15 posts tagged “mothering”
When Max was a few days old, Juan went off to work, my mother climbed onto an airplane and I was left all alone with a strange little person who couldn't seem to get the hang of nursing and who screamed bloody murder whenever he was put down. I remember sitting with him on the couch, trying to figure him out, wishing he had an owners manual attached to his little foot.
Motherhood wasn't going as planned.
I assumed I would be a natural at mothering. I had imagined that soon after delivery I would be sailing along effortlessly, nurturing and listening to my baby's cues, managing the house, and taking a break from my stressful DC job, as good at the art of parenting as I was at everything else in my life that I had tackled. Instead, I sat sobbing on the couch frustrated that I couldn't figure out how to simultaneously hold him and feed myself lunch. I was so hungry, he was so needy and we were both absolutely miserable.
Even weeks later, I beat myself up for not knowing what the hell I was doing. I was not effortlessly swaddling my little bambino in a sling as I arrived for my lunch appointment. Instead I was sobbing as I tried for the 5th time to tuck him in, an hour and a half late for an appointment with a friend downtown, yellow mustard poop smeared on my arm, my breasts leaking through my shirt.
It was then, at that exact moment that I discovered the art of baby steps.
I stopped trying to fufill my ultimate vision and dropped my standards to the sub-basement level. I would define victory in the smallest of ways. "Today I went to the bathroom." "Today I made myself lunch." "Today I combed my hair." I remember how exhilerating it was when Max was three and a half weeks old I was able to pack him up all by myself and get to a friend's house. Granted, I was so exhausted from the effort of getting out all I could do was sit in her hammock swing and nurse my son sleepily, but I had done it all by myself. For a Type-A, Washington overachiever, it seemed like a pretty lame accomplishment but to me that victory felt sweeter than anything I had accomplished in the previous 10 years of work.
It dawned on me as I was swinging there on her porch that this was the first time I had attempted to do something I wasn't naturally good at. I really had no choice after all. But this was a departure from the rhythm of my life up to that point.
See, I was used to being good at things. As a child and young adult I was a classic overachiever. I was interested in anything I excelled at and so I chose my activities very carefully, filling my time with things I could sail through effortlessly and then focused all my energy at being the best. I quickly lost interest in anything that was hard.
Dance--I had been a natural since my first ballet class at 4. It stuck and became my major extracurricular activity all the way through college. On the other hand there was tennis and downhill skiing, I fell too much and had a weak swing. Swimming--I was slow and always behind the others, a little out of breathe. I left those activities in the dust (with a bit of regret) and didn't look back.
As much as I sometimes wished for it, I didn't have the option of leaving mothering behind in pursuit of something I could do so much better. So at age 32, I finally allowed myself to indulge in taking things slow, in fumbling along in a half-assed manner, in failing every day and in taking baby steps.
I learned the pure joy of sticking with something I was bad at, of toughing it out and struggling through. Getting through the muck and surviving. And while I still daily make classic mistakes that would lead many a social worker shake to her head in dismay, I have really become a pretty decent mom,. It was a bumpy ride l to get here but looking into those big brown eyes of Max's I know that every second its been worth it.
Max helped me discover the pure joy of doing something because I love it not because I am going to be good at it. And this beautiful little angel, he has opened up doors for me. I am now free to do things for pure and utter joy of it. There are so many beautiful things that I cant do well! Giving myself permission to plunge into all of them has been liberating. And it has been the biggest creative gift the universe has ever passed along.
Since Juan left, I regularly practice doing things I am bad at. I know longer crave the praise from doing the things that I naturally do well. Instead, I fill my free hours struggling through with no hope of ever being great, striving to be good enough. Despite the often poor results I keep going--an addict now to the adrenline rush of the tiny victory.
I was thinking about all this this evening because I have a bunch of new projects on my plate now that really do not play to my strengths. Struggling through them could be the understatement of the year. I am spending hours with little results, taking my baby steps, one by one and relentlessly congratulating myself on the smallest of successes.
I am so proud of myself to be doing so much so badly. For finally choosing to do things for the joy of them and not for the flashy results.
When I am called to account for my success or failure as a mother, there are only three things that will matter to me:
- Is my son a kind and compassionate person? Does he treat all human beings with respect and gentleness regardless of their skin color, gender, economic status, nationality?
- Is my son comfortable in his own skin? Is he comfortable with the full range of his emotions? Does he value himself and honor his own feelings?
- Does my son stand up for what he believes in, even when it is hard? Will he confront authority in the face of injustice? Will he stand for others?
Today was one of those wonderful days when we had a chance to practice all three things.
It is hard for me to believe that in this country, the wealthiest and most prosperous land in the world, there are 9,000,000--nine million--children who do not have access to healthcare. Children who have to forgoe medicines, children who will die because simple illness goes untreated. And it angers me that President George W Bush, a man who calls himself compassionate, has decided to veto a bill that will fund the expansion of health insurance for children. He will veto that bill, all the while asking for more and more money to fund a war in Iraq, a war that has been mismanaged and has lead to the deaths of so many, including many innocent children. While I love my country and am grateful for the freedom to speak my mind in this land, sometimes when I consider these policies I just want to hang my head in shame.
Along with Andy Stern and Dennis Rivera, Max and a handful of other children delivered petitions with some one million signatures to the White House. The petitions, collected by health care workers all over the country, asked President Bush NOT to veto this bill supported by Democrats and Republicans alike and to fully fund a program that will make it possible for so many children to live healthier lives.
On Friday, Max was invited to participate in this action. Although I was tempted to just sign him up based on my own values, I decided to leave it up to him. I explained to him the situation and asked him if he wanted to participate. He was thoughtful, considered what he would miss in school and the friends he wanted to play with. But then he said, "Yes mommy. I want to fight for healthcare for kids--and I want to tell President Bush to end the war." If that was not enough, he then completely independently convinced two more friends to join him.
And so today we headed downtown into Washington DC for an adventure. The children pulled red wagons filled to overflowing with mailbags stuffed with petitions. They pulled them down the street to the park in front of the White House while strangers looked on and while some grown-ups even jeered at them. They kept going, even though it was hot and scary, even though strange reporters were in their faces with cameras and microphones. Even though the wagons were heavy and hurt their hands.
The stood in the hot hot sun with Congressman John Dingell and Senator Ted Kennedy. And then they held hands and crossed the street and piled the petitions at the gate in front of the White House. They chanted and shouted and stood up against the injustice of little children left to suffer and even maybe die in the wealthiest country in the world.
After it was all over Max and his friends were exhausted, grouchy and spent. "I am sad" he confessed to me. But tonight when I asked him how he felt about the day, he said he felt good. He was glad that he did what he could to help kids who can't see the doctor. He was glad he got to yell against a war that confuses and scares him and he was glad that he got to help stand up for the kids who couldn't be there today. I asked him if he would do it again, even though he felt tired and his hand hurt.
He looked at me with a startled expression: "Of course" he said than turned back to his game.
I have seen the future. It looks very bright indeed.
I am a little nervous about writing so openly about these issues of faith and my view of God in such a public forum. I am not a churchy person--it is one of the few things I keep close. But today it seemed approrpriate so here are a few of my thoughts...
Several months ago, Max came home from a playdate depressed and sad. It took a little prodding, but I finally got him to tell me what was wrong.
Max: (with indignation in his voice): Mom...Jake says we aren't Jewish. He says we are Christian.
Me: We are Christian. Actually we are Catholic which is a kind of Christian, although we sometimes worship at the Episcopal church. (I think to myself...IF we actually go to church.)
Max: WHAT? (with sadness and disappointment in his voice) But...we celebrate all the holidays...
It's true. We do. The New Year with his best friend Jake and family, Yom Kippur with our dear friends Stephen and Marilyn. We light Channakah candles with several different families each December, and we have sat at many a Passover Seder table in his young years. We have been to so many Shabbat dinners that Max actually can say the prayers over the candles along with our host if he or she prays slow enough.
And its also true that we are really bad at celebrating the Christian holidays--other than the big holidays of Christmas and Easter, which frankly feel so commercial despite my efforts to combat this at home. Aside from these two, there are not many Christian community celebrations that ring true for me. Lighting Advent candles and opening Advent calendars are quiet at home family affairs. We are not great about getting to church--in fact we are really bad at church. And those saints' feast days do not call out for big loud family dinners.
And Max and me, we are great at big, loud, chaotic gathering that involve food and bread and wine and apples dipped in honey. It is part of how we sing our prayers of thanksgiving. The Jewish holidays call to us in this way and so we find ourselves often worshipping alongside our Jewish friends who so lovingly welcome us into their homes.
I have struggled alot about how to raise my son in faith, how to give him a framework upon which to hang his own understanding of the mysteries of the world. And while I have never struggled with my own faith and my spirituality, I do struggle greatly with institutionalized religion and the Catholic Church in particular. I struggle with the limited role for women in my church. I struggle with the church's position on the love shared by my gay friends. I struggle with power-hungry bishops and money-hungry pastors and a bureaucracy that let so many children get hurt to protect priests who were sick. I have issues.
But my God, I have no issues with Him. I see Her face in the face of my friends, my loved ones. I see His hand in the tremendous people I know who work very hard for justice, fairness and kindness in the world. God is omnipresent to me in the laughter of children, in the bloom of a flower, in a blue blue sky and in the kind words of a stranger. But my God is also most present to me in the face of my loved ones, in food prepared with love, in big tables around which our most cherished ones sit. And that is why for us, these harvest holidays, the lighting of candles around a table, the breaking of bread and the introspection of the new year celebrations are what call us to worship.
I find myself thinking about something my neighborhood grandma once told me...something that rings truer each day. Grandma was the wise older woman in our neighborhood who looked after all us kids and loved us all as her own. She is Jewish and she and I were talking about her own children, one who had converted to Catholism in marriage. We were also talking about another of the neighborhood grandkids who had become a wiccan.
"Meggie," she said. "Yahweh, She is so big. None of us humans can understand how deep, complex and awesome He is. But God wanted to know us all. She/He gave each of our cultures a little window to look upon Him with, to communicate with Him/Her in a way we could understand given our culture. Religion is just the window--no one view is more or less correct. Its the same loving God. And thats the only thing that is important."
Perhaps I am a spiritual traveler, one who enjoys the view through many windows. In that spirit, I say to all my dear ones and all the strangers who pass this way, those who celebrate today and those who chose to celebrate in other ways or not at all: L'shanah Tova! --May your new year be filled with love, community, nourishment and joy!
Dearest Maxidoodle,
Today you are six. Its hard for me to believe that six years have flown by so quickly. It seems like only yesterday I was holding you in my arms for the first time, marveling at your long fingers, your sweet face, your chubby legs. At the same time it is crazy to think that it has only been six years. You are such an integral and precious part of my life, I can't imagine what it was like before you came into it.
You are a bright hot white streak of energy. You run fast as a baby cheetah and will sprint if you can. You like to be out ahead of any of us when walking or hiking. You no longer want me to kiss you at school in the mornings--you are too grown and too impatient for that--but you will hug me with spirit as you leap into your day. You are independent that way.
You have a contagious giggle that can turn any foul mood around. You are really good at snapping your fingers and proud to show anyone how you can do it. You are always climbing on something--scaling walls, rocks, trees, the kitchen counter, the fridge, me and we cannot stop you for you are twice as happy when you are hanging upside down. I wish I had your energy-- I know that you would loan me some if you could. You are so good at sharing with others--you do it without thinking (most of the time).
When Aidan and Olivia moved to Colorado you made them cookies for the road. Because Papi always tells us the most important cooking ingredient is love, you blew kisses in with each stir of the wooden spoon and made happy wishes for them like "I hope you get a nice teacher. I hope you like your new school. I hope you have lots and lots of friends" with each handful of chocolate chips. Your compassion and empathy at that moment floored me.
Your favorite game is hide-and-go-seek and you have frequently left us baffled with your creative hiding places. Who would have ever thought to look for you in the box inside the front closet? If it wasn't for those giggles that eventually gave you away, we would still be looking for you.
You are also particularly fond of dance contests where we blast music and take turns coming up with routines. Your moves are unbeatable. Really, there is no contest but we have fun anyway. Lately you have been learning African dancing and love to listen to Rwandan music turned up really really loud.
When you aren't playing Pokemon or Playmobil with your friends you are trying to trick me into letting you watch TV or play on the computer. You are so clever that you frequently almost get me.
You love to try new games and will jump into any new activity with excitement. Ice skating and karate are just two new things that make you jump for joy. If only we could capture some of that adventurous spirit and pass it on to your pallet. You don't like to try new foods and really could live for years on macaroni and cheese and strawberries.
When it comes to snuggling, I think you are a champion. You have bear hugs that raise the sun every morning and sweet, tender hugs which make the wind blow.
I am completely and utterly wrapped around your little finger. Whether you are saying things like "Could you pass the water, best mother in the world" or stomping your feet and telling me that you are "really really frustrated" with me or sharing that "actually I am very scared", I am lost in the sweetness of how you express your feelings.
Watching you sleep I don't know how I got so lucky to be your mom. I won the mother lottery, really I did.
I could write on and on forever telling you all the ways I love you and singing the praises of a boy so kind and sweet, but that would be "really embarrasing" and I seem to do that alot these days. So instead I will simply say you are the love of my life, best son in the world and I love you more each minute you are alive.
Happy birthday my big boy. May each day be as precious to you as you are to me.
Love
Your mommy
This was the photo I took of Max right before we headed out to school on Monday. Like kindergardeners all across America on Day 1, Max was a nervous wreck in this photo. He knew he would be OK but he had spent the weekend worrying about everything that could go wrong. We would be driving along in the car and suddenly out of nowhere a question would pop up: "Mom...What if I am sitting at a table and it is quiet reading period and we are not allowed to talk or even raise our hand. And I am sitting next to a bully. And he keeps hitting me whenever the teacher isn't looking? What am I going to do then?"
Each time I tried to help him develop strategies to face his fears he seemed to get more and more frustrated. It was clear he just wanted to be heard. I saw how clearly torn up inside he was and I very much wanted to distract him, make him laugh, make him forget, tell him all the stories he heard about kindergarden weren't true that it was the land of milk and honey. But I didn't. Instead I hugged him and told him that it was OK to be scared. It made no sense to try and talk him out of his nervousness. Most people are scared before setting out on a big adventure and nothing spells adventure like K-I-N-D-E-R-G-A-R-D-E-N.
It is a challenge sometimes for me to remember that it is not my job to fix Max's feelings. When he is scared I do not need to make him not scared. When he is angry or sad it is not up to me to make him happy again. I can offer support, listen and help him process what he is feeling. Its not up to me to rush in with solutions but it is my job to hold the space so he can search for his own solutions. If he wants my advice I give it. I will wait patiently and wait for my in. It always comes eventually. But damn that is hard...and I frequently screw it up.
When Max came home on Monday, he was full of excitement and joy. He faced a big fear and survived and that is a victory. He felt so good about himself because it WAS scary but he DID do it. For all my desires to kiss away his hurts on Sunday and tell him there was nothing to fear I was thrilled I didn't because to do so would have been to minimize his triumph. I am so proud of him but more importantly he is so proud of himself.
I recently read this post over at the wise and funny Notes to Self. I love Kyran's writing - its not unusual for me to leave that site teary eyed. This time however, it wasn't just the deep honesty and beautiful pose that moved me but a deep sense of empathy about living without margins. I read the post with tears dripping off my chin, falling shamelessly into my lap.
Kyran was writing about living on the financial edge. This is something I can relate to all too well. When Juan left me with a child and one income it didn't take long for my social justice salary to leave us struggling. I remember nights staying up sorting through Max's beautiful grandma-purchased clothes trying to figure out what we could consign to help pay the babysitter or emptying out the spare change jar that Juan and I had started when we started dating and cashing it all in to pay for food and gas for the week. The rollercoaster of panic (will we make it this week?) and relief--all the effort that went into figuring out how to keep it together left me depleted and a shadow of my best self. I was so scared to ask for help from anyone afraid of what it would say about me (Would it mean I had failed?!?) but bit by bit the universe worked its little chisel on my pride and finally one night I was on the phone with my dad, choking back tears and asking humbly for a little help to get over the hump. Not too much longer, I was on my knees sobbing praying for a little help from anywhere.
I am glad to say that I am writing this from a better place on the financial front. Ask and you shall receive is a truth I can attest to. We are still living paycheck to paycheck over here and savings are a luxury I can barely afford. We don't splurge much on movies or pretty things and when we do I often reeling from it for weeks. My budget has very little margins for excess or comforts. But we are making it and I am no longer sick to my stomach each time I need to visit the cash machine. I am comfortable that as long as I stick to the basics the money is there.
But I wish I could say that about 2 other critical resources: time and energy. I am now in a similar desperate place that feels eerily similar to how I felt about my finances not that long ago.
I feel I don't have enough time for even the basics--like the laundry and cooking dinner or picking up the mess that has become our house. I feel I have cut out all the fat I can (no mindless TV, no relaxing baths) but it is still not enough. My schedule operates with no margin of error. I drop Max at childcare at the earliest possible moment and rush in to the office and maybe make it to work on time but often am late to a meeting. I rush through my work day and need to leave at 5 on the dot. God forbid there is traffic because I need to be home at 5:30, not a minute later. We barely unpack our days before it is far too late for dinner. On too many occassions, I am dragging him out to run errands at the time most children his age are in pjs in bed. The mad dash and the fact that I go to sleep each night with so many loose ends dangling leaves me feeling edgey and like a top spinning out of control.
My energy too is at an all time low and this is making this time crunch thing all the more troubling. I move so much slower these days. I fall into bed too early and wake too late. Precious hours are lost while I hit the snooze button or sleep through my alarm. I cannot multi-task anymore. I need to focus every bit of energy I do have on simply accomplishing one thing at a time. When I do pretend that I can move faster, things start to fall apart at the seams. This past week I had no childcare for Max so I thought I could bring him with me into work. In the effort to get him packed up to spend the day with me I forgot to pack my own purse and ended up with no wallet to pay for our lunch and parking. On good days I laugh light heartedly about the aburdity of this--my turtle pace, the chaos exploding around me, my inability to keep it all together. But at night when all is quiet I shiver a bit thinking about it all and pray that tomorrow it may feel a little bit better and I pray--please don't let it get worse.
Every day is an exercise in pushing the limits of my comfort zone. How much stress and time pressure and "rock and a hard place" choices can I live with today? I laugh thinking about how I was three or four years ago--how little I could take. I simultaneously feel like a champion (what a victory to keep surviving in this climate!) and a loser (why can't I just keep the kitchen clean or feed my son a real dinner?)
The time/energy crunch-its become a noose that I feel tightening around my throat--sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. There are moments when I feel I am drowning from the stress of it all and I realize--I am holding my breath. Just the other day I thought if my life was a story written on a page I am spilling off the page. There are no margins on my paper. There is no room for errors, no room for scribbled comments--no place to put a forgotten word. I wonder when am I going to lose it living like this? I smile because clearly its not going to be today so if I can just focus on today I can loosen the noose a little. Yes...now I am breathing on my own. Good girl.
And yet I feel so silly even worrying about this all. Today my friend told me a story about a friend of hers--a woman who's has struggled with so much more. Her story makes me understand just how wide my margins really are--or rather what its really like to live with no wiggle room. Hearing her story I hang my head in shame and embarrassment that I fret so when my life is really so precious and blessed. For God's sake...I am writing a blog. Its not that bad when I have time to write a blog, is it? But the thought of giving up this newly reclaimed creative time feels like a dealbreaker. My journaling, my creative friendships they are keeping me afloat, they are keeping me sane. The laundry will just have to stay dirty and I will just have to forgive myself--but can I?
But I remember today this week when it has felt so loosey goosey that asking for help is magic and so I get down on my knees and ask the universe to deliver it in whatever way she sees fit. A cure for my energy blues? That would be nice. Someone to help me get organized and together? That would also work. A new way of working smarter not harder? Brilliant! A giant huge serving of perspective? That would do me just fine. Something I haven't even thought of? Yes. Any help--any little bit of help at all. Its hard to ask for help but its the only way I know to expand the margins even just a tiny bit.
The racoon family in my chimney moved out. Its been a week at least , maybe 10 days since my morning was punctuating by their noisy banging. It was the pinesol that drove them out. These racoons appeared to be great fans of Jimmy Buffet and Broadway musicals but the smell of pinesol was apparently too much for them to take. A few nights ago Max and I saw them, a mom with a babe scampering up a big tree where they had apparently made a new home.
But despite their decision to leave, over the last few days the house had really started to smell. I thought it was the 100 degree heat that made the old racoon droppings especially ripe. It was not a gagging, foul make me sick smell--just a ripe barnyard odor, unpleasant and ever present. Like garbage left out on a sunny day somewhere down the block. Nothing I go do would remove the smell. I banged around the house in an increasingly foul mood. Grumpy, angry, agitated. Irritated. Impatient.
Today at work I got a call. It was Juan.
J: I have good news and bad news. What do you want first. The good news is really really good.
M: Give me the bad news.
J: Don't you want the good news first?
M: Just the bad news hon--if you tell me the good news first the bad news will just bring me down...
J: One of the baby racoons is dead. It was left in the chimney. That was the smell.
A sadness washed over me. I had really wanted that little family to make it. I wondered about the mother--the loss she must feel. At the same time my own mother instincts went into high gear. I was revolted thinking about the carcass so close to my son, thinking about the decay. I wondered: What the hell do I do now? How am I going to get a dead racoon out of my chimney? What a mess!
M: The good news?
J: I cleaned out the chimney. Its all done. Poop's gone, hair's gone, nest is gone. It was a huge job. I removed the carcass--had it dealt with. I knew you couldn't do it. It smells better in the house now.
M: Thanks. You're right. I couldn't.
And then it hit me.
M: Juan, Do you think I killed the little guy? With the pinesol and the musicals and everything?
J: Oh, I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. His little foot was caught in the flu. Probably he just got stuck and couldn't get out for food and water. His mom probably left him there when the rest moved on. Its life, you know, survival of the fittest and all...
I remember the last night when I heard the crying--the night I yelled at the chimney--MOVE ON ALREADY! Poor little one was alone and dying and I was screaming at him. He must have felt so scared, so betrayed. My heart broke for him. I started to weap softly. I thought no one would have been able to tell but Juan knows me well enough to hear the tears.
J: This is good news Meg. The racoons are gone. The smell is gone. Its done.
M: I know. Thanks. You are a saint for doing this. Really. I really appreciate it.
And its true. I walked into the house this evening and felt immediately lighter. My patience with my own imperfect life seemed to flood back, hope washing over me. My grounchiness subsided. The relief was palpable.
Was the energy of a death so close so very strong that it hung over the house and colored our moods? I am certain of it. The hopelessness of his struggle was what had drifted in and clung to our clothes, our curtains, our rugs.
I walked over to my altar and lit a candle for a baby abandoned by earthly mothers. I prayed that he had found a home in the furry bosom of the great mama racoon in the sky. I also lit a candle in thanksgiving for such an unexpected kindness from the most unlikely of people.
Today we celebrated the 4th of July. I am not a terribly patriotic person--in fact these days I am pretty embarrased by our nation's behavior around the world. But I am always up for a party so we do the whole 4th of July thing up pretty big down here. However, given how grouchy I am feeling about our foreign policy, the failure of the passage of the immigration bill and the death of the Employee Free Choice Act, I was very much hoping that my son wouldn't ask me questions that would make me have to talk all red, white and blue...or try to explain the complexity of my political positions. It was a beautiful day and I just wanted to enjoy a nice picnic. I was hoping that like years past he would just roll with the idea that its a fun day in the middle of the summer--a good reason to sit back with a drink and watch fireworks.
No such luck. At 11:14 am the questions started:
Max: What is the big deal about the 4th of July?
Me: Its a holiday
Max: Why is it a holiday?
Me: Ummm...it's the day we celebrate our country's birthday.
Max: What does that mean?
Me: Its the day that the United States became its own country.
Max: I don't get it.
Me: Well, a long long time ago--more than 200 years ago, a bunch of people came over from England and settled on some land, the land we live in now. Those people followed the rules of England and the King of England got to set the rules even though he lived far away. It was like that for awhile. Then they had this King named George...
Max: Oh...George Bush's dad...
Me: No, another George. Anyway, they thought he was really mean and he made unfair rules.
Max: Like George Bush...
Me: Right--well kinda...anyway, he took their money and he didn't give them any say about what to do with it. They wanted to make their own rules so they decided to make their own country.
Max: Oh...so the 4th of July is the day that the King gave the people the country to themselves...
Me: No--it took them a long time and a lot of struggle to get the country but July 4 was the day that the people said:"Enough. We are fed up with this situation and we want a change. We declare independence..."
I was beginning to be inspired by my own little speech. However, Max got bored or perhaps this seemed to be enough for him. In any case, he looked out the window for a few minutes and then changed the subject.
But his question got me thinking and a little, I don't know...pumped up. I don't have to dwell in patriotic pride to get into the spirit of Independence Day. I just have to get in the spirit of "Enough already. I want a change in this situation..."
So tonight, all jazzed up from the fireworks and my friend Cathy's fabulous peach pie I draft my own declaration of independence.
Starting tonight I say "Enough" and I will stand up against the inner tyrants who drive me nuts.
I declare my independence from:
- Clutter and too much housework
- My inner critic, that damn perfectionist
- My own crazy need for outside approval
- Hateful speech and gossip
- Consumer culture and wasteful spending
- Self righteous and judgemental people who say the only way to love your country is to just agree
May you have a lovely and revolutionary night and may your tomorrow bring you one step closer to conquering your own inner tyrants and making all your very own rules.
PS. Today is also the 1st birthday of my dear little friend Jamie Potts. Happy birthday big guy.
Tonight is Boys Night at our house.
Alex, Julian and Max have been buddies since infanthood, sharing a babysitter, toys and their food. They fight and love each other fiercely. Like brothers. When Alex went off to Kindergarten, Max and Julian held hands and met him at the bus each day. When Julian joined Alex at the Spanish-immersion elementary school, Max waited patiently for that yellow bus to pull up for an hour of bliss each afternoon.
But now that school is out for the summer, they luxuriate in long sleepy days together under the watchful eye of their Nana. Building, running, climbing, hour after long hour wrapped up in imaginary play. Good hard physical boy play. Rolling on the ground, pretend fighting, all poopy jokes and pretend farts. And giggling. There is always lots of non-stop giggling. In the evenings it is hard to pull them apart.
So every now and again we don't. They will sleepover at one house or another. But our house has a special mystique--There are no big sisters here. Boys rule at our house. The will spend all night screeching with laughter, building blanket forts, and launching pillows at the mom at the computer and no one will roll their eyes or beg "MOM...make them stop!".
Tonight they wait at the door for me to arrive home from work like puppies, wagging their tails and begging for pizza. Please please PLEASE can we order pizza AND have a movie?!?. I pick up the phone and call for delivery. Who can resist making such dreams come true?
As I write this they tumble through the dining room at full speed. Strip off their clothes and pull on pajamas, and then explode back downstairs to finish the movie, pure joy and silliness. I want to bottle their laughter.
And tonight, when the movie is done they will curl up like the puppies that they are, together in each others arms in a big pile in the living room. Sweet sweet boys.
Some days its not all bliss with these three. There are hurt feelings, hurt limbs. But usually compassion rules the day. When one of them gets hurt, the other two run for ice. When there is only one icecream sandwich left, Max and Alex let Julian have it because "We know he loves them SO MUCH."
I pray that they will always have each other these friends who knew each other before the Boy Code reared its ugly head, before society tried to convince them that they shouldn't cry in public, or express affection for one another. I pray that when the storms of adolescence rock their world that they will remember the security they felt on summer days falling down laughing and summer evenings falling into each others arms.
It is Day 1 of our campaign to get the Racoon Family who moved into our chimney to move on to different living quarters. They have lived here since at least the end of April. It was then that I heard the squeaking of the newborn babies in the morning. To be honest at the time I didn't even think that they were racoons--birds or bats perhaps. I was happy that they had chosen my chimney and happy to share my space with creatures who would help us by eating the bugs and mosquitos in the swamp that is our yard.
As the babies grew it became apparent that they weren't little flying creatures. When the day turned dusky an enormous clatter arose as the family woke up. It sounded as though a herd of elephants had taken residence in my house. All night big racoons returned home to bring food to the babes and the little ones cried for their mama. In the early morning as I sleepily dragged myself out of bed and sat down to write my morning journal pages I could hear the drama of the racoon's bedtime rituals. I would smile in solidarity.
I have to admit I have enjoyed their visit, even though everyone I know has told me I MUST get rid of them. For one, I have enjoyed the company of the litte babies on many a long lonely night. Their little voices were a comfort to me in the quiet. Second, I liked the idea that my little home could provide shelter to so many--That we could share our little space on earth with other creatures. I knew that flu was solidly closed and I know from winter evenings how damn hard it is to open it so I am not worried that they will get in and eat us at night. As a mama myself I could identify with the mother's racoon's desire to keep her babies somewhere safe and dry, warm in the chilly spring evenings, cool in the heat of the summer day.
But a call to the wild life rescue organization assured me that they do carry so many other viruses and diseases--its really not a great idea to have them here. And just a few days ago the summer breeze brought just a whiff of barnyard down from the chimney. This morning as Max and I sat down on the couch to read we had to hold our nose. The deep musky organic and disgusting smell of racoon poo was taking over my living room. Time for the campaign to begin.
From my call to the wildlife rescue organization I learned some things. For one, because of Maryland law around rabies specter species, any adult racoon that is trapped must be euthanized. The babies could be moved to a shelter and released into the wild if there were folks licensed to raise them but there were currently no spaces left in any of the Maryland shelters so they too would be euthanized. Therefor unless Max and I wanted to end this visit by killing our smelly little friends we must do this ourselves. We must convince these house guests that they would be so much happier somewhere else.
Now we are no fools We were warned not to get close enough to them for them to scratch or bite and I frankly have no desire to move them myself. So we must encourage them to leave by being bad hosts. We are going against our welcoming nature and trying to be as obnoxious as possible. Doing this without losing friends in the neighborhood will be a real delicate balancing act.
I moved the stereo over to the fireplace and all morning have been blasting music at a volume so loud that the music sounds tinny and horrible. I briefly wondered what type of music would be most offensive to the mother racoon. I considered for a few minutes putting Jimmy Buffett''s "(Why Don't We) Get Drunk and Screw" on a continuous loop but realized that this would provoke questions from my little one that I wasn't ready to answer at worst and at best would lead to Max singing the song in the grocery store, on the playground and at friend's homes at the top of his lungs. So instead we have blasted Benny More, Jimmy Buffet (minus THAT song), and soon I will switch to Broadway musicals. My neighbors must love me. Five hours and running and the racoons haven't even stirred.
While it was fun to blast music for the first hour, there was much dancing and being silly, but the last few have been a bit more annoying. My ears are ringing. I took advantage of the beautiful weather and painted the front door (one of the many tasks on my long to-do list) but now have realized that I must keep the door open for 12 hours tying me to the house. The house that smells like a barnyard and sounds like a disco. Max has wandered off to a neighbors house. The little traitor.
Tomorrow if there is still a racoon family in my house we will have to up the ante. I will put a rag soaked with pinesol in the fireplace. I will buy a bright light and shine it down the chimney. And if none of these tasks work I will continue to invent new ways to be obnoxious. If we get really desperate we can pour urine down the chimney and then move to a hotel for about a week while the smell clears out of the house. Lets hope we don't need to get that desperate. But I can't even bear the thought of calling in a trapper. I am not ready to teach my son that lesson. Not yet.
