notsosupermama

Today I was looking through our family’s iPad at some photos and came across a video that had obviously been shot by accident.  It starred yours truly and my five-year old daughter.  As I watched it I found tears rolling down my cheeks, not because the camera had captured a tender moment between mother and daughter, but because it showed a side of me I hadn’t fully recognized was there.  And I was ashamed.

In this short film I saw a mother engaged in typing an email, most likely something work-related.  I saw her brow furrowed, her fingers flying across the keyboard.  I then saw a small child sitting down next to her mother on the couch, attempting to make contact.  And I saw her mother ignore her.  Not only that, I saw a look of complete frustration cross the mother’s face.  She looked annoyed at the interruption.

I watched as the child tried harder to engage her mother, grabbing her arm and trying to snuggle up next to her.  Through tears of regret I saw the mother respond by brushing away the child’s hand, completely wrapped up in her laptop and now speaking in a curt, clipped tone that told this child exactly how the mother felt about this interaction.

At this point the tape ended, but I couldn’t stop staring at the screen.  Was this angry looking woman really me?  Was this what my daughter saw when she tried to interact with me?  And was this a one-time incident or a pattern of behavior?

I wanted to reach through the screen and shake myself.  I wanted to scream, “Your child needs your attention!  The email can wait!”  I wanted to hold a mirror in front of my onscreen face so the woman inside could see the image she was portraying to her daughter.

Sadly, I can’t undo that interaction.  Nor can I erase the other interactions with my children that may have left them feeling deprioritized and dehumanized, the ones not caught on tape but imprinted on their tender psyches.

What I can do is this.  I can put down the laptop, or the book, or the laundry, or whatever trivial bullshit I have been so urgently attending to.  I can recognize when my children need me.  I can realize that whatever seems important at the time is so minor in the grand scheme of things.  The emails can wait.  The laundry will keep.  These tiny humans who adore me?  Cannot.

I don’t want my children to look back on their childhoods and picture me with a clenched jaw and a closed heart.  I don’t know of a single person who, in reflecting on his or her upbringing, says fondly, “I remember how great mom was at returning emails.”

Children are innately needy creatures.  That’s why they have parents; if they were wholly independent they wouldn’t need us at all.  It is our responsibility and our privilege to be there for them, to make them feel like they are important and special and loved.

Will there be times when our focus is elsewhere?  Naturally.  Will we always be able to drop what we’re doing and attend to them immediately?  Of course not, and we would be doing them a disservice by doing so.

But when a small child seeks comfort from her mother and gets the brush off because of an email?  It’s time to close the laptop and engage.

Cuddle up, buttercup.  I’m all yours.

Last night my son had three friends over to spend the night for his birthday.  Miles turns twelve(!!) in a few days and the others have already reached that milestone.  They are at that tender, goofy, transitional age when they still behave like children but are beginning to show interest in more mature pursuits.

Seeing them interact and listening to them talk made me want to freeze time and just treasure this last vestige of innocence.  They’ve discovered girls but they aren’t yet sure what to do with them.  They’ve started to exert their independence but they still want to check in with their mommies at bedtime.  They laugh outrageously at crude humor in movies and television shows but their own conversations are completely benign.

This morning when I woke them and brought them breakfast, they were all tangled in a giant mess of pillows and blankets on the floor.  They woke like sleepy puppies, still unused to their own gangly legs and arms and eager to devour the comfort food before them.  Their laughter echoed through the house as they talked over one another and shared funny anecdotes.

I wanted to soak it all up: their youth, their joy, their precarious guilelessness.  How fleeting this time is.  How quickly they will become complicated little men.

My wish is that the next year go slowly.  May that terrifying milestone hold off as long as possible.  My little boy may be the exact size I was when I graduated from high school, but he’s still my little boy.  He still wants to cuddle with me and play with my hair at bedtime.  He’s still afraid to stay home alone.  He’s not yet too cool to play balloon volleyball with his little sister for an hour while laughing hysterically.

Please let this child hang around a bit longer, before the teenager takes over.  And more importantly, let me remember that this child is still there inside the teenager, even when he thinks otherwise.  Because Miles?  I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.

Being a woman in 2013 is hard work.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not downplaying the hardships women faced in previous generations.  I would have lasted about 2.4 seconds as a pioneer woman, and the thought of being considered my husband’s property and being denied the right to vote makes me shudder.  I’m well aware that when it comes to the big stuff we’re in a much better place now, with far more rights and comforts.

The difficulties I’m talking about have everything to do with expectations.  We have invented an ideal that is utterly unattainable.  We have read too many celebrity magazines and taken too many Facebook posts at face value and developed unrealistic goals that can only serve to make us feel like failures.

Today’s woman is expected to finish college with at least a bachelor’s degree, have a successful career in which she shatters glass ceilings and makes everything previous generations fought for worth it.  She is expected to marry well and have three children, all of whom will participate in roughly seventeen extracurricular activities per week from the time they are potty trained (which, by the way, she should feel solely responsible for and should have completed by the time the child is rolling over).  These children should be nurtured but not coddled, raised with self-esteem in spades and given every opportunity.  Her husband should feel valued as a partner and she should not only decorate and maintain their home like something out of House Beautiful, she should know and practice every sex tip ever printed in Cosmo.  She should volunteer in her community, be active in her church, and have a rockin’ body worthy of a twenty-year old.  She should fill her wrinkles and lift her breasts, and by no means should she ever look like a mom.  By God, if Angelina Jolie can pop out that many kids and still fit into her high school jeans, then so should Modern Woman.  She should be well read and belong to at least one book club, coach soccer, volunteer at her children’s schools, and host a killer dinner party.

And perhaps she should also ride a unicorn to work, because we seem to be talking about mythical creatures…

When are we going to cut ourselves some slack?  When are we going to realize we can’t be all things to all people?  When are we going to start saying NO?

I went to college and I love my job.  I have a great marriage and two wonderful children.  I try to eat healthy and I exercise to keep myself sane.  But I carry an extra fifteen pounds.  I occasionally fight with my husband.  I sometimes fail my kiddos as a parent.  Some days my job makes me want to scream.  I have days when I suck at being me.

We have some pretty incredible advantages afforded to us in this day and age.  We have had our road paved by some incredible women.  We should strive to be the best people we can be.  But that doesn’t have to mean being  CEO or having an ass like JLo.  It doesn’t mean we have to be PTO president or raise our own organic vegetables.  It just means we have to be ourselves, flaws and all.  No one is asking us to be perfect except us.  

So ease up, mama.  You’re pretty damn swell just the way you are.

Kisses,

Ash

Some friends and I were talking last night about how chaotic our lives are during this phase of parenthood:  the sports practices, the games, the school events, the homework…it never ends!  Trying to schedule time to get together with friends can be more difficult than coordinating peace talks in the Middle East or getting Justin Bieber to pull his pants up.

As we were lamenting our over-scheduled lives, one of my friends mentioned the fact that time was passing by so quickly.  She noted how the ten years between 17 and 27 were filled with so many changes and seemed to stretch out indefinitely, but that once children entered the picture time sped up, and the ten years from 27 to 37 have gone by in a flash.  The babies we swaddled are entering middle school, their tiny dimpled hands now adept at texting.

And suddenly we all paused, mid-complaint.  If the past ten years had gone by so quickly,  the next ten likely would as well, perhaps at an even faster clip.  Our days of carpooling and coaching will be over, our children off to college and flown from the nest.  These busy days will be replaced with quiet.  Conversations at the dinner table will evolve into increasingly brief phone calls.  Cuddles at bedtime will become one-armed hugs after winter break.

We all agreed that we would love to go back in time, to hold those chubby babies again, to smell their skin and hear their babbles.  That time has passed, relegated to photos and memories.  So, too, will this time.  One day we will look back on the preteen hormones and the three-a-week practices and we will mourn them.

We will blink and our children will be people.  People who may or may not live nearby, who may or may not have time to visit us.  We failed to live in and appreciate the moment when our children were small, worn down by sleep deprivation and diapers, just as we fail to live in and appreciate the moment while our children are older, distracted by schedules and obligations.  And one day, we will want to go back, and we will fail at that as well.

Perhaps it is human nature.  Perhaps it is parenthood.  But I hope that when I wake up tomorrow I can, at least temporarily, enjoy the exact phase my children are in.  Now, not in ten years.

Sunrise, sunset.  *sniff*

As parents, we want to protect our children from pain.  We diligently strap them into car seats and fasten helmets and install outlet covers.  We do everything we can to keep them safe from harm.  But inevitably we find ourselves doling out Band-Aids and kisses and comfort, because life repeatedly reminds us that there are limits on our parental powers.  Our children are going to get hurt, regardless of our baby-proofing prowess.

Sometimes the toughest boo-boos are the ones you can’t see.  When a friend rejects your child, when a pet dies, when parents get divorced…emotional wounds can sometimes be the most painful.

This past weekend our children faced, for the first time, the imminent death of a loved one.  My husband’s step-dad had a massive heart attack (the latest in a string of cardiac arrests he’s experienced) and ended up in the ICU on life support.  Doctors initially said he wouldn’t make it through the night.

My husband and I decided our five-year old daughter was too young to understand what was happening, but as my husband raced to his mom’s side, I was left to break the news to our eleven-year old son.  I truly felt like I was responsible for the moment that would define his passage from carefree childhood to adult-like awareness.  I was the one who would tell him the news that would break his heart.

And I did.

We hugged, we cried, we talked.  I prayed for guidance and I tried my best to be what he needed.  It was awful.

Incredibly, my father-in-law survived the night.  As of this writing (four days later) he is hooked up to machines that the doctors hope will buy him some time until his body can start doing what it’s supposed to again.  It’s an uphill battle; he’s fighting an infection, his diabetes has his blood sugar completely out of whack, his organs are being uncooperative.  The prognosis is grim.

On Saturday we made the decision that I would bring the children to visit their grandma, knowing that hugs from her grandbabies would be the best support we could give her.  I explained the situation in simple terms to our youngest, who responded, “I hope Grandpa doesn’t die…but you’re not dead and I love you!”  And I gave our oldest the option to see his grandpa or to stay with his grandma in the waiting room.

Our brave, sweet son chose the former.  Together we held his grandpa’s hand and told him we loved him.  We prayed.  We watched the tubes and machines and monitors and wondered if they would be enough.  And together, we faced a harsh reality:  love means loss.  When we care about someone we open ourselves up to the possibility of pain.  We allow ourselves to be vulnerable.  We set ourselves up for the inevitable:  someone has to be left behind.

I watched that realization sink in for our son.   I watched him square his shoulders and try his best to be strong.  I watched him experience pain.  It was one of the toughest moments of my life, and I’ve never been more proud.

Yes, love means loss and caring can be painful.  But my God is it worth it.

Right now my children are camped out behind the couch watching a movie on the iPad and eating junk.  Meanwhile I’m on the laptop watching basketball and pretending I’m alone.  I should probably feel guilty.

What I’ve come to realize after nearly twelve years of parenthood is this:  there will be days when you bring your A-game, when you live in the moment and play board games with your children and cook a healthy dinner from scratch.  And there will be days when you fail, when you lose your temper and forget about a school project and act like a child yourself.  But more often than not, there will be a succession of mediocre parenting days, when snacks are eaten straight from the box and the TV is on longer than it should be but nothing catches fire and everyone is relatively content.

Parenthood parallels life in this way.  Some days are filled with adventure and excitement, other days sorrow and frustration.  But most days?  Just pass.  We go through the motions, we participate in our routines, we eat, we breathe, we sleep.

And you know what I’ve decided?  That’s okay.  I can strive for Perfection and flog myself when I don’t achieve it, or I can be alright with Good Enough.  If at the end of the day no bones or hearts have been broken and I hugged my kids and told them I loved them, I can fall asleep knowing that’s enough.

Does that mean I’m settling for ordinary and practicing complacent parenting?  Not at all.  I  plan fun activities with my kiddos and I set limits and I try my best every day to be the kind of mom they deserve.  I’ve just stopped berating myself because I’m not Supermama.

This much is true:  my kids are safe, they are loved, they are provided for.  And they know it.

That’s good enough for me.

By now we’ve all heard the term “staycation”, the idea of a break from reality without the airfare.  As this week’s spring break approached, I found myself resenting the fact that I wouldn’t be spending mine on a white sand beach, that I didn’t need to dig out my passport or my bikini.  Work was breaking me, my kids were testing my patience, my husband was getting on my last frayed nerve… I wanted a VAcation, not a STAYcation!

Frankly, I’m sure my family was wishing I would take a trip as well.  For the past month or so I’d been, to put it mildly, a bitch.  I’d let the stress of juggling work and home get to me and I’d taken it out on the people who deserved it the least and meant the most.  Funny how we can be perfectly civil to strangers in public but impatient and grouchy with the people we love at home.

It all came to a head last weekend, when my big-hearted, level-headed hubby sat me down for a come-to-Jesus.  To make a long conversation short, he told me I needed to snap out of it and realize how my behavior was affecting my family.  He was on edge, our kids were acting out, our normally loving home environment was anything but.

At first I was defensive.  Did he not understand what it was like to have so many balls in the air?  Did he not realize the pressure I was under at work?  Did he not recognize how impossible it was to meet the demands life constantly placed on me?  And then it hit me: none of that was a valid excuse.  And none of it was my family’s fault.

I made a promise then and there to be kinder, more aware, more patient.  And a staycation was just the place to start.

The next morning when the kids woke up, I made a conscious effort to be present with them.  I left the to-do list gathering dust and played outside.  I cudddled.  I giggled.  I took my two favorite people to lunch and listened to their stories over French fries and root beer.  I was a Mom to them in a way I had ceased to be recently.  And it felt great.

The change in them was immediate.  The bickering stopped and the playfulness returned.   When my husband came home he noticed right away that we were having fun.  We were enjoying each other’s company.

I vowed to do the same with him.  I stopped what I was doing and welcomed him home with a real hug and kiss, not a perfunctory peck on the cheek while I was attending to ten other things.  I focused on the positive things from my day instead of venting about what had gone wrong.  I connected with him instead of treating him like an annoying roommate.  I remembered how much I love having conversations with him and snuggling on the couch, and I made sure we did plenty of both.

It’s kind of amazing how simple it can be when the fog lifts and you see clearly what’s really important.  Life will always have its challenges.  Work will always have its stresses.  But family is what truly matters.  I may have lost sight of that temporarily but a gentle reminder from my husband and a staycation with my kiddos were just what this mama needed to get her attitude adjusted and her priorities back on track.

You can have your tiki hut on the beach.  I’ll take a happy family any day.

P.S. I am not delusional.  I fully realize this is an ongoing process, not a state of being.  Tonight both kiddos were cranky and I had to draw on my patience reserves.  I felt myself starting to get wound up but I took a deep breath and kept my cool.  I know I won’t always.  But today?  I got this.
Now where’s that cabana boy with my mojito?