It's a Matter of Perspective

     "Mommy, why do so many bad things keep happening to us?"  ...Sigh...and as my eight year old throws herself in a fit of gut-wrenching sobs, it takes everything in me not to join her.  This was in the wake of what was probably a scary moment for her as we had a tire blow out while merging onto a busy highway.  As I maneuvered over to the shoulder and the 18-wheelers zoomed by, it seemed to occur to us all , in an unspoken moment of horror, that just recently someone was killed sitting on the shoulder of this same highway only weeks ago.  I took a deep breath and with my hazards blinking in their rhythmic fashion, hobbled back onto the highway to make the few thousand feet to the closest exit ramp where we were able to pull into a gas station, (all the while with three nervous children all telling me how to drive, how helpful).  I put the music on and suggested reading from our library books as we waited for Daddy to come and help us (and as I steadied my shaking hands).  Because nerves weren't tested enough, as the kids were still in the van while it was being jacked up, ("Isn't this fun?!), the van rolled off of the jack and bottomed out onto the concrete.  Ashen-faced children were ushered out and arrangements were made to get us home safely, notwithstanding the fact that the other car available was pulled off of a lift for a much-needed brake job to come and rescue us.  Happily, we're home safe and, well apparently not quite sound.

     Can I be honest?  I feel like some sort of human pinata lately.  I could write a novel about the last decade or so, but most recently it has been a storm of sorts around here.  For whatever reason, there is usually some generous amount of nonsense happening.  Whether it's water leaking from the roof on my bed at night, sliding off the road into a retaining wall with a car full of kids and their presents on Christmas Eve during a sudden snowfall, or more recently the drying up of our well.  These meddlesome adventures are where the name of my blog came from.  Understandably, life with five children pretty much guarantees a rollercoaster ride of not only emotions but of circumstances.  However, my life in and of itself, kids aside, sometimes plays out like the Benny Hill Show; granted more slapstick, less smut.

     While raising a gaggle of kids is definitely a challenge even on the best of days, add a household that barely has running water and you've just kicked the insanity level up a notch.  (Disclaimer alert:  I am aware that for people all over the world clean running water is an unfound luxury and I am in no way forgetting that and therefore read to the end and then feel free to scold me.)  In my busy house I find myself rationing toilet flushing and dish washing, cooking with only bottled water (rich girl problems I know), showering at the houses of generous family members and friends and doing the 3+ loads of laundry (moment of gratitude:  we have enough clothes to constitute that much laundry!) a day at various satellite locations keeping me on my toes more than I really ever wanted to be.  I have spent an incredible amount of time in mental conversation.  Sometimes with God (that's between He and I), but more often with myself and yes I realize I just admitted that I may be going a little nutty.  The conversations with my frustrated-self are often filled with the things that I put in parenthesis, that constant struggling with what I find difficult and yet knowing deep down, that my problems really are high-class.  It has become a mental yoga-class of sorts where I have to force myself to bend and become more flexible in my ability to accept what I am powerless over (I still haven't figured out how to make it rain.), to become more trusting in myself and my situation and that there is a higher plan for me, (making the calls to find out how in the world I am going to come up with the money to drill my well deeper.) and to finally and most importantly keep it all in perspective.  The kind of perspective I shared with my daughter tonight in spite of the real despair that I felt.

     As she stood there with that quiver in her lower lip that signaled an inevitable break down and she asked me that question while the sobs escaped, I was able to ask my little girl, "Charlotte, can you see me?" (nod of the head), "Charlotte can you hear my voice?" (again a tearful nod)  "Charlotte, can you use your legs to walk over to Mommy so that I can give you a big hug?"  As she ran with those healthy little legs over to me and I was able to wrap my strong arms around her and smell her shampoo and feel her warm tears against my skin I began to believe the message that I was about to tell my little girl.  That the things that have been happening are indeed not fun and they are upsetting, but to remember that the most important things in our life, such as the ability to hold each other are still intact.  We know people firsthand who can't hold each other because continents and evil separate them. That we are blessed with bodies that work and not everyone has that luxury. That our love for one another cannot be ruined by broken material things in this world.  Houses may fall apart, wells may dry up, cars come and go and as we age our health begins to fade too but the relationships in our lives are where are true legacy lives.  How we touch one another's hearts can last forever.  No matter where I hang my hat or what I drive or even  if I can see or hear, I can only truly put the value of my life in the love that I choose to be a part of. 

You Can't Get Water From an Empty Well

 

Where the journey begins

 On the last official weekend of summer, I decided to take time to do one of my favorite things and go kayaking  It was kind of ironic that on the day after we realized that due to August's sparse rainfall, our well was dry, and I found myself surrounded by thousands of gallons of water.  Not too long ago, I would have never dreamt of leaving a box of cereal and a bowl of fruit on the kitchen table with a note saying, "Went kayaking, be back by lunch!  Love, Mom."  I would have felt guilty for not being there when the kids woke up.  I most likely would have talked myself out of doing something solely for me.  I've come a long way in that respect.

      Early in my journey of motherhood, taking care of myself was something I wasn't very good at.  When I first became a mom, I worked sixty-hour weeks and was riddled with guilt for not being with my son.  Any spare moment I had I made sure that I spent it with him .  Years later, after having the twins and making the decision to be a stay-at-home mom, I felt that I somehow had to shift proving my self-worth from my paid job, to making sure that I was fully engrossed 100% of the time either in my children or in housework.  It had taken years of being burned out to silence that little voice that told me I was only worth how much I was doing.  I was a walking human-doing, and not a human-being.
     We're surrounded daily by images of supposedly perfect parenting.  Just log into Pinterest if you ever want to feel less-than.  Social media has allowed us to take the picture-perfect moments in our lives and piece together a flawless mosaic for others to see.  I'm not exactly sure when I started to shed this notion that I had to be the "perfect" mom, or when I began to feel like it was OK to start doing things for myself.  It has been a process for sure.  Maybe it began with the once-a-month Twins' Club meetings I went to.  I could rationalize the one night out of a month that I took to meet with other moms of multiples.  Somehow my mommy-guilt allowed me to enjoy those nights mostly guilt-free because I truly felt they were helping me to be a better mother.  There-in lies the absolute truth of it.  Taking a moment for myself, helps me to be a better person for others.  At that time I wasn't aware of it though.  I do remember a defining, "a-ha," moment where I really grasped that notion.  I was twenty-nine, I had just had child number five and we almost immediately moved into the house we now live in.  The year leading up to my youngest's birth was particularly difficult for many reasons and I had just spent the last decade completely absorbed in my children.  I was anxious to lose my baby-weight and saw an ad for a free yoga class in town.  I had started practicing yoga before I got pregnant with Charlotte but hadn't really given it much time.  After struggling through that first class, thinking of nothing other than trying not to fall on my face in front of everyone, I realized that it quite probably was the first time in ten years that I thought of nothing other than where my own two feet were.  No thoughts of what happened in the day preceding the class, no lists of what I had to do after, just a pinpointed focus on where I was at that moment.  It also challenged me to be aware of my physical self.  My breathing, my alignment, my posture, it was all...about...me.  When I came home that evening, I found that the bickering children didn't make my blood pressure rise so high.  The baby's cries seemed less urgent.  The housework even seemed less daunting.  I'm not saying that yoga is for everyone, or that it guarantees a personal epiphany, but it definitely has played a large part in my journey.  Since that class, eight years ago, I find myself enjoying cups of coffee on my porch, taking short trips alone, making time for even just a walk once in awhile.  The old mommy-guilt voice has been mostly quieted because I know that I am a better person for everyone when I have taken even just a short, unapologetic moment to recharge.  I also hope that I am teaching my children something valuable along the way.  I hope by having a better balance in my life, that they still feel loved and important, but not that they are the most important people in the world.  Now don't get me wrong, my children ARE the most important people in MY world, but in any healthy relationship, there needs to be space for each person to be content with themselves first, before they can be good for others.  I hope my kids can learn that balance through my example.

    As I paddle in the morning sun, listening to music and I am surrounded by the peace and serenity that being alone on the lake brings, I can focus on and appreciate the strength of my arms instead of beating myself up for the softness of my middle.  I slow down my paddling and pause to watch the water birds put on a show seemingly just for me and simultaneously feel insignificant in this enormous world and yet completely an intricate part of its miracles.  I push against the wind and feel the light spray of water on my face until I find my favorite spot near the cliffs that for some reason remind me of California and allow myself to float aimlessly with my thoughts while dangling my foot in the cool water.  As I row back towards shore and home, I know I'm bringing back more to my children of me to share than I left with.

Monday Morning Porch Musings in August

 

   Sitting on my porch this Monday morning, I want to slow the clock down.  In one more week the alarm clocks will be set to an un-godly hour and I will resume my position as taskmaster, torturer, and angry cheerleader trying to get all seven of us out the door to school and work.  I will also officially be the mother of a High School Senior, three middle-schoolers and one third-grader.  Where has the time gone?  I know it's not just me who feels that as we get older time goes by so much faster.  Wasn't it just June yesterday after all?
     As a kid, I remember feeling like the days of summer went on forever.  I'd start my day with a healthy breakfast, in front of the TV, of Lucky Charms and Tang.  Magically delicious and NASA-approved.  Thinking back, I probably glowed in the dark a bit those days.  I would then put on my favorite Smurfette tank top and shorts and head outside.  There weren't always other kids to play with and I was the oldest of two by a lot of years but somehow I don't ever remember caring.  I would keep myself busy with adventures I made up for Malibu Barbie and I in the swimming pool or perhaps a Jungle safari for her in the hosta that decorated our property line.  There was ample time for jumping rope, or donning my Strawberry Shortcake roller skates and navigating the uneven and broken sidewalks.  There were walks with my Pop-Pop to Colonial Market for an ice cream treat.  My favorite was the cone you had to peel the paper off of to reveal the crushed-peanut-topping deliciousness. There were indoor memories too of sitting on a towel in the middle of the living room floor because I was still too damp from swimming and I just HAD to get in a game or two of Atari Pinball.  Then I would drive the adults crazy as I talked into the giant window fan practicing  my best Darth Vader impression.  This usually got me sent promptly back outside.  Sometimes the neighbor's grand kids would visit next door and their grandfather would line a large pit in the backyard with a plastic sheet and fill it with water.  Nevermind the fact that I had a perfectly fine pool in my own yard, this make-shift inground pool was the most fun place to swim...ever.
     I remember the smell of charcoal grills in the evenings.  Suppers of burnt hot dogs followed by juicy, red-dripping watermelon.  The adults would venture outside into my world as the sun started to make its way down in the sky.  Sitting in their lawn chairs on the paved driveway, sipping Old-fashions (I can still smell the bittersweet orange peel), listening to the church bells play a familiar song.  We would watch the sky over Passaic's smoke-stack-peppered skyline turn the colors of rainbow sherbet.  Then I would fill plastic cups with as many lightening bugs as I could.  Sometimes sadistically (or just child-like curiosity?) smearing their glow-in-the-dark bodies on my skin to make myself glow.  I actually remember the deliciousness of sinking into the sheets that my mother had hung on the line that day, after an Avon Pink Bubbles, bubble bath.  Nothing in the world, except maybe a newborn, smells as good as line-dried bed sheets.
     I sometimes wonder how my kids' summer memories will measure up for them as they get older.  I have more of an adventurous spirit than my own mother did so I know that we take more day trips to the shore or the lake or to go hiking than I did as a kid.I sometimes wonder if that makes their summer days speed along faster.  There are definitely similarities to our summer experiences.  Sure, their breakfast cereals are a bit less day-glo, they catch lightening bugs in mason jars not plastic cups, and their sunsets aren't watched over the smoke stacks of a crumbling industrial town.  Still, there is swimming, ice cream, and yes, video games.  Do my kids feel like their summer is flying by or do they, like I can remember my little-girl-self, get to August and feel as if summer has gone on forever?  Do they, like I did, welcome the smells of opening a new box of crayons, and hearing those school bells ring?  I know that nostalgia can paint things in a rosier glow than reality  I just hope their summer memories are as warm as mine.
     This last week of summer vacation I'll have the adult ability to try to savor the moments a little more.  To take a conscious mental snapshot of mornings like today, sitting on my porch, surrounded by the chirping of the birds, the busyness of the bugs, the humming of my youngest as she comes out to join me in the dappled sunshine.  When she wraps her tan little arms around my neck in a, "Good morning Mommy," hug and I can smell the sweetness of her sung-bleached hair.  We giggle together at the noisiness of the cicadas.  We'll take the time to point out the spider web shapes from last-night's trap and appreciate how its the prettiest sun-catcher we've ever seen.  There will be no talk of school or work of next week, only plans for trips to Grandma's, giant ice cream cones and sandy toes at the shore.  Hopefully it will be the longest week of our year.

Bed-head Charlotte