Becoming Real

I bought a couch (a pink couch, it was maroon) for $200.00. I was 19 years old. It was my first real purchase (besides beer, gas and mini market food stuffs). My Dad carried it up four flights of stairs into my first apartment (he had some help, I think). He set it down inside the four walls, let out a big sigh and then promptly sat down upon it. I yelled some expletive. He looked puzzled. I finally got him to get up. He was too dirty of course to sit on my brand new couch. He had been helping me move all morning and of course was not in any shape to sit down.

The same feelings crossed my mind when the furnace guy began writing up an estimate for a new furnace (now 27 years old you would have thought I had learned something). He asked for a pen and then sat at my expensive dining room table and began to write. The hardness in which he wrote out his numbers caused me great alarm and I quickly jumped to hand him a magazine so that the indentation would not make a permanent mark on my glossy table. He looked puzzled.

Now 30 years old, my kitchen was being remodeled. The newly finished hardwood floors in our kitchen had yet to be fully installed when the cabinet man came to hang the brand new cabinets and hook up the refrigerator. My Love told the man that if he scratched the floor a divorce would probably follow shortly. The man looked puzzled.

A few weeks later I attempted to reach too far up to remove a silver platter from atop the refrigerator and it fell. It crashed into the newly finished wood floor and made a huge indentation. I was sick. This was only the beginning.

Six years later I watched as my oh-so-not-little bundle of joy (who by the way is going to be 3 next month!) sat at the dining room table and scribbled with a pen (that I had given her) onto a piece of paper. This of course made an indentation into my dining room table. I didn't hand her a magazine to put under her drawing. I was indifferent to the harm she was causing.

Over the last couple of years there have been many, upon many mishaps. Things that I have treasured have been ruined or simply redecorated. Items that I hold close and even my relationships with friends (for that matter my relationship with my Love) have been rearranged. They have taken a beating.

Tonight my almost three year old wanted to read the Velveteen Rabbit before going to bed. I hadn't read it in years. As I finished the book tears came to my eyes. Is this how it feels to be real, I wondered? Bruised, battered, flattened, scribbled upon, scratched, dirtied, emptied, used, loved? No one had ever sat down upon that pink couch before my Dad (with his dirty jeans) sat on it. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was stiff and too clean. My wood floors were perfect, my table immaculate. Me, I was put together neatly. But none of these things were truly cared for, truly loved. Couches should be sat upon. Wood floors should be walked upon. Tables should be eaten upon and used for any type of requirement. Relationships should have depth. The wear and tear of everyday life should show. I am not a perfectly put together person. I am loved. I, in turn love others. Bumps and bruises are bound to happen.

Stopping Time.

I sat in my car at a gas station today. Both kids off to school. Both kids tucked neatly away. I blanked out. I quickly gazed up at the price of gas, cheerful that it was under $4.00. I remembered reading something that the price had been falling lately...I heard two men chatting casually regarding building big things...And then I saw her. The Mom.

From across the street I spotted her.

Her long brown hair cascading around her. In one arm she held an almost 3 year old. Her four year old had already bolted down the porch steps and into the yard collecting leaves and throwing them up into the air, everywhere. She walked with purpose. In her other arm she held two (no three) bags full of blankets, toys, food, a wallet, medicine and anything else she might have thought prudent to stick in, in those last moments of goodbye. She walked down her porch stairs to her white SUV, walked into the street and around the car and tried to open the backseat. It was locked. My gaze settled. I was no longer sitting in a gas station. I was a part of her life.

She looked immediately around for her almost four year old and spotted him too close to the street (following her of course).She yelled something at him. He smiled and ran off. She tried the driver's door, locked too. Where were her keys? I wanted to find them for her. Run to her with them. Scoop up her kids. Give her a smile. She backed off the street. Put her two year old down and started digging through her numerous bags. Her two year old ran off. Picked up a stick. Started swinging at the older one. She look furiously up at them.Warning them with her body language, unable to budge from her bags. Needing keys to move forward. I wanted to go to her. Stroke her hair. Magically find the keys. Buckle her kids into her car. Bring her a latte. Sit with her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Now she looked mad. Keys had been found. Two year old was being picked up. The four year old though would not listen to her. I saw her count. He starred her down. She finally turned away. Walked back into the street. Buckled the two year old into his carseat and then ran after her four year old. Finally he was in the car. She was in the car. I hoped (more than ANYTHING) during this ordeal that she had kept her keys in her pocket. And then she drove away, gone. I was mesmerized. I couldn't move. There was something so real about what I had just witnessed. I felt embarrassed for watching her. I felt ashamed. I felt as if I had just observed something wrong, a crime.

No crime had been committed. It was just a mother doing her job to the best of her ability at the time in which life decided to throw her a curve ball. How many times had this happened to me? Stressed to the max. Unable to see through my own lenses. Unable to enjoy the humor. Needing to get somewhere. Weighted down. Tired. Sore. Tense. Angry. Wronged. And then the keys go missing.

I sat at the gas station and cried. I cried for her, I cried for her boys, I cried for me, I cried for my own children. So easy to give advice from across the street. "Give up!" I thought.  "Who cares about the keys. Run with your boys. Throw leaves into the air. Enlist their help. Play a game. Or go back inside and turn on the TV, " I had wanted to scream all of this to her. At the same time I knew there was a clock ticking, numbers counting down, kids to deploy, people to impress, another day to fullfill. I knew it. I felt her. I felt the clock. I felt the time.

I wanted to tuck her kids safely away for her. Pull her into my car. Smile at her. Enjoy the quiet with her. Then she was gone. The gas meter clicked at me and I was on my way. Off to figure out my day. There was a time to keep. Kids to pick up. Groceries to be bought. A house to be cleaned. A dinner to be made. Homework to be had. Teeth to be brushed.

The next time I spotted my kids I tried not to hurry. I tried to forget about time. I tried to enjoy the little pleasures. I tried being a friend, instead of a Mom. It felt good. I smiled. I drank some coffee and sat back to watch my little spirits flirting this way and that. Stopping time felt nice. I was relaxed. I cried a bit. I wished for the company of that other Mom.

My only tip to all mothers out there - ALWAYS know where your keys are...Or....decide to give up, and join your kids in a joyous moment of laughter and movement. No matter what though, just remember we are building big things and the foundation is by far the most important.