a fine line between admirable and heartbreaking when a person puts work first.  Running a company may sound like a higher priority than pre-k graduations or t-ball games, but it’s not.  Part of that unforgettable childhood my children are having will be those memories of dad not showing up.  

She wants to have a family, because family is everything.  We’ve taught her that.  But she doesn’t want to be single-handedly responsible for parenting.  She will be a great mom who does anything for her kids, but she won’t be a stay at home mom who sacrifices EVERYTHING for the sake of her family.  She has plans.  Big plans.  And she’s gonna have it all.  But she has assured me that she believes that my staying home and raising our kids and putting myself last, always, made me happy, and was exactly what I wanted to be doing.  She knows I consider myself lucky to have had that opportunity.  She admires her dad for making it happen.  But she also sees me now, trying to get back on my feet without the help of a hard working man to provide for me.  She worries, and she is determined to never put herself in that position.  I taught her that.  I taught her to do what makes you happy, but to be self-sufficient, a lesson I learned the hard way.  And it was worth it, to give her the confidence and wisdom to know better. 

Say I Love You

Once when I was at my father’s parents house, I looked at my daughter and was so enamored with her that I grabbed her and smothered her with kisses and said “I love you so much.”  My grandmother told me that she was so happy to hear me say that to my daughter.  “Not all kids get to hear that, you know?”  I didn’t know.  How do parents resist that overwhelming urge smother their babies with love and adoration?  And in that moment, I realized how differently my parents were raised.  My father was raised by an adoring mother who knew the value of her words, and my mother was raised by a well intentioned, stern italian father who spoke more to criticize than to praise or adore.  And it showed.  

My mother struggled with words like “proud” and “love”.  Make no mistake, she mothered with pride and more love than I sometimes deserved, but saying those words out loud was usually more than she could muster.  It was as if no one taught them to her.  But she proved her undying love so certainly that it never even occurred to me to be miss the words.  On the contrary, my father won’t let me off the phone without an “i love you” exchange, and a few moments of gushing praise about how proud he is of the mother I am.  Yet I have only one vivid memory of my mother uttering such words.  It’s vivid because it was so rare, not because she was on her death bed.  

The last coherent thing my mother said to me was “I’m proud of the mother that you are to my grandchildren”.  It wasn’t exactly on her death bed, but she was in bed as she had just lost the use of her legs to a brain tumor and I’m sure she knew that the rest of her body probably wasn’t far behind.  She asked me to sit down and then said those very words, with a strength that, ironically enough, she didn’t have before her illness.   Maybe she knew her brain wasn’t going to let her remember who she loves, or what makes her so happy and proud.  Maybe her fading memory let her forget that she spent her lifetime struggling with the inner strength and self assurance to express her deepest thoughts without fear of shaming.   Whatever the reason, she said those words with a confidence and sincerity that only a terminal brain tumor could finally grow.   And those will forever be some of the most important words I have ever heard.  

It should be so easy to express our joys.  Yet we often spit out the more hurtful and scarring words without any thought or hesitation, and then choke on the words that we’d all love to hear.  Why do we hesitate to say the most beautiful things, the words that pull us closer, right by the heart strings?  If my parents are any indication, it is all about the parenting (isn’t everything?).  We have the power and responsibility to teach our children to love unabashedly.  We have to give them the confidence to express themselves without the irrational fear that love hurts.  We can’t burden them with a weakeness that has them grasping at a strength which can only be found on a deathbed.   You love them.  Tell them.  Tell them often.  Tell them to ensure that they will tell your grandbabies.  

The other day, my  5 year old caught me starting at him and said, “I know, I know, you love me.”  Yes, I say it so much it’s almost annoying, and I mean it, wholeheartedly, every single time.  

Love out loud.  It’s what the world needs now.  

Charge through it.

I’ve hear the tales of mom’s who lose themselves to motherhood.  We sacrifice it all for the greater good of our family because we are mom and if mom doesn’t do it, who will.  No one loves like Mom.  Mom is Mom and there is no one like Mom.   

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed these years of giving my absolute all to my all-too-often-thankless family who far too rarely ask me what I need.  I sadistically enjoy pushing myself and striving to please people who are constantly reminding me what I’m NOT doing for them.  Those genuine smiles and fleating moments of geniuine admiration and graciousness and gratefulness, when they just can’t help but admit that I’m actually the best person in their whole life, have always been enough to shake the lingering feeling that I am a huge dissapointment to them.  But they are children.  My children.  And it is my job to shake that selfishness out of them.  Children are selfish.  Innately selfish.  And it is a huge parental responsibility, for the sake of the greater good of all mankind, to teach them that selfishness is unacceptable.  No, you simply may not walk this earth thinking that you are the most important thing on it.  And while I can’t stress enough how difficult that is to explain to a toddler, or a 15 year old oldest child, or her three younger siblings (because when you have three siblings nothing in life is ever fair, EVER!), I never imagined I would be tolerating it from the man who was supposed to be in these parenting trenches with me. I never imagined that he would let me get so much deeper into those trenches, alone, and up against four kids.  i didn’t stand a chance.  

So I lost a battle.  I sacrificed myself and took one for the team.  I took on a very big little army and I didn’t have the back up that I needed when those trenches got dark and deep.  And I let my guard down, heading into enemy territory (parenthood) with a selfish partner.  I needed someone who was going to follow me into the depths of hell when need be, and who would reach down and grab me and pull me up when it was painfully obvious that I was in over my head.  I needed that.  You can’t just hunker down and make yourself comfortable in the parenting trenches.   Especially when you have four kids.  Just because I manage to keep us all alive and get dinner on the table and rarely ask you to lift a finger doesn’t mean I’m winning the battle.  There is a war going on, and  that is not the level of solidarity and united front that wins wars.  

But that’s what mom does.  I was so blissfully enthralled in this parenting war and so madly in love with my four enemies (precious babies) that I failed to notice that my back up was…back…way, way back.   Definitely out of reach and practically out of sight, unless it was his turn for my affection.  But I charged through.  I always charge through.  Even now, after I have surrendered to one painfully lost battle, after I have armed my kids with some destructive resentment and bitterness to use against me, I continue to charge through.  after my broken heart finally convinced me that I might be stronger on my own rather than weakened by the dissapointment of a life partner who didn’t love me with all his heart and who I couldn’t count on to be by my side if he simply didn’t want to, I let go, and charge through.  

That’s what mom does.  And it was worth it because if there is one thing my kids have learned, it’s that I would take a bullet for them, even from their own smoking guns.  I’m mom, and you will put me through hell while I raise you to not be a selfish prick, and you will hate me and you will blame me and you will unleash all of your frustrations, whether significant or utterly ridiculous, my fault or yours, on me.  It will all fall on me.  Mom.  Because only a mom can forgive you over and over again as you fail and grow and (god willing) learn to get over yourself.  

I feel like a lone soldier these days. Deeper in the trenches than I have ever braved before.  But somehow I feel stronger just knowing that I’m on my own rather than looking behind me and always feeling dissapointed.  

Milestone: Our first broken heart...

“I was always worried about his feelings and ignoring my own. I apologized when it wasn’t my  fault. I allowed myself to tolerate it when he stopped showing me the kind of affection I wanted. I think I lost myself a little.”  

She sure did.  My daughter fell hard in love.  She held out for the real deal and she went all in for the very first time, and it was big.  It changed her.  She wore a giant smile and exuded a radiant happiness.  Love.  She had discovered love. She was in love.   His happiness meant everything to her, and it can be very easy to lose yourself to that.  

It was a great first love, one that appeared worthy of my girl.  He often recognized and gushed over all of the beautiful things about her, inside and out.  They wore matching giant smiles.  It was genuine and unabashed and I admired it.  It reminded me that love is beautiful and happy and well worth the risks, and quite honestly, it healed that last seemingly loveless piece of my broken heart.  It made me wholehearted again.  And then it shattered my baby’s heart.  

I was lucky to be wholehearted again, and to have healed my own shattered heart just in time to have the strength and wisdom to help her put her’s back together.  I will never forget the tears and despair and pain and confusion in her eyes as she sat across from me, blindsided, trying to make sense of it all.  I remember her asking me questions that she knew I couldn’t possibly have the answers to, even after 43 years of dealing with boys and love and heartache.  She was in so much pain that she was pleading with the one person that she often seems to think doesn’t know anything, for any answer that would make it hurt a little less.  How could love feel so good and then so very bad?  And with all of my newly healed heart, I felt my own first devastated broken heart all over again.  And while we both knew I didn’t have any answers for how someone who loved her could rip our heart out,  I had the experience and wisdom and scars to know that we were both going to survive this, and persevere.

My girl is, by nature (and nurture), strong and not easily rattled.  She is calm, cool and collected.   So as I watched her wallow and sink into sadness, rattled as hell, it shook me to my core.  I cried many, many tears at the very thought of my girl’s tears and the shared sympathetic pain that inevitably comes from being forever connected to my babies by the heart strings.  I knew what she was carrying was very heavy and nothing I could do could ease that.   I knew that to her, it felt eternally hopeless and painful and insurmountable.  But I knew better.  I knew that not only would she heal and love again, but she will also have her heart broken again...and again and again. 

In true Madeline form, she’s bounced back nicely, seemingly well aware that it’s his loss.  If we are very lucky, we learn some very important lessons from our first gut wrenching broken heart, and each one that will inevitably follow. Listening to my 15 year old reflect on her first love and loss with wisdom beyond her years and  resilience and sincere honesty and genuine introspection, and when all is said and done, no regrets, gives me great comfort and hope that she will one day, even before her time, be nearly unbreakable.  

I like to think that my children were all Inherently born with all of the lessons that I already learned for them the hard way, but love and loss is one of those things we all have to live and learn.  

Wholehearted

"She never seemed shattered;
To me, she was a breathtaking
mosaic of the battles she had 
won."

My heart is not shattered anymore.  It is no doubt battered and bruised, but I am once again, wholehearted.  I’ve let go of angry and bitter.   I think sadness may always linger.  And that’s ok.  I no longer resent the fact that I gave so much of my time and heart and oozed love for someone who couldn’t do the same.  I’m sad that our family had to pay so dearly for that.  But I found a strength that I desperately needed to walk away from it, by digging deep to get my kids through it.  And I have found a peace of mind and heart in hearing my once broken hearted babies assure me that they understand why I gave up on my relationship and still know, unequivocally, that I will never give up on them.  

I’m not afraid of love.  I remember it so fondly.  It has quite literally barged into my life these last few years, when I most desperately needed to be remind that I was worthy of it, and when I most certainly could not reciprocate with my shattered, war weary heart, as wholeheartedly as I was genuinely built to do.  I’ve learned some crushing lessons the hard way.  One is how selfish it is to offer a genuinely passionate lover with the very best of intentions, who looks at you as though they see their home and future in your eyes, and feels lucky, genuinely lucky to have you, anything less than the very same in return.  And another, is that I can love a man with all my healing heart, and still know when to look him in the eye and say “you’re just not the one”, because I was not built to be that selfish.  We all deserve someone who is convinced we are the one. 

I’ve had some great loves.   Loves that have shaped my vision of love and made me feel worthy of my quest for genuinely happy ever after.  Loves that have taught me that I deserve respect and loyalty and honesty and friendship and love.  Loves that I will love forever, even if they taught me a few of those lessons the hard way.  Loves I have loved enough to let go.  And I’ve been reminded of and become very familiar with the kind of lover i am when i am fearless and wholehearted; selfless, nurturing, supportive, romantic and passionate as hell, and how lucky someone will be to have the whole hearted me again.  

And I have forgiven the man who once had this whole hearted and devoted love in the palm of his hands, nurturing him and his children with all her heart and soul, and shattered it because he couldn’t help but always wonder if he could do better.  I’ve healed enough to know that he probably did love me quite a bit, but wasn’t about to (or able to) make himself vulnerable enough to do so as selflessly and unabashedly as i thrive on.   I’ve grown enough to feel genuinely sad for him (for us) for that, and to know I can’t fix it.  

Love.  I am not short on love.  I have been swimming in love since the day I became a mother and I soak in that blissfulness.  But my healed, whole heart has reminded me that I am a lover; a fiercely passionate lover.   And it’s scars remind me that I’ve earned my high standards and great expectations and that it takes courage to love fearlessly and with an insatiable passion,.   And it’s peaceful resilience has convinced me to be patient and that I can trust it, wholeheartedly, to know when it finds and feels “the one”.   

A Decade Without Grandma

Just before my mother lost the ability to communicate, she told me that she was proud of the mother I am; that I am a good mother.  It was out of character for her to praise like that.  She was more of constructive criticizer by nature, with a very loving, well intentioned heart.  But I think she knew things were about to go very downhill, and she didn’t want to leave me without saying those words.  And those words, from her, were gold.  To this day, “You’re a good mother” is my most cherished compliment.  Her words ring in my head often and have pealed me off the floor in some of my darkest parenting moments. 

I have a horrific memory of one of my mother’s last days on her death bed.  We had reached that hopeless point where we were left with no hope and could only pray for the peace and comfort of death for her.   She was suffering but clinging to what little life she had left.  She was fighting so hard for her every breath and her body was writhing in discomfort.  I hugged her and cried and begged her to let go.  I whispered in her ear, telling her it was ok to go.   “Madeline is going to be ok.  I promise.”  Madeline was her beloved first grandchild/best friend/new found reason for living.  And suddenly, she seemed to stop fighting quite so hard.  She let her guard down and seemed to raise her white flag before dying in the wee hours of the next morning.   It occured to me, in that gut wrenching moment, how badly my mother did not want to leave her grandchildren.  I was pregnant with my third child when she died, and aside from how very much she cherished her grandbabies and deserved to soak up the utopia of grandparenthood for many, many years, and fought for that privelege, literally until her very last breath, I’m certain that a lot of that fight came from her concern for her poor daughter who was about to be in way over her head with three children.  

This spring will mark 10 years since my mother died.  I think I’ve cried at least a tear or two, every single day, since someone pointed that out to me a while back.  10 years without my safety net/lifeline, and all while taking the biggest leap and fighting the biggest battles of my life.  A decade of motherhood without our grandma.  I fantasize all the time, about having that other human on earth, who may have loved her grandchildren even more than I love them.  And I resent that she’s gone.  Her grandchildren brought her a pure joy that she had yearned for her entire life.  I so enjoyed seeing that twinkling joy in her eyes.  And I gave that to her.  I owed her grandchilren, at the very least, and I delivered.  I like to believe that I redeemed myself, just in the nick of time.  

So I cry because I resent that she’s gone and missing out on the blissful hell that is her grandchildren and the opportunity to pretend that they are all bliss and no hell, all while silently snickering about the well deserved hell we both know I’m enduring in motherhood.  

And I cry because I need help, from no one on this earth, more than my mother.  I need that one person who’s footsteps I’m following through familly  and motherhood;  That one person who taught me everything she didn’t know either but we both learned along the way.  That one person who knows my children are putting me through hell sometimes, and genuinely sympathizes, but kind of enjoys it and loves her grandchildren even more for it.  I need her.  Grandma is the only person on earth who will almost always move mountains to help in the deepest deaths of parenting hell.  And this last decade of stay at home motherhood/housewife turned divorced single mother of 4 has had me at rock bottom (God willing).  I need her.  I need that person that will support my every whole hearted (often failed) effort, and my every blind, irrational decision, all while pointing out every mistake I have made or could be making along the way (none of which I asked for and millions of which I would never even have thought of).  I need her.  My kids always accuse me of telling them how beautiful they are or that they are good at everything they attempt because I'm their mother and I HAVE TO.  I need that person.  

The other day, my dad called to tell me that I am a good mother.  He tells me two things often, “Your mother was a saint” and  “You’ve mastered the art of parenting.”  And on this day, I was a master of parenthood.  And I cried, because just the night before, I was lectruing my boys about how I have dedicated my life to,  and poured my heart into raising good, kind, positive children, and how much it hurts me when they absolutely cannot get along and respect each other despite all my efforts.  I shamelessly told them that it makes me feel like a failure and that I didn’t think I deserved that.  I could tell it tugged at their heart strings just a little bit, but not enough to actually conquer sibling rivalry.  But here was my hero dad, to save the very next day, by spontaneously calling me to echo my mother's golden words;  "You're a good mother".  And while we both know that I am more the "Jack-of-all trades, master of none" type of mother, and I’m still entirely winging it every step of the way, we also both find comfort knowing that I’m following my mother’s footsteps (and I can feel heartbeat in every step).  But I need her.  And I’m guessing I’ll need her for decades to come.   

A decade later, my mother’s precious Madeline is now 15.  She is precisely the age I was when I started being a nightmare child to my poor mother.  She is the product of every ounce of the blood sweat and tears that I have poured into motherhood, and she is a gem.   She is the lovely young daughter my mother always dreamed of, and I hope my mother knows how much of an angelic hand she has had in that.