Confidently Existing

For the past two years trees have been screaming at me during the day and whispering to me in the shadows of my dreams and it is time I take heed. These trees are confident. Confident in their roots, confident in their place, confident in their upward growth, their budding strength and confident in their steadfastness.

As a stay at home mother I constantly feel grounded with little room for adventure or personal gain. My kids, my routine, my chores and my responsibilities keep me stuck within strict confines and I sometimes wonder where the adventure is hiding. Trees also have no choice and grow where they are planted with no thoughts of travel or adventure. The rain cries, the sun sparkles and the wind dances, but the tree stands tall and grows deep. This uninhibited growth while being grounded is bewitching. I forget that, like a tree, I also have this choice to grow tall and deep. I can be the deep roots that my family clings to and I can grow tall strong branches, allowing my family to climb higher and higher.  I yearn to grow deep and tall. To have a broad structure and to have depth. As a tree, this growth happens reflexively without thought, it is the job of a tree to grow deep and tall. The tree doesn't try to grow feet. The tree doesn't try to fly.

Trees seem to also be nature's gladiator, instinctively fighting to keep a foothold in the most extreme conditions.  I forget that I too can and have to fight. Meltdowns, disobedience and moody behavior from my children can overwhelmingly bury my feelings and I give up. I have to persevere however and keep the foothold of communication open and positive. I have to fight to hold onto my loving feelings at times and push through the haziness of child indifference in order to continually strengthen our bonds. Trees however don't have to think about their strength. Being a strong fighter is in their nature. This organic strength is beautiful.


A tree's predisposition for longevity also allows it to bear witness to terrible events to hard to contemplate and events so wondrous they leave one speechless. I have been witness to terrible things; my daughter being born without a breath, a son living with sensitivities and anxieties which at times can test my core being and arguments between My Love not worth remembering. But I have also lived through wondrous happenings; the uninhibited laughing between two siblings, My Love's passion for and fulfillment of his dreams and my re-commitment to our family are only a few. I endure through the pain and through the elation. Sometimes I do not want to endure. I don't want to show up for life. I want to be left alone. Every day I have to decide to endure, I have to re-commit to the race. A tree's endurance and longevity however are spontaneous. This reflexive endurance is courageous.

As 2013 draws to a close I find myself meditating on these three attributes; growth, strength and endurance. I stand in awe of the surrounding trees, waving down at me, reminding me to grow deep and tall, to find the strength to fight hard and to endure no matter the circumstance.

Up until now, what I have found so profound and puzzling however is the simplicity and relaxedness at which the tree performs these bewitching, beautiful and courageous acts.

At the end of 2012 I made and have kept many New Year's resolutions. I sacrificed coffee and alcohol, started routinely working out, kept a gratitude journal and concentrated on having a heart of giving. I worked hard to keep these resolutions and am still working hard today. Thankfully and ultimately however I am not satisfied. Tonight I yearn for more. I am ready to stop laboring, working so hard to live within my goals. I am ready to start breathing. Breathing in and out the confidence that I have worked so hard to attain. Having ultimate confidence in my growth, my strength and my longevity will allow me to live a more reflexive, organic life.

For the past two years trees have been screaming at me during the day and whispering to me in the shadows of my dreams and it is time I take heed. These trees are confident. Confident in their roots, confident in their place, confident in their upward growth, their budding strength and confident in their steadfastness. There is magic and excitement in the realization of a quest not yet taken.

For 2014 I will treasure and hold tight to my confidence in order that I may continue to grow organically, have the strength to fight uninhibitedly and endure spontaneously.  What a bewitching, beautiful, courageous life -- just like the trees.







 

To My First Born, My Favorite Child (or so my 2nd one thinks)

I will miss you when you have a family of your own and we don't collide into each other every day.
But I will never miss being your mom. I love and admire you in ways that are unspeakable.

Thank you for ignoring my insults and learning how to tune out my crazy sometimes intense judgments. Thank you for your belly laugh and your contagious kindness.

Thank you for your conversations. Thank you for your meltdowns which have taught me to be more compassionate and forgiving. Thank you for your inquisitiveness and your ability to relay interesting fun facts.

Thank you for your realism and your palpable love of toys. Thank you for your goofiness and your innocence. Thank you for your ability to be alone.

Thank you for your love notes. Thank you for your hand prints. Thank you for your sleepy smiles. Thank you for your forgiveness and your love.

Thank you for your cries and your sadness. Thank you for your intelligence. Thank you for your rightness.

Thank you for your sweet whispers.

Thank you for your anxiety, watching you push through these struggles is a testament to hard work and perseverance. Thank you for your honesty and your boldness. Thank you for your dry sense of humor.

Thank you for your rational routines and your love of dogs.

Thank you for the genuine person that you are.

I will miss you at two years old and all your jumping. I will always miss your 3 year old self and your Boston accent. I will miss you when I wasn't looking and you grew to be a video gaming 6 year old. I will miss our morning arguments when  you were 7 and didn't quite feel comfortable with life. I will miss your eight year old resiliency.

I will miss you when you have a family of your own and we don't collide into each other every day.
But I will never miss being your mom. I love and admire you in ways that are unspeakable.

Daddy

At 11:00pm I walked into my first born's room to make sure he was cozy, that his night light was on and that he hadn't fallen asleep in any weird positions. This is my habit every night as it has been for the last 8.5 years. A little more than 4 years ago I added another child into my habit but it is all the same.

My slumbering child fell asleep upside down tonight. His feet lay on his pillow. I made sure to bend my knees while pulling him up and laying him right side up for you see he has gotten so big, so strong, so unwieldy. As I tucked the covers around his body he looked up with sleepy eyes and a huge smile and said, "Daddy!"

"No sweetie, it is just me, go back to sleep," I choked out.

"You looked like him," my child said as he smiled and rolled over, still sleeping.

I walked out with tears in my eyes. His Daddy was currently on one of his travels. 2 weeks, 4 days, 6 days, 1 week....The time span away always different, but a habit of his since our first born was ever even conceived.

I videoed My Love's departure message once. My now 8 year old was only 2 at the time and My Love and him were playing hide and seek in the yard. Running, yelling, wrestling and laughing together. My Love knelt down real close after their play and looked him in the eyes.

"I have to go away tomorrow, but I will be back soon," he plainly stated. "I love you and will miss you very much."

During this "away time" the two of us always made paper chains, talked about when he would return. Took videos of cool forts, bike rides and new achievements.

I remember one video vividly. My first born was jumping on his bed and I was asking him how many sleeps until Daddy comes home. The video camera cuts to the paper chain taped up in his room. "ONE MORE CHAIN!" he calls out while jumping.  I move the video camera to his barely walking little sister and she says, "daddy!" and then the video cuts out.

Walking out of my son's room my mind replayed this video. "Daddy!"

Below the very thin surface of school, daily chores, playtime, mealtime and everything in between my kids miss their daddy. I miss their daddy. They dream of him. I dream of him.

These days however it is the "elephant in the room." We all know he leaves. We all know he comes back. There are no paper chains however, no count downs, no "daddy!" videos. We have become immune to the travel schedule. It is as much a part of our life as is waking up.

The limbo days (the travel days) we however laugh and wrestle a bit less. We subconsciously stare at the 5:00pm clock. Our meals are haphazard and inconvenient. There is one less playmate and twice the work. We do not dare to speak of it though. There is a very real fear in all three of us that if we fess up and admit our missing, we will become unmoored from the rock that has saved our sinking ship and we will sink to the bottom of the ocean, alone.

My Love will continue to travel. We will continue to be left at home carrying on with routines and schedules. But as of today, I refuse to  deny it. I will speak it. I will tell back to my kids memories and funny stories of their dad. I will ask them what they miss most. I will honestly tell them how many more days are left. I will take  more "daddy" videos and I will most importantly remind them of how much their daddy loves them.

After last night, My Love deserves to be more than what dreams are made of.

As I ruffled my son's messy sleepy bed head this morning I looked him in the eyes and said, "I miss your daddy."

He smiled, "me too."

Belief

This post is dedicated to my first born. Your loyalty has comforted me beyond measurement. A genuine gift that will always be prized. You are my shinning lamppost, greeting me ever so softly as I begin my journey into uncharted lands and glowing brilliantly as I return with new convictions.

*********************
My second born, not-so-little bundle of joy has stretched me physically, mentally and spiritually. She has enabled me to warp into positions not accustomed too. Despite my discomfort I do not have a choice. I am pulled into new lands, deposited alone in new territories with only one option; to believe.



Celebrating the beginning of my second trimester, carrying my not-so-little bundle of joy I was attacked by pain. "This pregnancy is different," I remember thinking. My pelvic floor felt like it could and would drop out of my body at any given time. Sometimes after sneezing I would cautiously look around on the floor, wincing in pain, knowing that half of me should be all over the floor. The pressure tortured me. It hurt to walk, to sit, to stand, to lay. No comfort.

I had no choice in the pain.  I carried that girl until the day she was due (and no longer). Looking back I realize that it was the most optimistic time for me, ever. "Having a second child would be no problem," I told My Love. We were always worried about our first born. Family dynamics were going to shift obviously, and My Love and I had many late night conversations.

As my body stretched, I imagined how enjoyable our family would look like with four, very rarely complained about any pain and reflexively smiled throughout my entire pregnancy.

My body achingly stretched for this child. I had no choice, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




After our 5th or 6th Emergency Room visit in a period of only 12 months our second child's gastroenterologist confirmed out worst fear. Our not-so-little bundle of joy was allergic to soy and dairy. My Love and I, being vegetarians ever since 1998 when I unfortunately walked into a Russian open air meat market, looked at each other, terrified. The next day My Love left on work travels and I was left to deal with this conflict.

Marriages always have their ups and downs. At this point in our relationship with a one year old (that almost always was upset with tummy issues) and an almost 5 year old (that loved to throw tantrums) we were slogging through one of those down moments. This new information did not make it any easier.

Our house had never refrigerated meat (...except for the one time I did eat a steak, pregnant with not-so-little bundle of joy).

Our values regarding humane treatment of animals and our issues with the U.S. meatpacking industry had been in place for more than a decade. Even our almost five year old had never tasted meat. Over the years however, after having our first child, we had become a bit lax and did eat our fair share of cheeses and yogurts. Allergic to dairy and soy. What were we going to do?

When My Love returned from his travels I had the answer. There would be no discussion. We were going to eat meat. I felt as strongly about this as I had about being a vegetarian.

My mind hurt. It had warped itself into a new value system. Discarded my old way. Being stretched like this turned me upside down. I would stand in the meat aisles confused, dazed and ultimately alone. I did not know the first thing about buying, preparing or cooking meat. Some days still, these same feelings rush back to me.

My mind ached. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




At three and a half years old my not-so-little bundle of joy cried genuine tears. Tears of disappointment and failure. We were half way up Tiger Mountain on a family day hike. My almost 7 year old though had refused to climb any higher and we were taking a water break. My Love and I were proud. We had climbed a long way, we were satisfied and decided that heading back down to the car would not be a bad idea. Our legs ached from carrying both kids intermittently. It had already been a long hike.

And then we looked at her. Tears were streaming down her face. "I have to get to the top," she said. It only took me a split second to decide that of course we had to get to the top. There was no other way. Her spirit demanded it.

My legs were stretched to the breaking point that day as I carried her on my back the entire way down. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.




Lately my not-so-little bundle of joy wants to talk about God. "What is God," she will ask and then quizzically gazes upon my answers.

I was raised in a very religious home. I asked Jesus into my heart at age 4. I went to Sunday school and even taught Sunday school when I was in high school. Something happened though along the way and I started questioning the entire notion of God. I wondered why He would never talk to me and why I never really felt His presence. Scientifically God did not make sense and it started to unnerve me that my prayers were never answered. In the year of 2000 I had an anti-climatic mountain top experience and decided that religion just wasn't for me.

I am not a bad person. I don't swear. I don't drink (ever). I look out for my neighbors and I try to live an authentic life. I'm just not religious. Science, for me, makes a lot more sense.

So when my not-so-little bundle of joy asks me, how the world was made or who God is, I want to furiously yell back my scientific answers. But I stop. I allow all the answers to be heard. I give all the options.

My spirit grapples to find the right way forward. It stretches in ways I did not think possible and I decide right then and there that if she decides to attend church, to get involved religiously, I will be by her side and I will rejoice with her, I will sing with her and I will pray with her, for I believe in this child. I believe in her life.

There is no choice.

Living Over the Net

Crystal clear quietness invaded my space and caused my ears to ring. No laughing. No music. No birds. No child's monitor hissing in my ear. No phone ringing. No chitter-chatter. No traffic. No children. No tea kettle. No rain drops. A solitude of nothingness stretched out in front of me. A black hole of silence, as if I had been plunged deep underwater. And then the silence quickly ended with a great finale of pots banging, dishes cracking and kids whooping.

There are these perfectly quiet times in my life. Sometimes short and quick other times drawn out, like a tug-a-war rope waiting to be pulled on. There is now no predicting how long it might last. At first it was startling. My first plunge into silence. I tried screaming for help, looking around frantically for someone to pull me out of the quietness. Realizing that my voice too had been silenced I gave up screaming and tried to settle into my new surroundings. Quietness, the absence of noise. It stretched on for years. I grew quite fond of it. I became reliant on the predictability of my quietness. And then one day that predictability ended.

Settling into this new silence proved to be a bit tougher than one might imagine. The jarring that occurred after each bout of unpredictable silence was enough to make my ears ring. The sounds, emerging from the short bursts of silence were hyper and chaotic. I was a ping pong ball being bounced between two enemies. I began to distrust my quietness always anxiously awaiting another deafening blow of sound frequency. During this new silence I became jiggery, haphazard and confused.

I yearn for the quietness of days gone past. The days when it was too loud and I chose to tune out the distracting sounds.  I had reached out for the silence. I had needed the silence for I had much to ponder and too much to work out. I rested beside still waters (although the water was raging all around) and my soul was restored. I alone decided when the silence would cease.

Somehow, along the way I gave up the right to decide when the silence ends. It could have been my restored self, giving back the time I thought I had stolen. In any case, there is now no predicting when my silence will be taken from me. I have become paralyzed within my quietness unable to even enjoy the deafening absence of noise. At any moment there could be an explosion of unharmonious sounds and my ears will jump into action. At these times I dearly want to hold on to my silence. To tuck it away. To control it.

But then there are those times that I am slapped in the face by silence. It takes me by surprise. Drifts by on a breeze. I smile at the quiet but knowingly continue on my pandemonium journey. I dance within the craziness of sound and laugh in the face of the void of sound. I don't want the commotion to stop.

I am learning to live over the net, bouncing back and forth between two polar opposites. I am learning that predictable silence creates no challenges and that hyper caterwauling creates no restoration. I am learning that I need both restoration and a challenge in order to gracefully live life. I am learning how to be at peace within the noise and within the silence. I am learning that I am not in control of the ping pong game but what truly matters is how I deal with the living between (over the net).

The Ruse

I was given a beautiful, colorful, surprising gift and a confession that had to be made. The gift - five excellent years of work (outside the home) after my first child was born. The confession - I don't regret one day of it.

This post is dedicated to My Love, without whom I am nothing. Thank you for supporting my crazy decision to stay at home these past three years. From you I have learned resolve, with you gained confidence, by you taught love.

*************************************

Standing in the too long Safeway checkout line, wondering if I could eek by in the express checkout I am suddenly transfixed. My kids are arguing, one is being just a bit too loud, the other a bit too babyish. Both are unloading the cart with me but at the same time both have one arm hanging on me, asking for gum or anything else that will rot their teeth. The little one has to potty, the older one is staring at magazines. Both keep sarcastically rousing each other... and then there is only one item left in the cart and they both lunge for it. One gets their finger stuck the other is triumphant and knows how to gloat.

I watch it all. Smile at the checker, pretend to ignore the beasts at my feet and continue on my journey. My blood pressure stayed in check. No adrenaline surges. No elderly female person telling me to enjoy these moments. Paid in full for groceries. Now on to unload (into the car) and reload (into the fridge).

These beasts are my children. My precious children. I love them. I love watching, observing their behavior, predicting who will win each argument, wondering if they will ever grow up to be upstanding citizens. An awesome experiment.

My gift....I have only been here for three years, only two more years to go and I will be back in the work force full time. Five years in total to be completely, wholeheartedly with my children. Only five years. Only five years. Only five years.

My confession...I am so happy to have had full time work the first five years of my oldest son's life. It has helped me to cherish each moment (the good, the bad and the ugly) that I have with my kids. I am not tired, I am not burned out, I am not overwhelmed. I have only two more years, and then I will be given back the gift of full time work (outside the house).

An experiment with outcomes that will far exceed any expectation I might have had.