Mom ramble


These are the best years of your life, they say. And I get it. They’re absolutely right. Only I think the kicker is I’ll only realize this after the fact. My perception ultimately relies upon the amount of sleep I’ve had. And wether or not we have the ‘good’ coffee. A six hour stint of sleep and a cup of brewed DOMA will change a persons life. Today though, I’m tired.

I’m not sure that I’m enough for my kids. Yet I know that I am. When I’m scrambling between changing diapers and listening to a story and getting lunch on the table- I don’t feel like I am.

Enough-ness: the state of being enough as is, without any additions to the already awesome Creation that is You.

It must be true then that I am indeed enough of a teacher, a nurturer, an artist, a gardener, a cultivator of magic childhood dreams. I pick Hobbs up his atomic fire ball booty calls for cream. He wails in pain. Can I curate the halls of memory lane with glisten and glamour while poop is smeared into the hip bone of my t-shirt? This is the second time today and now I really should change it.

It’s a lovely-awful realization to realize I can’t. And thank God I don’t have to. Reach for the phone. Tell the truth. Give up the ghost of a perfect life/kitchen. Set the timer once today for each of them. A guaranteed 10 minutes of uninterrupted Mom Time. Ugh! No, Mom! That’s NOT how you build The Bear Cave! Pffft.. Just let me do it! Isn’t Mom Time magical?! I kick off my socks because I stepped in something squishy and wet and it’s then that I realize it’s dinner time… Again. This keeps happening.
It happened yesterday and the day before that too. Dinner is so sneaky. Thankfully, my family loves brinner and pizza and no one knows the difference by the time we’re huddled in one twin sized bed singing Christmas tunes. We twist our arms and legs around one another, the four of us, we’re a salted Smith pretzel and our enthusiasm cannot be contained. Bedtime always feels contrary. On one hand I live and die for these tender moments of quiet concentration reading books and brushing thin strands of hair away from their faces, delighting in them and their renditions of Twinkle, Twinkel. The very next breath I’d like to race to the finish line: sweats on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and New Girl. It’s tug o’war on my heart strings. Both are OK.

There’s no ending here. It’s all practice
and progress and never graduating.
Maybe when I’m a Grandma. Maybe that’s Graduation day.

5 thoughts on “Mom ramble

  1. It’s so true. We don’t know how we are doing until later. The things I thought I did right, my now grown boys tell me I screwed up. The things I worried over and thought I wasn’t doing right, the contrarians tell me they appreciated. It’s all mixed up in a mush of growing and learning and confusion and self -doubt. Whew. It is more fun to be grandma. No, not more fun cuz they were fun to grow up with . What it is is freer of guilt and worry and perfectionism and self image. I can abdicate responsibility for that generation. I can say, look; you turned out okay, in fact very well, in spite of generations of disfunction. There is forgiveness in time. The shit of the messy past becomes the manure of present growth.
    Oh crap, I just wrote a blog instead of a response. Sorry. I know this much. You are an exceptional mom. I admire and envy your wisdom that has come at a much earlier age than I. There will be far better experiences for your children to remember and eventually appreciate. There is confidence in Otto’s face and carriage, happy contentment in Hobbs’ countenance (in spite of a fiery bottom from food or teething), and you meet all these challenges with as much grace and affection as any child has ever received. You are a wonder and inspiration. Walk, crawl, or rest proud of yourself for your awareness and good heart. Love and hugs to you. Sandy

      1. Thank you. I have a site but haven’t started yet. After this weekend’s Round Up, I hope to have time.
        It would be so great to see you if you could come. Big Hug.

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