Leaving Our Stuff Behind

The first summer weekend at the cabin starts out as cabin trips always do.   By time we get into the car, I am tense and a little grumpy from prepping all day, trying to balance how to bring enough stuff to not be caught unprepared but not so much that we might as well have never left home.  Though I want the cabin to be all about spontaneous adventures and undomesticated beauty, I still try to avoid having to survive the whims of inclement weather and bored children and guests.  My rather extensive list contains both rain and sun protection, in-cabin activities and outdoor gear.  Should I bring my make-up and hair stuff so that future family photo albums don’t recall a tired and frumpy mother or leave it behind to prove I’m carefree and natural?  Will the small town grocery store have the organic and/or healthy foods I prefer to give my daughter or should I load up those, too?  I used to think I was easy-going but becoming a mom has proved me to be otherwise.

We arrive at the cabin in the dark and wake to bright sun filling the cabin and lakeside breezes brushing our skin.  It takes awhile for the tension trolls to stop harassing me, but the weekend goes on.  It’s not perfect, but it’s nice.  It’s really nice.

And before I realize what’s happening, I stop feeling anxious that Papa is feeding his granddaughter too much rhubarb pie.  We stay up late and play silly games like “Never Have I Ever….” with our friends and don’t worry about getting to bed early because we don’t have to do anything tomorrow.  The rocks collected on the beach and the flowers picked from the fields become more compelling playthings for the kids than the toys we brought.  My unstyled, randomly bending hair stops feeling frumpy and I start to enjoy the way it falls fancifully and tickles my neck.  The toes I worried about looking unpolished and unkempt just look happily sand-buffed and sun-kissed.

When we get home those tension trolls catch up with me and grab hold too tightly, too soon.  The house left cluttered during the packing frenzy, the email reminders of obligations, the tense voicemail messages from people who need something….  I realize that what I didn’t bring with us to the cabin was the best part of being at the cabin.  I left four hours of pavement between me and many of the responsibilities I’ve taken on.  Up there, I can’t visit my grandpa and worry about his deteriorating health or contribute anything to aid my sister’s current eviction crisis or undertake household projects like organizing our basement bedroom  for summer visitors.  When we go to the cabin, I have to leave behind the idea that I could do something about any of these situations.  Though I love my family and am grateful for my house and though often these responsibilities and commitments add richness to my life, the cabin strips our life down to what we can pack in the car.

I like myself better in this place– not just the physical place of the cabin, but this philosophical place of surrender.  I’m more relaxed, more accepting of my own and others’ shortfalls, more present in the moment.  Most of the time, when I think about surrendering control it makes me a bit nervous.  But really, when I am rendered helpless I become liberatingly aware of this reality:  I can’t actually fix everything.  It’s a good place to be.  I just need to figure out how to stay there more often.

From 4th of July Fireworks to Nursery Night Lights

I thought I had a leg up on this whole “being a mom” thing.  I was the oldest of five children and did a ton of caretaking while I was growing up.  I have my MPH in Maternal and Child Health.  As a mother-to-be I read all the research and opinions and perspectives about being a mom to an infant that I could find.  Still, that first year completely blew me out of the water.  Performing a totally different set of tasks and learning this new role,  always knowing that I couldn’t do it exactly right and feeling guilty when I wasn’t able to give my daughter the absolute best, dealing with exhaustion and hormones and body changes…. It was almost like going through puberty all over again!

Up until that point, my identity had been really molded around my career.  I found deep fulfillment in the intellectual engagement, working with others to identify a problem and develop a solution that positively impacted the community, the state or the nation.  I eventually worked my way up to a position where I made my (small) mark on the national policy-making scene, advising high-powered people, writing legislation and molding US Federal policy.  Don’t get me wrong– I wasn’t a big dog.  But I felt like the work I did made a difference. I worked with bright, creative and fascinating people from all over the country and every day, I felt like I was learning and growing intellectually.  The road ahead of me was uphill.  It would have been hardwork to continue to move up in my career, but the view could have been breath-taking and exciting and I would have found pleasure in the way my muscles worked and strained and grew.

But the career path I was on was not necessarily compatible with the family life I idealized.  It would have involved having a Blackberry surgically affixed to my body, demandingly buzzing to solicit quick responses during family vacations and competing with my babies for attention in the wee hours of the night.  The weeks were long and draining and, knowing that I am an all-or-nothing person, I don’t know if I would have had enough left to give to my kids and husband.

SO, I became a stay-at-home mom.  And, just like I do with everything I care about, I put ALL of myself into it.  I felt drained and sucked dry and used up and scraped bare.    Now my daughter is almost two and I’m starting to wonder where I am?  Where is the person I thought I knew so well?  How can I express her in this new role?  My life went from the national scene to the kitchen scene.  Deciding how to make sure my daughter gets enough Vitamin D while still applying sunscreen when needed is about as intellectual as it gets.  A creative outlet involves changing up the dried fruit and nut combinations from week to week in my homemade granola.  My life went from 4th of July dazzling fireworks on the National Mall to the soft glow of a night light  in my daughter’s room.

My entire life, I’ve been a big dreamer.  I pictured myself as an anthropologist living among diverse people groups in exotic places, a community organizer imbedded in neighborhoods working themselves towards a small utopia, a poet crafting lines that revealed the deepest and brightest gems in the human heart, a policy-shaper forming a bridge between the haves and the have-nots.  Yes, being a mom was one of my dreams, but was never the end goal for me.  Now that I’ve gotten the degree, had the career, married the guy, bought the house and started a family, I feel extremely blessed but I don’t feel like I’ve arrived.  But I’m also not exactly sure what dreams come next.

My former career is not compatible with motherhood right now (at least for me) and I want to continue to be the primary caregiver for my children while they are home.  So, how do I integrate motherhood with my former dreams?  And what other dreams do I have for myself beyond this?  I know a lot of moms dream of their child’s milestones and accomplishments and then eventually of becoming a grandparent.  But I just keep thinking to myself, “Is that MY dream?”  Are the dreams we have FOR our children enough?  Aren’t we still distinct people on our own, needing and deserving accomplishments and aspirations not necessarily directly tied to our children?

Don’t get me wrong:  I know that the work we do as mothers is CRITICAL.  It matters to the stability of society, the future of humanity, the generations of people that come next…. That’s why I’m home full time.  (Not that you need to be home full time to be a good mom.  It’s just the choice I made.) But there’s more out there.  We have other God-given talents that surely shouldn’t be wasted, right?  But how do we find the energy and time to devote to other things when motherhood does demand so much of us?

So I’m working on a list of dreams for my life moving forward…. It’s still in development, but it’s a start:

1) Live abroad for a year in some interesting locale, preferably a place with outdoor and/or farmers’ markets.

2) Write.  Write now, write regularly, write better, write something that gets published.

3) Excel in ballroom dancing with my husband.

4) Do something hands-on with my MPH in Maternal and Child Health.

5) Live somewhere beautiful enough that each day I’m compelled to walk– into the sunset, into the woods, down a twisted path, across a stoney creek, on a beach, to explore a funky or quaint neighborhood…. somewhere.

So to those who happen to read these words:  What are your dreams?  Do you have old ones left unfulfilled?  Why?  Are you still making new ones?  Why not?   What are you doing NOW to make your dreams come true?

Just Another Bored Suburban Housewife?

There’s something about a visit from an old friend that you haven’t seen in awhile that brings you face-to-face with yourself in a frightening way.  In their minds, I am most alive to them as the person I was when we shared a bit of life 3 years ago or 6 years ago or 12 years ago. I think this is part of why I’ve been feeling so self-conscious lately. As I anticipate their arrival, I have been thinking about what they might be expecting me to look like or act like or live like now.  It also brings to mind the person I thought I would be at this point in my life  and, to be honest, I think the me from that time would be disappointed with the me that I am now.

Part of me thinks I have no right to be disappointed.  I have a gentle, kind and thoughtful husband and a healthy, spunky daughter.  We lead a modest but good life.  So what’s the big deal?  It just seems like a lot of the parts I liked best about myself a few years ago have died or gone dormant.  I’m starting to miss them.  A lot.  But how do I recover them and fit them into this life I’m living now?

It’s what this blog is about:  integrating all the parts of myself into the life I’m living so that I don’t feel like I have to bury my most cherished dreams or desires or talents.  Today I’m focused on geography/community.  After seeing an old friend this morning who, with his wife, left home in a veggie oil-powered bus to roam around the country on a mission, I’m struck again with how “settled” I’ve become.  As I thought about all the places I imagined I would go when I met my friend 7 years ago, I realized that  Then-Me would have been depressed to know that Now-Me lives in the suburbs.  In fact, Now-Me is sort of depressed about it, too.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m so thankful for the home that we have.  Kids roam around around our street on bikes like little “Lord of the Flies” gangs.  We have our own yard, a dwelling place for wild flowers and frequently visited by deer, foxes, hawks and even a spare possum or two.  We live within 15 minutes of most of our family, which is (usually) such a blessing with children.  And perhaps reason most compelling to my husband still:  He works 5 minutes away which reduces wasted energy, time, gas and stress otherwise spent on traffic.

So why would Then-Me be disappointed?  There isn’t a good non-chain restaurant within walking distance and I can think of only one within 15 minutes drive.   In fact, I can’t walk to do anything except stroll past more suburban houses or strip malls.  I may be stereo-typing here, but in three years I haven’t yet met another woman who lives near me with whom I have anything but the superficial in common.  People generally seem more happily occupied with tending their yards than building community.  I would have to travel 25 minutes to participate in a writer’s group, go to a decent museum, have a non-chain cup of coffee or shop at a co-op or natural foods store.

These are really just silly things, right?  I mean a lot of people have to drive to do the things they like and if we lived 25 minutes closer to things I liked to do, we’d live 25 minutes farther from my husband’s work so as a family we ultimately lose out.  Then again, my house is where I live AND work, so isn’t it even more important for me to feel a sense of community where I am?  I don’t know, maybe I just haven’t tried hard enough to really connect with people here.  Underneath all of the styles that divide us, aesthetic preferences that separate one group from another, aren’t a lot of our dreams, goals and desires the same?  Shouldn’t we be able to connect with anyone in suburbia just as easily as anyone in a hippie, mountain community or an edgy, urban enclave?  Isn’t the key to happiness in  life finding contentment and purpose wherever we’re planted?  But I can’t reason away this little part of me that keeps thinking:  It’s just that I feel like I can’t really live my life here.  I just feel sort of misplaced, like I’m a tree that’s been transplanted somewhere and I’m surviving and doing okay, but not really flourishing and bearing fruit.

I don’t want to complain.  I mean,  my life really isn’t so hard.  My basic needs are all being met.  But then again, isn’t there a part of all of us that wants to be surrounded with things that are an external expression of our internal selves?  Is it so wrong for me to crave an environment full of colorful farmers’ markets, quirky shops and quirkier people, thrifted clothing turned funky designs, and street musicians and architecture with character?  Throughout time and human culture, we have always tried to shape our environment, our community, our aesthetic reality to express ourselves.  And we’ve naturally felt drawn to others who express themselves similarly.  When we can’t, we feel isolated and disconnected.  Some psychologists even consider self-expression a basic human need.  Although, I know that living among people and things that reflect my tastes and interests isn’t the only way to express myself, sometimes I feel like it would be easier under those circumstances.

So my question for any who happen to read this is:  What do you think?  Am I just another bored, suburban housewife who should come up with something better to sulk about?  How important is our geography, our place, the location of our home/ our existence  to our personal satisfaction?     Should I be finding my satisfaction in deeper, more spiritually transcendent things than the location of our house?  Or is there something innate/ God-given in all of us that wants to surround ourselves and live among things and people with whom we can identify? Is it natural to try to satisfy our sense of self-expression and find community among others similar to ourselves or should we be striving, whereever we are, to go deeper to find community and satisfaction?   How can I integrate who I am with where I live now?

Can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

When An Unkempt Yard Creates a Beautiful Moment

I’ve always wondered why dandelions are held in such contempt by adults.

Perhaps it is because once they enter our domain, they are a bit difficult to control.

There is something about our inability to conquer them that irks us.

But when we were little girls, we found such delight in these happy, yellow flowers.

Their abundance was a joy because we needed bountiful amounts to craft crowns and necklaces,

and to smear on  our cheeks to create cheerful, yellow blush,

and to blow aloft like little parachutes.

Perhaps we adults should stop fighting them and learn to appreciate these hearty, bright florae again.

Afterall, isn’t there something a bit enchanting about a thing we can’t entirely control?

Me vs. Me(dia?)

I have several friends coming into town these next few weeks whom I haven’t seen for a long time. I should be thrilled to see them, catch up, have some face-to-face, soul-to-soul time enjoying those rare and cherished friendships that geography and time do not diminish. Instead, my reaction to each of their announcements that they’d be coming was the same: A quickly expanding balloon of excitement deflated by a very quick, sharp dart-of-a-thought about how shabby and flabby I’m feeling. Then they come in quick succession, an entire quiver full of evil, little thought darts: Will they notice the 10 pounds I put on since last year (which was still 10 pounds heavier than I’d like to be)? Is it in our budget for me to run to the store and buy something that can help me feel a little spunkier, a little more glamorous, a little less like a SAHM? Will I be able to find anything I want to wear that actually fits me right?

Of course, this is absolutely ridiculous. These are my friends! They love me! Why am I obsessing over these kinds of things? This is one of those areas in my life that I know I need to put into it’s proper place.  It’s loomed far too large, overshadowing much more important things in my life.  It doesn’t matter how great I’m feeling about my day or myself or my accomplishments, a subtle reminder of those extra pounds quickly pushes me down that wormhole of self-doubt.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. I recently led a group discussion on body image and beauty and I have my notes but, unfortunately, not all the references. Here’s what I learned:

80% of American women are dissatisfied with their appearance.

81% of 10 year olds are afraid of being fat and in fact, young girls are more afraid of becoming fat than they are of nuclear war, cancer or losing their parents.

24% of women would sacrifice 3 years of their life to be thin.

According to the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, a 2007 study found that since 1997 surgical procedures increased 142%, while non surgical procedures have increased 743%.

I’m not trying to be a Debbie Downer about  spending a little time and money to look and feel good.  There’s something natural about primping- even animals in the wild do it!  However, what I’m noticing lately is the astounding frequency with which thoughts (usually negative) about my appearance invade my other activities.  If I’m being brutally honest, I need to ask myself:

How many times have I turned down an invitation to an event because I wasn’t feeling so great about the way I looked (high school reunions anyone?)

How often have I accepted an invitation, but spent an inordinate amount of time (or money) fretting about what I would wear?

How often have I hesitated (or decided not) to initiate a new relationship because I wondered if I looked good enough or worried about being rejected because of my looks (am I pretty enough, skinny enough, funky enough, chic enough, artsy enough  to approach them, join them, befriend them)?  What friendships have I missed out on?  When I was single, what romances?

How often have concerns about my looks robbed me of some of the joy of a day at the beach, a night out dancing with the girls, “playtime” with my husband, enjoying time with friends or family because I spent too much time focusing on my “flawed” body or comparing myself to prettier or skinnier women there?

If I’m honest with myself, it’s happened more often than I like to admit.

The truth is, I’m not a bad-looking person and I’m am not technically overweight (though I’m not as active as I should be either).  The bare naked reality is that even the most beautiful and skinny people in the world still obsess over their looks, wondering if they measure up to some impossibly unobtainable standard of beauty that our society perpetuates.

Of course, it is legitimate to be appropriately concerned about the health risks of over-eating and under-exercising.  But for me, it’s like the constant advertising, media-messaging, image-flashing PRESSURE to be perfectly thin, constantly fashionable and have camera-worthy looks is just a heavy weight, keeping me from doing the things I need to do to actually be healthy.  And it’s not just external pressure.  As long as I’m being honest, I have to admit that much of it comes from my perfectionistic self.  The burden of all of it, pressure from myself and society at large, makes me retreat further into whatever escape feels comforting– food, tv, internet, isolation, etc.

If only I could throw the weight of that pressure off and appreciate who I am and all the great things that my body can do, then would I actually be more likely to engage in and enjoy genuinely body-nurturing activities?  Would I dare to bare my body at the beach and focus on the sensual way my muscles and skin feel as I glide through the water instead of obsessing about whether anyone is noticing the stretchmarks from my childbirth?  Would I hit the dance floor and enjoy the way my body livened up and loosened up when I moved to the music instead of stiffening up and sucking in because I’m worrying about whether my tummy is slightly extending over the buttons on my pants?  Would I let myself sink more deeply into the moment with my husband rather than worry about whether or not sitting in this position accentuates the rolls I’m trying to hide?

Additionally, there is the actual, concrete cost of being overly concerned with looks; the time and money lost.   The average woman spends 2.5 years of her life washing, styling, cutting, coloring, cramping and straightening her hair. What could Americans do with the over $40 billion (yes, billions with a B!) on dieting and diet-related products each year and the additional tens of billions spent on beauty products?

Think back on the artists, social reformers, innovators and scientists that made the biggest difference in the world.   Gandhi, Jesus, Mother Theresa, Frida Kahlo, Rosa Parks… The value they added to each of our lives had nothing to do with their outward beauty.  Why am I wasting so much energy worrying about my looks when I could be working on things that actually have a positive impact on the world?

Perhaps most motivating of all are the studies that indicate our very young daughters, from an extremely early age, are picking up on our attitudes about beauty.  Forty-two percent of girls in first through third grades want to be thinner. In fact studies reveal girls as young as five worrying about being fat.  At 20 months, it is becoming very clear that my daughter is already imitating my demeanor, voice, gestures and attitudes.  As I grow older, I recognize more and more the similarities between me and my mother:  the curve of her stomach, the texture of her skin.  If I hate my body and my daughter grows into the same body, then when legacy have I left for her?

All this rambling to say, I know I need to figure out a way to conquer the self-defeating attitudes and thoughts about my body that I have, but I just don’t know where to start.  As one person, I can’t change our looks-obsessed culture and as much as I’d like to just ignore the pressures from the media, it’s impossible to totally isolate myself from the constant messages telling me how I “should” look.  Hollywood isn’t going to change anytime soon (although maybe there’s some hope?)  All I can do is I try to change the way I process it, perceive it and act on it.  Easier said than done.  If any read this entry today, what have you done to cast off the burden of idealized beauty and simply enjoy being YOU?

Little Twin Plastic Giraffes

Lately my daughter has been enamored with this giraffe left behind in our car by her cousin.  It’s one of those hard plastic toys that is probably part of a larger menagerie of animals that all came jumbled together in a clear plastic bag labeled “Made in China.”  It most likely wouldn’t have passed my BPA free, non-toxic toys criteria, but she loves it and mostly keeps it out of her mouth so we let her take it wherever she goes.

We are in the process of adopting internationally.  It has been one of those soul-testing experiences that lets you know what you’re really made of:  Dust.  Yesterday we heard about a baby girl who needs a new home. We were sent a photo of her today.  She looks to be about our daughter’s age, perhaps a little younger.  In the photo, she is on the floor in the babies home playing with a little, plastic giraffe almost identical to our daughter’s.   But her little giraffe, halfway around the world, is missing one leg.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, we went in for an early ultrasound.  As I laid tummy-side up on the exam table with that cold gel getting smeared on my belly, my husband made an off-handed remark about how neat it would be if we had twins.  Moments later, the ultra-sound tech told us that there actually were twins.  Beat.   But one of them did not have a heartbeat.  Beat.  She probably never would, the tech informed us in a very professional and clinical tone.  I bled for three weeks, terrified that I would lose both of them.  Ever since then I’ve had a vague sense that our family was missing a twin.

Today as I write this on our back porch, our daughter is playing around me wearing her monkey pajamas (which she requests by making monkey sounds) and a big, red, beaded necklace (which she calls a “pretty”).  She interrupts periodically to ask for a refill on her own cup of “coffee” or for help washing the dirt off of her hands.  I can’t help but think of that baby girl in Africa, just like our little girl here, but she doesn’t have a mom whose jewelry she can try on or whose coffee-drinking she can imitate or to clean off her hands when they’re messy or who can be overly protective about toxic toys.

The image of that little girl playing with her giraffe just like our daughter, almost like her twin, floats around my heart like a dandelion fluff.  Those little seed puffs flit and hover about, waiting to find a place where they can take root.  They look for a  piece of earth that will invite them to make a home there.  My heart wants to say “Yes!  We’ll be your home!”   My heart wants to wrap around that little girl and nurture her and love her and help her take firm root.

But we’ve been here before.  There have been other pictures of children we’ve seen, whose stories we’ve been told.  Other delicate fluffs looking for a home and a family.  My sticky heart has instinctively risen up to invite them to implant themselves in our life.  But we were not meant to be their home and some wind or another blew them away taking just a little piece of earth, a bit of dust, a fragment of my heart, along with them.

What do you do with a heart that says “yes” too easily?   Can you toughen it up so that it stays uninvolved and unattached? That would be easier and less painful, for sure. Yet, to keep soil tender and welcoming, it has to get tilled.  You must allow it to keep getting broken over and over again.  A mom doesn’t have a choice.

Today’s post is part of Momalom’s five for ten challenge on the theme “Yes.”

Vampires Explained or The Stank That Accompanies Us Upon Waking

I am a big fan of garlic.  I’m not alone in that sentiment.  It’s hard to find a culinary tradition in any part of the world that doesn’t utilize it.  There is even some evidence that garlic has certain aphrodisiacal properties. Yet as I sit down to write my next five for ten post on “Lust” I’m finding my efforts stymied by a wicked case of garlic breath.

For dinner, I threw together a red pepper and artichoke bruschetta  and I enthusiastically tossed in way too much of a good thing.  Last night, the persistent and pungent presence of garlic on my breath scared off any remnant of a lustful thought or feeling that I might have had (and believe me, those remnants are precious these days, as recounted in a recent post.)  Clearly, it should be noted that the aphrodisiacal properties of garlic are not attributable to it’s odor.  I’m starting to understand why a garland of garlic is reported to ward off vampires.  Vampires seem to be a fairly lusty people and garlic is not an ingredient created for an intimate encounter.

As I slouched off disappointedly to bed and glanced at the lilies of the valley my husband had thoughtfully placed on my nightstand before my waking earlier that morning, I briefly entertained the thought of exploring the idea of lust in a more literal and less conceptual way.

The romantic gesture along with the fresh and sweet fragrance of the dainty blossoms almost refreshed my resolve to complete my five for ten assignment that night.  Men seem to be less easily deterred by gross scents, I reasoned.  But the aura of that stinky vegetable tenaciously clung to me, with no hope of release.  I was disgusted by myself and therefore incapable of arousing my own amorous disposition even if my husband were game.

This morning I sat down to try again to write about lust, but found that I’m still suffering from last night’s indulgence.  I furtively directed my mouth away from the hubby while saying “good morning” and then demurely offered my cheek when he kissed me good-bye.

Perhaps my experience with a certain halitosis-inducing bulb can illustrate a thing or two about lust.  If contemplating lust under the definition “an overwhelming craving or desire for something;”

1)  There is such a thing as too much of a good thing.

2)  When considering over-indulging, we should be mindful of both the context in which we hope to find ourselves as well as the company we wish to keep in the near and distant future.  Neglecting these considerations can cause pain to both ourselves and others.

3)  It is not always wise to throw all caution to the wind in pursuit of an all-consuming hunger without an awareness of the stank that might accompany us upon waking.

Before you label me punctilious or find these observances overly sanctimonious, please bear in mind that they are intended to be stinky tongue in malodorous cheek.

Today’s offerings are part of my participation in a blogger challenge called Five for Ten. It’s a community-promoting activity in which each participant writes 5 entries over 10 days reflecting on given themes. Today’s theme was “lust.”

Memories Like Fool’s Gold

Memory has been a dangerous thing for me since becoming a mother.

Back in the day, women started the whole married-with-children bit a lot earlier.  They walked down the path of their adult lives as they walked down the aisle after their marriage ceremony, arm-in-arm with another human being.  They got settled, established roots and grew around each other like two trees planted side-by-side.  They sacrificed time, energy and identity to young children who needed them– all before they reached aged 30.  As they grow into their 30s they may wonder what their lives could have been or where they could have gone, but now feel too tired or too tied-down in their midlife to do much about it.  For my own mother, I think her midlife crisis sprouted out of this sense of having become too firmly rooted, stuck, too early before she really had established her own identity.  I have a sense that many other midlife crisis started the same way.

There’s a whole new crop of us women who established our identities as adults in an entirely different way.  Our twenties were all about grad school, travels, climbing the career ladder, and perhaps a romance or two.  I feel like my identity as a woman is comprised of these cherished and vibrant memories that I wear close to my heart like war metals.  In college, I didn’t backpack around Europe, following fellow co-eds around the same well-worn, looped track Frommer established:  I went to Africa where I had close encounters with hippos and AIDS and bombings.  I engaged in current events, protested injustices at rallies.  I danced often and with abandon and had my fair share of suitors.  I lived in funky and fun transitional urban neighborhoods and became a regular at certain establishments.  My resume recounts my career highlights:  I briefly ran a skate park, proved myself intellectually in grad school, changed laws and affected national policy in DC, lobbied on behalf of children’s health issues….. and then it all comes screeching to a halt.  I turned 30 and had my first child within a week of each other.  Now, I have days where I can’t escape looking a lot like a slightly harried, slightly frumpy, slightly boring suburban mom.  In fact, some days I don’t just appear that way.  I am that way.

At first, the newness of being a mother distracted me from the loss I experienced.  I was busy discovering this new person in my arms and this new person in myself.  I was completely absorbed (maybe even a bit consumed) in all of it, fighting absolute exhaustion to give all I could give to my baby.  Now my baby is a toddler and I’m slightly better rested.  Time has passed and I’m a little more established as a mother.  My brain is just alert enough to pass a mirror and be a little startled when I realize I don’t very well resemble the woman I used to be.  I recall my old body, my old wardrobe, my old social calendar, my old resume, my old romances….. and my new ones don’t quite seem to measure up.  Sometimes I feel like I’m having a reverse midlife crisis:  It’s as if I spent a whole decade building a life as one woman and now I’m living a different life where the experiences and talents I’ve chronicled on my resume don’t seem to mean much as a stay-at-home mom.

I am reminded on a regular basis that this life I lived in my twenties is not mine anymore, that it only exists in my memories.   It happens each time I change into my outfit for the day:  Both the slightly softer condition of my body and the slightly wrinkled or  food-smudged character of the outfit I place on it remind me that it’s unlikely that I’ll be turning heads or changing influential minds in the course of my day.  Or there’s always the rare social event I make it out to attend:  Desiring to make polite conversation, a new acquaintance will ask, “What do you do?”  I’ll answer that I’m a stay-at-home mom.  Most often, people won’t know what to ask next.  No one is really interested in the mundane and routine comings and goings of a SAHM and everyone assumes that you probably don’t have much to add to a conversation about art or politics.  To be honest, I know where they’re coming from.  Oftentimes, even I think my life is mundane.

When I start feeling especially down, it’s easy for me to get nostalgic.  I’ll be walking through the day and find myself turning my head to catch the passing flash of a memory, bright and distracting like fool’s gold glinting in the river.  What I am realizing is that panning for the fool’s gold of memories can be a dangerous.  I can spend a lot of emotional energy comparing the life I had with the life I have, and feeling pretty dissatisfied.

The truth is, I live a pretty darn good life in the present.  I have a lot to for which to be grateful and I remain confident that deciding to stay home with my children while they are young is the right choice for me.  I simply cannot measure my current life by my old yardstick.  They are completely different.  Glitz and glamor give way to giggles and grins.  In lieu of big minds changed, small lives are changed.  Raises achieved are superseded by first steps achieved.  Awards received are replaced by hugs received.  If I get distracted by the glimmer of yesterday’s memories, I will surely miss the real gold in today’s moments.

I am jumping into a blogger challenge called “Five for Ten” hosted by Momalom.  The idea is to build community through posting on each of 5 topics for 10 days.  This is technically the third topic of the challenge, but I’ll just start from here.  Today’s topic is “Memory.”

In Pursuit of A Well-Shampooed AND Intellectually-Exercised Head: Lather, Rinse and Accidentally Repeat

It’s naptime and once I am standing beneath the stream of hot water, I finally have a moment to myself to THINK.  My brain is mulling over an imaginary intellectual conversation with a friend about the frustrating limits of a two party political system.  I reach for the shampoo and I begin lathering my hair, only to realize I have already done this two minutes before. My shampoo lapse can’t be blamed on having just crawled out of bed or needing caffeine since the day is already well underway.   And because showering is not a complicated activity but is an almost unvarying ritual that I shouldn’t really need to think about, certain mommy truths are illustrated:

My shampoo snafu is an example of the true nature of the brain/body disconnection I’ve experienced during motherhood instead of what I thought it would be. When I was deciding about whether or not I’d be a FT SAHM, I assumed I was going to be able to engage in all sorts of intellectual and creative pursuits at the same time I took care of my children.  I knew my body would need to be with them most of the day and that they’d require some input now and again.  I pictured myself calmly re-directing their activities, adding a creative play idea, or offering an encouraging word from time to time, but still having the the ability to engage my mind in “headier” pursuits simultaneous to parenting.   I’d read good literature while they played at the park, artistically craft unique housewares and sophisticated dinners while they pounded away at play-doh, and organize advocacy campaigns while they napped. I was so wrong.

Parenting is most often a full contact sport that lays claim to your mind, body and soul to such a degree that taking on any project that requires actual consecutive minutes of my focus is almost impossible unless my daughter is napping.   Unfortunately, up until now, naptime has not been about intellectual and creative pursuits but instead has been the time I use to undertake the monotonous maintenance of real life without the helpful assistance of a toddler.  I use naptime to attend to laundry (if I don’t want to re-fold everything after she’s done some creative sorting), dishes (to avoid exploratory encounters with knives and broken glass),  personal hygiene (without an audience) and when essential, get more sleep.  Which brings me to my next point.  The brain/body disconnect of motherhood is a result of two inescapable truths:

I am tired all the time. Therefore, my brain and body are never working at 100%.  It’s not uncommon for me to miss a step, space a word, lose my train of thought and just feel generally creaky and cranky.  This has probably been one of the single most difficult things for me to accept about my new role.  I keep waiting for the day when I’ll get to be 100% “me” again and most moms tell me it just never happens.  They call it “Mommy Brain.”  I’m still hoping desperately that they’re wrong.

Multi-tasking is a myth. I’ve imagined the scenario a hundred times:  I’m sitting in an office in several years interviewing for a fulfilling and rewarding re-entry into the workforce.  I’m asked to explain why my years as a stay-at-home mom don’t make me obsolete (of course the interviewer won’t use that terminology because it’s not politically correct to make that assumption).  I’ll explain how being a full time mom has only enhanced certain career-qualifying characteristics such as multi-tasking.  Apparently, I’d be lying.  Despite the Momlore telling us otherwise, science is proving that human beings actually are not good multi-taskers.

Out of the pure necessity, in order to stay a whole, non- disintegrated and sane person, I am finally stealing some of that naptime time for myself.  So out of my well-shampooed but not well-rested head, out pours todays ramblings. I don’t have any sort of uplifting conclusion or snappy finish on this one.  I’m just trying to accept the limits of what I can do and prioritize what I need to do to stay sane.  Now that I’ve finally figured this naptime= mommy time thing out, a dreadful thought has occurred to me:  Naptime will most surely end at some point or at least become complicated by more children.   At that point, I assume I will again have to accept my limits yet again and ask for help.  Another hurdle for another day.

A Five-Ring Circus AND Tea

After passing age 30 I’m finally starting to accept my own preferences, no matter how un-cool they are, as being okay.  One thing I’ve learned about myself is that, as popular as it is to exalt the big, loud, chaotic blended family event for the holidays, I prefer small and intimate settings.

This preference is one I almost never get to live out because I am a member of the quintessential crazy, modern family.  I am the oldest of 5 children.  My parents are divorced and re-married to people who have kids of their own.  My siblings are in significant relationships and have children as well.   My husband has only one sibling, but she has a lot of children.  My husband’s parents are divorced and his dad is re-married to a wonderful woman who has three adult children from a previous marriage and one grandchild.  The majority of the people I mentioned live within 20 minutes of us.   This means that every holiday, we sort through the benefits of either;

-Attending 2-4 separate holiday functions in a day “drive-thru” style where we pack up our toddler and her gear and make an appearance at each event between naptimes and bedtimes with little time to talk or relax or enjoy the festivities except in a perfunctory way

OR

-Having a gargantuan blended family event with

• 7 of our parents/step parents plus a grandparent or two,
• 7 adult siblings and their wives/husbands and
• potentially 3-6 step siblings and their wives/husbands,
• 8 nieces/nephews plus step siblings ‘ children,
• plus whatever of our siblings’ boyfriends/girlfriends and their kids that come.

That’s a pretty hefty crew, but it never just ends there.  Let me illustrate how most of our family events turn into a five-ring circus:

Mother’s Day is coming up.  As is somehow always the case, we moms end up coordinating our special day (and probably engaging in much of the cooking and cleaning as well).  Talking with my mother, we decided that we’d avoid the “drive-thru” style holiday by having a joint celebration at the picnic grounds of a local zoo.  Though it’s a slightly less intimate and meaningful gathering than I might envision in my ideal world, at least the family would be in the same place.

I sent out the proposal to our parents and siblings.  Soon enough, we start getting replies back: “As long as it’s okay with everyone else, I’m going to invite my second cousin’s family… ”   To more fully understand this request, it’s only fair to disclose that the second cousin in question is also my first cousin, so of course we’re happy to spend time with her and her family.  Yep, you’ll have to get out your genealogy chart and start “Dualing Banjos” track here.  My husband and I were set-up by his cousin, who also happens to be my aunt by marriage.  We are in no way related by blood, but we do share some common family, so these events tend to get even larger because our families are connected to each other.

After my initial suggestion about the zoo, an email response proposed that we should also invite my cousin’s mother (my aunt).  Which also means inviting my cousin’s sisters… and their boyfriends.  And that means we should probably also invite my aunt’s mother (who also happens to be my husband’s aunt).  And since my aunt’s mother is coming, she will probably want to spend Mother’s Day with the rest of her children… and their children… and their husbands/wives/boyfriends/girlfriends.  Plus we should be sure to invite anyone who might not have somewhere else to go that day and perhaps one or two seemingly random other people as well.  In fact, the email conversation above also included plans to extend the invitation to somebody’s out-of-town friends’  friends.  No, I’m not embellishing.  These are actual events.

This conversation or some variation happens every holiday.  And if you were having a tough time keeping track of the dynamics of this crazy big family, let me also throw in a couple of other funny coincidences that further enliven the scene:  I went to highschool with my husband’s step siblings and my mom went to high school with my aunt by marriage and this all happened before anyone was connected by marriage.  Does it sound like we live in a small town?  Nope, it’s a major metropolitan area.  God made it pretty much impossible for my husband and I to NOT meet.

So anyway, the events go from big to ENORMOUS in no time.  And “enormous” describes the sigh I am releasing by the end of this Mother’s Day email chain from family member to funkily-linked family member.

I love the principles behind this five-ring circus:  Family being together.  Generosity.  Hospitality.  The best illustration of these values in practice is my sister-in-law, who volunteers her house to host family  gatherings even when she and her family are not actually in town!  In comparison to her, I feel like a Scrooge-y and ungracious hostess.  I have incredible, awful, gnawing guilt that I can’t practice the same Extreme Hospitality she does so enthusiastically.

As much as I’d might like to be the same type of hostess as she is, attending these events is overwhelming enough to me, let alone hosting them.   The food comes out and before anyone gets a chance to view it, the  booger-bejewled hands of young children are all over the cake.  Somebody’s crazy uncle is drawing attention to my breasts as I attempt to discretely nurse my infant (same crazy uncle who started a fight with an ex-boxer at my wedding.)  Everyone is balancing their plates on their laps as they perch on the corner of a sofa and one of the three dogs present waits for an opportunity to catch you off guard to help themselves to something from your plate.  Any attempt at meaningful conversation is befuddled by the level of noise and activity in the room so you find yourself repeating the same platitudes about the weather and the food over and over again or just watching the antics of the children and hoping no one gets hurt.  Anyone who catches themselves thinking about trying to inspire a meaningful holiday moment (like reading the Christmas story out loud by the fire or going around the group to recite something for which we’re thankful) quickly second guesses themselves because corralling this unruly crowd would most likely be an exercise in futility.

I’ve spent years trying to accept that I am not my sister-in-law, explaining to others why I am not, and feeling horribly that I am anything but grateful for this big crazy family situation.  There’s a blessing in all this chaos:  We have so many people to love and be loved by in this world.  When we’re in town, we’ll never be alone for the holidays.

But the truth is, the approach of each holiday or family gathering exasperates the sense of dis-integration I’ve been experiencing.  There are so many people to coordinate and so many dynamics to take into consideration with complicated relationships (this might be slightly easier if we all got along splendidly, but as happens with any large group of people, not everyone likes each other) that there is little time and energy left to do the things that I value when it comes to holidays: focus on establishing or maintaining traditions, planning a creative menu or activities that celebrate the true meaning of the holiday and trying to engage in a deeper way with loved ones the day of the event.

To be honest, some of the pressure of holiday isn’t created by external circumstances at all.  Much of the battle is internal as my overly analytical and oldest sibling self can’t help but feel like I need to take responsibility for everyone having fun, eating well and creating lifelong memories.  Plus, there’s a part of me that wants these memories to be set in a candlelit, baked-good scented, Nat King Cole-serenaded holiday wonderland.  I have a hard time accepting that this is virtually impossible.  As I wrote this, I caught myself trying to qualify that impossibility by saying “virtually impossible with a group as large and diverse…” but I realized that it just IS IMPOSSIBLE to make anyone else have fun and be happy.  The truth is simply that  I have to accept my own limits and embrace my own priorities.

As I accept the reality of who I am, I am realizing that it is okay to establish different practices and uphold new priorities with my own immediate family.  I can honor the values of our extended family while still carving out time and energy to devote to my own.  So for Mother’s Day, my little family of three is hosting our mothers (birth, step and in-law) for a Mother’s Day Tea on the day before.  We’re going to do our best to create an intimate, creative and meaningful gathering of three generations of mothers.  My wonderful husband is going to plan the menu, so that I can relax and enjoy being honored as a mother.  (Tea is bite-sized enough that he feels confident.)  Hopefully, we’ll sit around a beautifully-decorated table and look each other in the eye and have the time and presence of mind to reflect on what it means to be a mother.  Then, the next day we’ll attend the five-ring circus at the zoo and feel like life is blessedly full– maybe a little too full sometimes.