big as the sky

Zen and the Art of Child Maintenence

I took a vacation.  Yes, you read that right.  I.  Not the vacation with small children where "it's twenty times more work but worth the effort because you are showing your kids the world beyond their street".  No, this was an actual vacation, as in no kids.  Rock on.   

But before I get to what a great time I had, and what a rock star dad my husband is, I must do a (sort of) quick post to all the mommies out there because I learned something very important on this trip. 

You know that uneasy, confused feeling you get as a mom sometimes?  The one that says, "I know my work as a mother is monumentally important.  I am creating the next generation with every triumph and mistake that befalls my day. But I find myself mostly in my kitchen area doing dishes, laundry, meals, playdates, and cleaning up toys??  How does laundry folding and schedule making turn into the next greatest generation??  Where does the mundane segue into the heroic??"  Well . . . I learned a little about where they meet last week.

It started with some instructions for the childcare pit crew I had pieced together for the three days.  The instructions began on a notepad, then moved to the word processor, then became this massive drooling beast of a Word document + little lists taped to the fridge and back door + packed lunches in the fridge + packed camp bags + packed suitcases + bags with notes on them in plain sight + outfits put together in the closets + permission slips for camp pickup + notes on the remote controls, and on and on.  Plus my cell number.  Now . . . the argument can be made that I need to be medicated and we talk openly about this in our home.  Don't worry, it doesn't hurt my feelings.  But, the point is this.

You have no idea how much information you have packed in your head as a mommy until you try to write it all down.

Then you realize that writing it all down is pretty silly because there is a third dimension to all of it that only you as primary 'kid dealer with' can perform.  When to discipline, when to hug.  What to say, what not to say and when.  When to push healthy and when to give in.  On and on.  Transitioning a two-year-old from a writhing fit on the floor to coloring happily at the table is a Judo-esque move that would impress both Yoda and SuperNanny.  And it cannot be documented.  Trust me, I tried. 

So I let it go.  Kind of.  I just left town, called home every now and then, and hoped for the best.  When I finally saw my kids after three days, my oldest said it had been a blast.  This was a sincere statement because the rules had been very relaxed.  It was liberating not to have me setting the timer for her computer time and insisting on her high fiber cereal for breakfast.  But later in an exhausted display of girl drama, she broke down sobbing and admitted to me that it had been "scary" and she "missed me more than anything".  As we spooned that night, she held my arm in a vice grip even after she dozed off to sleep.

I'm a relatively new mom.  Revelations about this work are still in the beginning stages, and I had one right then as I felt in that moment just what it means to know all the stuff I had tried to make into a list.   Favorite sippy cups, favorite jammies, how to manage each individual friend who comes over,  favorite book, insecurities, strengths,  all of it.  With just a look my children and I can communicate a whole paragraph.  And we became that way by connecting via the mundane practices of our day.  Conversations during laundry folding, driving, and meal preparation.  These tasks are boring and meaningless until you add the dimension of connecting with your loved ones to them.  Then they become the supernova of your life.

I still hate doing the dishes, but I have some clarity on it's greater purpose.  Everyday things we do with the people in our everyday life.   So, all you mommies out there that wonder sometimes what you did all day in a blur of fits and starts of daily tasks.  Turns out the sum is greater than the parts.   It's just hard to put your finger on it.  And your children will definitely never put their finger on it.  But they feel it everyday.  And the security they have with someone knowing all of the stuff I tried to make into a list propels them to each new horizon in their lives.  The love and security of mom.  Standing there folding your underwear.  Telling you to eat your vegetables, and then picking out your favorite book without even asking which one it is. 

If you don't believe me, just try to leave town for a few days:)

More to come on what an awesome husband I have and fabulously fun parents.  We had a great time . . .

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I haven't had time to really sit with my pics, but here's a fun one of Bee at a restaurant.

Yoga for Idiots; To Three or Not to Three

Have you ever heard of the game, "Spiderman vs. Superman.  Who would win?"  Well, the first thought flickering through my brain during my first Yoga class in years was "Body Pump instructor vs. Yoga instructor.  Who would win?"  You know, I think the Yoga instructor might have an advantage . . . but I digress. 

Needless to say, I'm not sure I am in the correct head space yet for this spiritual practice, but there's very little about Yoga that is judgmental, except being judgmental.  Speaking briefly, it was an enjoyable class where I cried, relaxed, and writhed in excruciating pain in the space of one hour.   I also noticed I was in dire need of a pedicure -- yikes! 

I went to the YMCA Yoga Level 1-2 class twice this weekend.  The first class, I drank a Venti house blend prior to the class, showed up early, and almost bolted while waiting for class to start.  The instructor was a beautiful, confident lady who's skin matched her hair, and toenail polish matched her skin.  She was flexible and strict.  But she winked at me in encouragement when I yelped in pain once, which was all I needed.  The second class was more easy going, and the instructor ended with a quote, I kid you not, about being industrious with our words.  My first Yoga spiritual message . . . shut it!  I found this very ironic, as will most people who spend any amount of time with me.  I've been thinking about not talking.  So, it's a start.  Will the next quote be about procrastinating?  You must wait to see, grasshoppah.

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I have no pictures to share because, well, they all stink.  I will pull my camera out tomorrow, and start playing.  I have some great ideas, but just need to make it happen.  My funk is gone, and has been replaced with my more comfortable personality mode of dramatic anxiety.  Ahhh, back to normal. 

I've been distracted lately by the life altering question of to reproduce, or not to reproduce.  More rugrats, that is.  This is a very "out of left field" question I pose to myself because I have always been sure that I wanted at least three children my entire life.  I knew very few families growing up that had two children (I come from three), and stared curiously at these families like they were alien beings.  Being the third child, it seemed so . . . buttoned up.  Calm.  Organized.  Quiet.  Weird.  The children were so . . . attended to.  No Lord of the Flies upstairs at their house.  No behind mom's back wedgies, secrets, or negotiations.  They were allowed to, like, be in their houses during the day.  But now, most families I know have two children.  I thought this so odd when I moved to the 'burbs and started my own child rearing odyssey.  I didn't judge these families, didn't look down on them, not at all.  But it seemed more natural for me to make three.

Then last week . . . my brain took off down a rabbit trail and started pondering the thought of two without even asking my permission.  All of a sudden, I started seeing a life with some calm.  Where I could enjoy every piece of my children, crawl all around in every nook and cranny of them instead of sending them off to play.  I started seeing a small career I could have.  Even some hobbies.  Wow!  I started dreaming my dreams beyond motherhood again, which hurled me into space orbiting without gravity.  Completely ungrounded.

So, instead of doing the mentally healthy thing, and sitting with this question quietly until my own inner wisdom guided me to the best answer, I hurled myself in pieces at everybody with whom I came into contact.  My poor, shy neighbor who happens to take Body Pump at the same time as me was one victim.  I don't even know her, and I found myself after class dumping my every feeling on the issue onto her pained face.   People I don't know at birthday parties?  Them, too.  Then two more neighbors.  Then some friends.  I have actually fantasized about bringing together a forum of two-children families and three-children families so we can discuss pros and cons.  What can I say, I'm a researcher, not a meditation person.   When I think of working and being all there for my two daughters, I'm happy with two kids.  When I see an infant, or a family of five at the pool, I'm back to three kids. 

Please know that I am fully aware that this is all gravy.  I am so very blessed to even have this choice.  At least I think I have it.  We've been trying, as in with graph paper and ovulation computers, for seven months and no bambino.  But I think we can.  My husband is taking his usual supportive and laid back, I can be talked into whatever but you are making me crazy with all of your craziness position.  He's no help.  So, as usual, I want somebody to tell me what to do, but don't want to be told what to do.  I want to answer my own questions, but don't trust my instincts.   I think I'll just go enjoy the ones I have and wait and see.  What a novel idea . . .

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Answer to last weeks question, "What hideous thing is this that came from the sofa cushion?"

It was an entire apple.  Complements of Bee.