Soon

I'm still here.  Still alive.  (Thanks, Kate, for checking on me). 

Still just keeping my head above water.  But I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  The one thing I've learned about surviving my current commitments and financial requirements is that I need more help. 

On all accounts. 

 I've resigned to working a hardly part time schedule (30 hours a week).  It's finally the kind of job I love, the kind the girls could be proud of me for doing.  But it still requires me to be one place when my heart is in another.

My E's will start an amazing preschool/Montessori program in a week and a half, and as much as I initially resisted the idea, I'm sending them full days (9-3) instead of half.  I've given up the garden, hired a housekeeper twice a month and created a word document grocery list descriptive enough to guide my husband through the store with 90% accuracy when I can't go. I'm making adaptations and lowering the self expectation, but these things take time.

My darling Eve, who's birth inspired me to begin this blog, just turned 2.  Two!  And she speaks in emphatic, full conversations now.  I want to write all about her, to tap out gushing love letters to her and celebrate who she is.  I want to, but unfortunately, that can't be hired out.  It will come eventually.  It will.

The girls are beautiful.  They play together incessantly.  Coming home to their shrieks of celebration and arms wrapped around my thighs is the best part of my day.  They are my teachers, my fountain of energy when I have been depleated, my meditation away from the hardships of neuro therapy.  They are the brightest light in my life.

Soon, I will write more.  Soon, I will have more order to my life.  Soon.  I promise myself and you it will be soon.  Please, my loves, don't slip out of my hands and into the world before soon arrives.

Permission

There's no better way to kill off your few lingering blog readers than to neglect your blog, quit reading and commenting on theirs, and when you do blog, you only write as if Debbie Downer herself were guest blogging.

I'm giving myself a hall pass for writing at this blog.  For the moment.

I'm afraid to write what I really feel right now, knowing that this general sense of overwhelm and depletion has got be only temporary, and the kind of words I want to write at this point are not the kind I want to send out into the universe right now. 

I started this blog when I stayed at home with my newborn and barely 2 year old.  I intended this blog to be about the fullness I feel from motherhood and raising daughters.  My words here will somehow be rearranged for them someday.  When I have the time.  My own mother promises me that day will come--the day when I have time for myself or some higher purpose greater than food, shelter and safety.  Eventually.  I want to believe her.

What I don't want is to keep writing about how I wake up each day with the goal of just getting through it.  There is no room for anything more than work and providing the basics for my children right now.  There is no room for anything else, and when there is room for anything else it is crammed in so tightly and layered so thickly with guilt that the joy of it is gone.

But all of that is going to change.  It must.

I'm going to find my way back to having a life that allows me to relish in my arms full of girls and delight in my heart full of gratitude.  No one can do that for myself except me, and no daughter of mine is going to have an example of such current depletion for a mother.  No sirree. 

And this is the last you will hear from me until I get a better, brighter, grip on life.  And I will.  Bet my daughters' God given curls, I'll be back.  As soon as possible. 

Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. -Helen Keller

Mama Said...

Be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way round or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves. Empty your mind, be formless. Shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water my friend. - Bruce Lee

 I'm just plain tired.  Work. Mothering.  Worrying about money.  Feeling guilty for working more than I want to work.  Feeling like I'm aiming for shared parenting but still doing the majority of the grunt work and domestic duty. Sleepy.  Unexercised.  Spent.  Writing is just another expenditure of energy that I haven't really been able to afford.  I should be doing 10 really important work and household related things right now.  Even blogging brings me guilt at this point in my life.

Be like water.

I work with clients that have sustained heartbreaking tragedy in their lives.  I see them treading in heartache and frustration.  I see life dole out hardship that wasn't deserved and sometimes cannot be overcome.  I see grief and loss.  Daily.  I try to help them find their way back to a life with which they can make peace without crushing their hopes of having the life that they truly want.  I have a hard time leaving their stories at the door.  It weighs on me.  It moves me.

Be like water.

My girls are growing so.  Their legs are long and constantly jumping. They are always wanting. Needing. Arms outstretched for holding. Begging. "Please!" Little hands always gripping mine, pulling and heaving me where they wish me to go.  Climbing on me, wiggling upon me.  Invading my every moment, even in sleep. 

Be like water.

I mind just long enough to catch myself feeling stretched too thin, then become distracted by their pretend order at the Starbucks counter or their incredible hair.  Both of them have curls resembling fusilli pasta that play in the wind like thick springs dripping softly from their heads.  In their individual ways, they are both intense, with strong spirits, sometimes clashing hard against each other.  Other times, holding snug to their likenesses and stitching themselves tightly with laughter and delight in each other.  Such laughter waters me, replenishes me after a day when everything else has sucked me dry.  I admire my little sprites with their enthusiasm and tightly sprung curls, and I feel too lucky.  Their lives incredibly untouched by tragedy or hardship.  Their hopes, dreams and possibilities uncapped by reality, thus far.

I want to protect them from life that can harden the softest of souls and turn what might have been a springy, little girl into a rigid, resisting woman.  Yet I can't.  I can try, but I am not in control.  All I have is my wish for them within a Bruce Lee quote:  Be like water.

Mama says: do as I say, not as I do.  Save yourselves the battle, my loves, and just be like water.

Sleep

Tuckered out. 
Me.
All of us. 
On a regular basis, it seems.  And for me and Cristian, nothing is more restful than sleep with a daughter nestled near.  I came home from work last weekend to find these lazy loves snoozing the afternoon away.  They didn't even stir to the whir of the clicking camera shutter all up in their faces.  I can't help but wonder what sweet dreams they might have dreamed within the warmth and stillness of each other's snuggle.
Be still my heart.

Motherhood is a Virtue.

Today was rough. 

Rough in terms of trying to be the mother I strive to be and failing. 

Repeatedly.

Something about my three year old trying defiance on for size and my 19-month-old assertively demanding independence in the same moment doesn't gel.  Not in the slightest.

Despite a glorious, sunny day, a long trip to two parks and a ride in the jog stroller, lots of outdoor time and plenty the opportunity to run it out, my children instead bottled it up and blew their tops onto each other.

I lost my temper.  More than once.  I abandoned my commitment to making a homemade dinner and eating together.  Again.  I tallied up the months remaining until Emery starts preschool next fall and wished for them to pass quickly, lest I go insane with the energy and attention she demands from me on my days home with her. Admittedly.

Then Cristian came home and reminded me (again) that they never act like that for him.

Which made my day that much rougher.  Of course.

So it's me, is it?  They only fall out with me, it seems.  I'm their safety net.  I'm their trusted spotter.  They just free fall all their emotion and conflicted, confused, learning-how-to-live-in-this-wide-world energy into me, and I'm left to sift out the junk and hold tight the good stuff. To teach and reteach in a way that makes things right in the world.  I'm left with the button pushing, frustration and anger hurled like a brick into my hardly rested head.  I'm left with the limit testing to extremes.  I'm left with the rough days.  Alone. 

And all complaints aside, that's okay.  I'm their mother.  I signed up for this (though somewhat obliviously) when I made that first wish on my birthday candles all those years ago, and I won't shrug off that responsibility if it's the end of me (which, obviously, it may very well be, but still).  If anyone should be their safety net on this tightrope walk of life, it should be me.  If anyone wholeheartedly wants and eagerly welcomes this job for them, it's me.

But it's still rough.  And I'm still only human, mother and all.  I have to forgive myself over and over again for losing my patience or for not having enough of it for the duration.  I have to remind myself to step in their shoes and parent compassionately.  I have to breathe deeply and lean hard into the kitchen counter top ledge, trusting it will hold me upright and not give in to my white knuckled grip in my seething, frustrated mother moment.  I hold tight to my determination to respond, not react to the ruined hardwood table top we are in no position to replace or the drawn blood from a flipped-like-a-switch temper tantrum. 

But it's not easy.  It often wipes me clear out.  It's a doozie on my character building, this motherhood thing.  It's a bonafide purpose and lesson, if I've ever had one.

 At the end of the day the only thing that  makes this incredibly rough day less rough is my husband sitting down next to me and (finally) acknowledging my frustration with an, "I'm sorry you had a hard day."  I inch a little further toward an even keel by seeking out pictures of the girls I'm raising when they were in a moment when they liked each other immensely more than they did today.   I'm able to exhale a little more when I see these pictures of when they wore on their faces love for each other and honest happiness like I hope will eventually have permanence in their lives.  I have to look at these haphazardly snapped small moments and wish for them so many more of equal or greater peace with each other, and a bond that will withstand and overcome the rivalry and rough edges in life.
That's how I make it through a rough day. 
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Love

Love is having a husband that can successfully double park, brave a 50,000 student university library singlehandedly with a one year old on his shoulder and a highly distractable 3 year old traipsing along beside him.  Then, circumnavigate an unsympathetic, hard core librarian and resolve a diaper blow out followed by a one-year-old-choking-on-lollipop incident without so much as a flinch or a towed car.

Score.

Never mind the fact that said husband almost misplaced our 3 year old several times among the towering rows of books or that he actually stood on our daughter's shoe to tether her to him while his hands were full.  Never mind the lollipop given to a one year old then accidentally jammed down her throat.   Never mind.  Love is blind.

And Love cracks me up into near hysterics with the charming, bare it all account of such happenings upon my return home from work today. 

It just so happens, I somehow managed to be lucky in love. 

Like I said before, score.

*picture by J.Cota, June 2009 (about 1 month before Evie was born).

The End of an Era

I spent 17.25 cumulative months growing my babies, and 30 cumulative months feeding them.  All by the Grace and the miraculous design of a woman's body.  My body.  

I don't take it for granted that I had the fortune to feel my babies turning and stretching within me until they came through me into this world.  I don't gloss over the commitment and devotion it required to stick with breastfeeding even when I had a newborn that wouldn't latch or suckle well for 9 weeks straight.  I don't downplay the surrender it took to feed my children on demand around the clock in attempt keep my supply adequate.  I'm proud of myself for the courage I conjured up to stick to my guns and pump at work no matter what, even when I was the only one that continued breastfeeding past a few months, even when there was no privacy, even when the career oriented world around me misunderstood me and rolled their eyes with annoyed judgement at my perseverance.  It wasn't always easy, yet it was the simplest, most practical thing in the world for me all in the same moment. 

47 consecutive months of physically sharing my body without even a moment in between for myself.  47 consecutive months of offering it up to love.  I wouldn't have had it any other way.  I wouldn't take a minute of it back.  I'd do it a million times over again if I had to.  Though, I'll never have the chance.  That time has stepped behind me, now.  Forever.  It's something to celebrate.  It's something to mourn.  I admit, I'm doing a little bit of both.  At least, I managed my one lone BF picture I had been wanting, by which I'll remember the tight view, the heavy eyed gaze of a soothed babe, the silent connection, and the gracious giving for the taking.  

Not that I could ever forget.

18 months

A year and a half ago we met for the first time. 
7:25pm on a Friday, the sweltering heat tempered by a long awaited torrential downpour.
You were gorgeous.
And long.
Dark headed and curly haired.
Easy as pie.
All of which I am not.

Your dad held me as I cradled you close into my nearly bare chest.
We hovered you above the warm water of the labor pool and pleaded for you to breathe.
So you did.
At that moment, everything within me softened, everything within me felt complete.
I could hardly believe my luck.
And that was only the very beginning.

18 months later everything is the same yet different.
Your dark hair has given way to a honey blond hue with tight curls that threaten me daily with their frizz.
Your eyes are the color of faraway dark blue skies bringing a welcome rain.
You are still long.
Still as easy peasy.
You are even more gorgeous.
And I still can't believe my luck.

Some say the second child throws them for a loop, but if anything, my love, you have made my life easier with your even kilter, hilarious antics and agreeable cooperation.  Still, you are strikingly strong in spirit.  Bound and determined by all means to carve out your own path in this world.  My little adventurer. 

You don't care for sitting down to learn your ABC's or watching TV.  The world is to be discovered by you, and the only way to learn it is to experience it.  And so you do.  In constant motion.  You taste the world, roll around all over it, hang upside down from it, spin completely to see all of it, and open your arms full spread as you breathe in brisk wind that sends everyone else in this family running for warm cover.  You are unafraid and wide open.  My little brave heart.

There is such a gentle spirit within you that I'm sure was born with your first breath.  You are innately tender.  You love to take care of baby dolls to the point of practically being obsessed with them.  You love changing them, mothering them, and patting their backs with such a gentle compassion as you quiet their "cwying."  You love on other babies with incredible quiet patience, dole out hugs and kisses, and when you are concerned about any of us, you cock your head, lean in to get a glimpse at our eyes and with a furrowed brow and adorable sincerity ask, "you 'kay?"  My little nurturer.

You are the best snuggler in the family, offering up your soft weight to soothe me from long, tense working days.  Yesterday, I held you into me, so solid, your legs dangling so far down my thighs that I could not deny your growth.  You snugged in like you always do,  head nestled against my neck, your curls tickling my cheek, your arms tucked down in between our bellies, a hand on your belly button, and a paci suckling in your mouth.  I wanted to make time stand still for that moment, but instead I'll settle for writing about it so that you at this very second will never escape me.

There is still some baby in you.  Not much, but it's there.  I'm holding on to it tightly.  Even as you slip so willingly, almost eagerly through my reluctant grasp, longing to catch up to your sister and her friends.  I promise to let you go, though, when I am you are ready.  But not now.  Now you are 18 months, and I've got a lot of holding on still to do..

Happy 18 months, Eve.  Not quite a baby.  Not quite a little girl.  Yet quite enough to fill me to the tippy top.