Tag Archives: mama

Separate, Celebrate

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This year, my birthday and Mother’s Day fell exactly one week apart. That’s a whole lot of celebrating in a short time and a whole lot of pressure on everyone to get along and have fun — all day, each day. Don’t get me wrong — I love to be celebrated. But my expectations for the day often get in the way of truly enjoying myself. With a few birthdays as a momma behind me, I knew that it was likely that Mattie’s needs would conflict with my best-laid plans, and, as such, my expectations were (mostly) realistically set.

I was surprised to find that for the first time since he was born, Mattie seemed to really understand that my birthday was supposed to be about celebrating me. Previously, Ken spent a lot of effort trying to explain to him that it was supposed to be a special day for momma — coaxing him to participate in making or signing a card, cajoling him into going along with whatever I wanted to do that day, mostly to no avail. But at 4 and 2/3 years old, Mattie is developmentally less self-centered and more able to consider others.

Most significantly, he is beginning to recognize me, specifically, as separate from himself.

So, on both Mother’s Day and my birthday this year, Mattie genuinely wanted to celebrate me and do special things for me on — at least for the first hour or so of the day.

What follows is a glimpse into our lives on each of these days this year.

On my birthday we woke up and had sweet snuggle time in bed. Ken reminded Mattie about what day it was and they both showered me with birthday love. I tiptoed away to the bathroom while the two of them whispered to one another, plotting something instigated by Mattie. I returned to a grinning boy holding out a tiny gift bag.  Inside was one of my own old dangly earrings, plucked from my drawer and wrapped up just for me.  I put it on and Mattie told me that I looked “gorgeous“.

So. Stinking. Sweet.

Then, as we were getting dressed, he surprised me again by saying, “Momma, you don’t have to pick out my clothes today, because it’s your birthday!“. He then proceeded to pick out his own clothes and dress himself.  I was touched by his thoughtfulness and the awareness it represented.  (I also noticed that despite his daily demands to help him with this task, he is actually completely capable of doing it by himself).

When we got downstairs he raced to give me a card he’d made with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMA!!!! LOVE, MATTIE” written on it his big, blocky, beautiful penmanship. He had only recently learned about exclamation points and this is the first time I’ve seen him use four in a row for anything. I swooned, appreciating every stroke, knowing full well the concentration and effort he put into birthing this creation just for me.

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(The yellow star was also his idea. It’s something I’ve never seen him draw before, but he thought I’d like it. And I do. Love it. Recently he said to me: “I think that babies choose which mama they want. Like when they’re still up in the stars?” I’m so glad he chose me.)

When Ken gave me my gifts, he also brilliantly gave Mattie a present — a small green Lego set.  Mattie was delighted and built Lego creations happily, chattering constantly while he worked, while Ken and I enjoyed lounging in my new birthday Adirondack chairs, drinking our coffee in the sunshine.

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Pretty, aren’t they?!

Then we went out to brunch and to a family food festival with music and kids activities, which was all pretty fun for Mattie.

It wasn’t until early afternoon that he started asking every 5 minutes (I kid you not), “When is it going to be MY birthday?” He was starting to get tired, and frankly, I was surprised that it had taken this long for him to shift the focus onto himself.

But it gets better, (or worse?).

Post-festival, we went to a coffee shop to get my favorite Ethiopian coffee. Mattie got chocolate milk and we all shared a scone. He wanted a cookie also, but in light of the fact that birthday cake was coming later, I sensibly denied his request. He responded by wailing, “This is the worst day EVER!” (If Mattie were writing this story, he probably would have punctuated that statement with at least four exclamation points).

He continued to remind us that it was the worst day ever for the remainder of our stay at the coffee shop, throughout our walk back to the car, and all the way home to the other side of town.

I had to hide a smile, though, almost relieved that he was finally expressing such dissatisfaction. It’s not easy to celebrate someone else all day long.

*****

A similar scene unfolded on Mother’s Day. Mattie gave me a beautiful homemade card — this one decorated with a drawing of a sewer.  I’m not sure where that came from, but it felt somehow…fitting.  He was genuinely and enthusiastically pleased with it.

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(I especially love the choice of sparkly paper).

Then we enjoyed a yummy pancake breakfast made by Ken. But before we had even finished eating our breakfast, Mattie started demanding jelly beans. (Admittedly, we’d gotten into a habit of counting out leftover Easter jelly beans after breakfast some mornings. Mattie is incredibly treat-motivated and I was using it as an opportunity to teach him some math skills. It worked — the boy can now count to at least 15, no problem!)

On this particular morning, however, I wasn’t up for it. He’d just eaten pancakes with syrup and I (reasonably?) thought that was enough sugar to start the day. When I told him so, it was immediately clear that my explanation was NOT going to be satisfactory. He exploded, saying, “Then you’re not ever going to be my momma again!! You’re the worst person in the world!” (Again, he would probably use more exclamation points.)

He stomped around miserably for a good, long time, telling me over and over again that I was the worst person in the world. On Mother’s Day. It was pretty comical, really.

Finally, tiring of the momma-bashing, I tried adding more details to my case against the jelly beans. I explained that there was going to be a family party later in the day with more sweet treats.

He looked at me thoughtfully, reasonably even, and said, “Oh. So there’s a reason you’re saying no? Like because I’m going to get a lot of treats later? Oh…okay.”

And that was the end of it. A reasonable explanation can sometimes work wonders with these little humans. It’s just that you can’t ever predict whether or not they will determine it to be reasonable enough. That day, I got lucky.

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Yes, that is a whipped cream “shot” at a celebration.  Pure heaven for this boy!

All joking aside, I have to say that Mattie’s selfish outbursts provide me with a peculiar sense of comfort. While I welcome his increasing awareness and independence, I also want him to be the very little boy that he is, regardless of the day.

The “me” a year or two or three ago may not have had that insight, just longing for my own selfish birthday desires to come true. But I’m another year wiser and this momma is getting better at understanding the needs of her boy, too.

These years of Mattie being a little boy aren’t going to last forever and I don’t want him to grow up any faster than he needs to.

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**********

A few nights after my birthday, just before falling asleep, Mattie said to me, “Momma, I fell in love with you right away when I was born”.  He’s heard me say something similar to him often, but to hear it turned on me, well, it took my breath away.

I think that it’s these everyday, unexpected celebrations of me that I treasure most. There’s nothing forced about it. No pressure.  It’s just the love I’ve poured in overflowing and spilling over back onto me — combined with the beautiful, amazing, loving spirit of this boy who is his own person, totally separate from me.

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Sleeping Arrangements

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My heart is tender tonight.  I just tucked Mattie into his “own bed” for the first time (a futon mattress dragged into the corner of our room).  In his first few years of life he has spent the night in a variety of places, some stranger than others  — an infant car seat, a swing, a rocking bassinet, a co-sleeper — but most nights he has slept with us in our King size bed.  This is what has worked best for our family.  There was an earlier period when our mattress was on the floor and the futon was next to it, but Ken usually slept on it then. Our room is not large, and is essentially one giant bed with the two mattresses covering the floor.

As Mattie has been growing bigger we’ve talked about a bed of his own — still in our room, we’ve reassured him — but he hasn’t been interested.  I brought it up again last night, as we’d been waking each other up with all the tossing and turning on each of our parts, and this time he got excited about it.  The excitement carried through to today, and we spent the better part of the day cleaning and re-arranging.  He just fell asleep in his very own bed for the first time, and I’m tearful.  While it is a change that will likely be good for all of us, there is grief too.  She accompanies joy, change, growth.  They all reside in my heart space together tonight.

What follows is a poem that I wrote a few months back about sleeping with Mattie.  It feels appropriate that tonight is the night I finally share it…

 

It is the middle of the night

and I wake to feel his little foot

curling into the crease where my thigh meets my hip.

It nestles in and rests there

while we both fall

back to sleep.

 

Later, in the wee hours of the morning,

I feel his toes exploring the space under

my left shoulder blade.

He is lying horizontally

across the expanse of our bed

with his head resting near his papa’s.

This is about the time when the  l-o-n-g,

s-l-o-w process of waking up begins,

and while he flip-flops over me from one side to the next,

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and silently pray-hope-wish-with-all-my-might

that he settles back in for just…a bit…longer.

 

A few minutes later,

(my silent pleas unanswered),

he sits up and looks around through eyes half-open

until his gaze lands on me.

 

Momma…located.

I take a deep breath and sigh a tired sigh,

as I accept my fate and surrender to whatever might come next

(sweet snuggles and stories?

an onslaught of instant demands?

one never knows…).

 

My boy scoots over to me and rests his head

against mine,  then draws up his knees and tucks himself up tight

under the alcove of my chin, momentarily.  

I breathe in his sweet,  satisfying, oh-so-familiar

baby-boy-child smell.

 

He pulls away only to nuzzle his head,

then his cheek, against my cheek —

the way a kitten might nuzzle its momma.

 

While I am melting in the blissful sweetness of it all,

he tops it off with a kiss — planted on my cheek — and then

(the grand finale of this first act of the day)

he whispers softly, “I love you, momma.”

 

I am reduced to a puddle of love.

This is it, I think.  This is what matters most in all the world.

I squeeze him tight, and tell him I love him too.

 

This kind of love,

multiplied,

could heal this world.

I just know it.

 

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Passing on the Empathy Gene

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When little Maggie first heard the story of Little Bo Peep and how she lost her sheep, she cried. When she was just two years old, she was gifted with a small, sweet cup with illustrations of Little Bo Peep and said sheep. Every time little Maggie saw this cup, she cried. She was so concerned for Little Bo, imagining how sad she must have been without her beloved sheep. Her momma had to put the cup away, because it upset her so.

This was the first indication of the depth of empathy and compassion that little Maggie felt. It is the hallmark story told by her momma to describe Maggie’s sensitivity from the very start.

Fast forward thirty years or so and momma Maggie is watching Curious George with her son, Mattie, also two years old. It is the Zoo Night episode and as usual Curious George is busy being curious – this time resulting in getting locked inside the zoo after dark. As he tries to find his way out he winds up finding the zookeeper’s keys and opening the doors to various animal cages; there are some silly altercations but he also gets chased by a rhino and meets a roaring lion. We talk about all of this as it happens, but it is just a bit too much for little Mattie. He gets a most concerned look on his face and begins to cry – in earnest – and through his crumpled face and tears, gasps to his momma:

“What happened?! Where did his papa go?!?”

They stop the video and talk about what’s happening. Mattie wants to watch more, but again cries, so concerned about the little monkey.   Momma Maggie is reminded of herself and her reaction to Little Bo Peep, seeing her own sensitivity to the circumstances of others in her son. It has been passed on, she realizes.

But she doesn’t discourage Mattie from watching Curious George. He asks to watch it again, and he cries, and they talk about it. Then he doesn’t want to watch this particular episode for a few days. In the meantime, he asks regularly about what happened, even wanting his momma to tell friends and family about it. Momma Maggie recounts the whole story again and again, patiently describing the plot in detail while also including Mattie in discussing his concern about what was sad or scary.

Eventually, he asks to watch Zoo Night again, and his momma asks if he’s sure. This time, they get through the whole episode with no tears, talking about it all the while. And Mattie is overjoyed when George is reunited with his papa (the man with the yellow hat) at the end.

Now Mattie watches this episode over and over AND OVER again.   He also likes to talk about what he would get to do if he were locked in the zoo at night (with his momma or papa, of course!).

*****

I can only imagine what has occurred inside Mattie through all of this. All I know is that I have helped him make sense of it. We processed his feelings together, so gently, again and again, and the result seems to be an internalized acceptance of the whole story. He watched something sad and scary happen; after talking about it enough it wasn’t sad or scary anymore. This seems to have built trust in our relationship and new confidence in Mattie.

While I’ve always viewed my own sensitivity and empathy as positive traits, I’ve also had a tendency to wear my heart on my sleeve a little too freely, and I’m not always good at recognizing the line between where I end and someone else begins. Perhaps I can help Mattie to see these tendencies as gifts, but also to build muscles of resiliency and create self-protective boundaries (though I’m still learning and building them myself).

Or maybe this is just an opportunity to witness my own compassionate response to my sensitive little boy – and to remember to save some of that compassion for myself.

Siren in the Night

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I am accustomed to hearing the emergency alert siren in Madison on a regular basis; it happens on the first Wednesday of every month at noon precisely. When I hear the siren begin to wind up into its high-pitch sustained whine, I pause to consider the day and time to confirm that it is only a test. My response to this conclusion is typically a mix of relief (that the sound doesn’t indicate an impending disaster), and slight irritation (that this grating noise is interrupting my day, albeit for only a few minutes).

I am NOT accustomed to being woken from a deep sleep in the middle of the night to hear this emergency siren, as happened earlier this week. At approximately 12:30am on Monday night, I woke to the sound of the siren.   It took my sleepy brain a few moments to register what was happening.   The siren was accompanied by thunderclaps loud enough to send the dog slinking over with her tail between her legs, shaking, and heavy rain – not falling in it’s typical downward trajectory but instead blowing horizontally, thumping against the house – making my bedroom feel like the inside of a car wash. Was this a tornado warning?? My first reaction was to grapple in the darkness for my smart phone to check the radar and verify the cause of the siren (hoping that somehow my technology was smarter than the siren and would indicate that I could go back to sleep). But before I could locate any information, Ken walked into the room and announced the tornado warning.  He’d first heard about it on Facebook, which he’d just happened to be perusing after midnight while unable to sleep – confirming that the news still travels fastest via the smartest technology of all — social media.

A more youthful and childless version of myself – feeling invincible and relying on a belief that surely tornadoes didn’t touch down in the middle of the city – may have thrown a pillow over my head and gone back to sleep.  But the stakes are higher now, and any recklessness I may have felt in the face of danger has been replaced with fierce protective instincts to keep my family and myself safe. Despite these strong instincts, Ken and I did hedge for a few moments weighing the consequences of being swept away in a tornado against waking the baby. While we usually do everything within our power to keep the baby asleep, this seemed like an appropriate exception.

Fortunately Mattie barely stirred when Ken picked him up and minimal rocking and shushing noises kept him asleep for the tiptoed trip through the house and down two flights of stairs into our basement. We settled down to wait out the storm in a nest of blankets from the laundry pile near the washing machine; me rocking and nursing my sleeping boy and Ken watching the radar on his phone.

Even though I still thought the likelihood of the tornado affecting us was small (yes, some of that invincibility still lingers), I felt afraid and imagined a variety of potential grisly outcomes.   But I was also struck by the timeless quality of this scene in the basement (minus the smart phone), and it made me think about all of the other mothers that have huddled over their babies in the darkness while sirens wailed around them. I imagined the fear a mother might feel while under the threat of an air raid or some other kind of enemy attack. Or of the mothers who knew that a tsunami or an earthquake was coming, but had no safe place to take shelter with their babies.

Maybe this was a coping mechanism of my mind – to imagine another scene to take me out of my own. Whatever it was, it instilled feelings of kinship with these mothers to know, if only for a few moments, the fear of a real potentially life-threatening disaster.

Like any mother, I feel tiny flutters of fear for the life of my child on a daily basis; the kind of fear that causes my heart to feel like it has momentarily dropped into my stomach while at the same time I forget how to breathe. This is usually caused by a close call of one variety or another, like when he almost falls from the top of the slide on the playground, almost runs into the street when a car is coming, or almost slips and falls in the bathtub.  I sometimes joke that my day consists of protecting Mattie from one life-threatening event after another, but today I am grateful for the normalcy and relative smallness of these everyday events.

On Monday night, the siren stopped after a short time (10 minutes?) and we knew it was safe to go back to bed, which we did gratefully. The next morning, I read in the paper that the tornado did in fact touch down in the middle of the city, even snapping trees, damaging property, and felling power lines on streets walking distance from my own.   While my mind drifted to the fates of those less fortunate than myself, maybe the fear that I was experiencing (and simultaneously avoiding) was more real than I dared consider.

At noon on the first Wednesday of next month when the emergency warning siren blares, I expect to feel more relief and gratitude than irritation. And perhaps I’ll even think to use it as a moment of ceremony, to remember all of those other mothers who visited me in the basement on Monday night; those who were able to return to bed like me, relieved and grateful that the threat of danger had passed, and those whose lives were lost or forever changed by a siren in the night.

 

Coloring

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Coloring has become a serious business at our house as of late. It happens at the kitchen table (where there is a dedicated coloring corner with a special booster seat and a plentiful supply of crayons, colored pencils, and paper), in the tub (with special bathtub crayons), on the sidewalk and the porch (with “chalk-it”)… and sometimes on the walls, floors, and any other hard surface available… but we’re working on this. 🙂

Mattie can stay engaged in this activity for a very long time – as long as someone is willing to follow his direction and draw all of the things he gets so excited to see come to life when crayon hits the paper. This currently consists of a long list of automobiles: buses, airplanes, cars, trucks, garbage trucks, boats, and helicopters; varying only in size (little one or big one) and color (seriously, he can name them all now). Frequently I haven’t finished drawing one blue bus before he’s asking me to draw another one…or a little yellow plane or a pink helicopter…a BIG one! I’ve gotten really good at drawing the things on this list (quickly!), but he’s started to challenge my drawing skills more often now by throwing in other things we’ve seen recently; a rhino, hippo, or giraffe (we went to the zoo) or a beetle, worm, caterpillar, grasshopper, or fish (he loves to visit the creek).

He draws and conducts the creation of this imagined scene with the same fervor. While he is instructing me on what comes next he is also drawing scribbles, circles, dots, and lines; they even sometimes come together looking like automobiles. I am astounded by how quickly his drawing is evolving; it’s only been a couple of months and already there are distinct differences from when he began. This is just one more way in which I am amazed by the speed in which he is transforming before my very eyes.

So yesterday afternoon I sat at the kitchen table coloring with Mattie in this fashion for a very long time. And while I’m sitting there feeling this awe and wonder over my beautiful boy, thrilled both by his delight and being able to simply satisfy his desire to see a world filled with automobiles of all sizes and colors… I start to notice some other feelings creeping in. First, I start to wonder if he is ever going to take a nap today. It’s way past naptime and he’s showing no signs of slowing, so I start to panic at the thought that I might not get any time to myself. I need to do the dishes. And start some laundry. Pick up toys. Pay at least one bill. Start supper. Work in the garden. Call the doctor. Take a shower! Respond to at least one personal email! (I’m getting desperate now…)

Then, as my panic and frustration start to build, another layer arrives. As I’m feeling this longing to move at my own pace, I also begin to think about Ken and how he “gets to” go off to work each day, doing work that is meaningful and that he’s passionate about, while I’m stuck at home taking care of Mattie. (Of course this is meaningful work and I’m passionate about doing it, but this information doesn’t exist in the moment when I’m trapped in the story created by my powerful mind.) In the story, I’m a victim of my own life – sacrificing myself, a martyr to the cause of raising our son, and all my feelings about being thwarted and unable to move at my own pace, NEVER able to finish any task that requires more than 15 minutes of my attention or EVER getting to do anything for myself… get momentarily projected onto my dear husband. (I’m sorry, sweetie.) I know I’m really deep in when absolutes like NEVER start to creep in – this is full-on unreasonable, petulant child, stomping my foot kind of language. Fortunately, it also rings the warning bell and alerts me to the fact that I need to breathe and evaluate what’s actually going on.

So somehow in this moment I found the wherewithal to ask myself… what would I rather be doing?

Yes, there was a long list of tasks in my awareness that needed attention. But would I seriously rather be doing those things? Not really…

And while I might want to go get a massage, read a book, go for a run, go dancing, see my friends, write, and take a trip to Italy and drink wine for a week, those desires will always exist and point more toward me needing to carve out more time to tend to myself. Which I’m working on…

But in the big picture…is there some job that I’d rather be doing that would make me happier than being at home with my son, teaching him about the world and watching him develop and grow more and more into himself?

When honestly exploring that question in this moment in my life, I found that the honest answer was … nope.   This is actually what I want to be doing. In fact, this is what I get to do. I get to spend my days with my beautiful son, coloring and reading books; taking walks; throwing rocks in the creek; hunting for tadpoles, worms, and beetles; splashing in puddles; and running through tall grass with the dog.

It makes me really happy… a lot of the time. And it’s really hard … sometimes. But what job that’s worthwhile isn’t?

"Chalk-it" delight

“Chalk-it” delight!

 

Where I’ve Been & Spring Through Mattie’s Eyes

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Whew, I’m back.  I made it through my big work deadline and I’m only just beginning to emerge from the long break from everything that we all needed. We took a much-needed vacation to Florida to reconnect as a family and remember the feeling of sun on our skin and dirt beneath our bare feet.   I thought I would write about it (and many other things) sooner, but I just haven’t had it in me.

My darling boy made it through my concentrated stretch of long work days beautifully (amenable to being with papa and his grandmas most of the time), but literally the day after it was over didn’t want me to leave his sight.  It’s like he knew that we’d gotten through something and he could fall apart and let all his built-up need out.  I’m grateful both that he was so adaptable during this critical time and and then also that his need could emerge fully and be met.  It’s been intense in the aftermath, as I’ve been really present to his built-up need and working to rebuild his trust, proving that I won’t leave him every time I walk out of the room.  Two months later, I think we’re finally on the other side of it and back in balance.

Balance.  Not an easy thing to achieve in any arena.  My life (our lives) feel like an undulating snake body that fills up and empties out, constricts and expands, coils tight and then slithers onward with a life and momentum all it’s own.   Too much of one thing, not enough of another…never enough. (Time, money, sleep…)  But then somehow it all turns out to be…just enough.   And like the snake, we survive.  We survive through the pain and the pleasure, and (hopefully) learn how to linger just a little longer in the moments of freedom and joy and fun, letting go of the suffering we cling to and can’t seem to live without.

(Whew.  Not sure where that last paragraph came from, but I’m trusting it’s arrival…it’s honesty…and it’s relevance to “where I’ve been”.  And moving on…)

A season of travel and exploration, it has been.  Whenever Ken and I reflect on our lives and prioritize the things we want for fulfillment, connection, happiness, (and balance?) we discuss how we can be more fluid with our physical location (jobs etc) and travel more.  So this spring we really committed to making more travel with Mattie a reality, and it’s been a great learning experience for us all.  In addition to our escape to Florida,  we just ventured on a cross-country pilgrimage to Skyline, our home away from home in northern California for my great-aunt’s 76th birthday.  It was a magical adventure (for Mattie especially) filled with throwing rocks in mountain streams, riding in the back of the pickup truck, feeding the horses and learning how to call the cows (Come, bossie!).  In addition to sweet connection with my great-aunties and my cousin, of course.  (More on this journey forthcoming, I hope.)

Maggie, Ken, and Mattie at Skyline

Maggie, Ken, and Mattie at Skyline

And while I’ve been absent from my blog, I did continue my Contemplative Writing practice, and a few weeks ago sat in the sunshine and wrote this bit below, which quite aptly describes where I’ve been in these early days of spring.

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Spring through Mattie’s Eyes

Oh sweet sunshine, soaking into my skin, my clothes, my hair, coloring the world red behind my closed eyes. How I am tempted to lay down my pen to sit and enjoy you alone, absorb your rays into my being, feeling whatever you stir in me on this afternoon of spring awakening.  You light up the world outside and in; the longer days of light, the first yellow crocuses inspiring delight, causing the frozen states inside to melt a little, soften, as we too have the chance to be born anew.

This morning we walked, Mattie and I, noticing signs of spring everywhere.  Walking at the pace of a toddler allows for noticing and absorbing more of the world than the brisk adult “busy, busy I’m so busy” way of moving through the world.

We crouched down next to the creek in the sunshine, staying in one spot for a long time, noticing. We saw a male and female mallard pair floating lazily through the water, then stopping to bask in the sunshine; robins flitting from ground to tree and back again in search of morsels to eat, I presume; a woodpecker flying back and forth, back and forth eventually settling on the tree closest to us and pecking out it’s unique rhythm again and again (causing us both to smile); a red-winged blackbird rooted on one branch, calling over and over, seemingly announcing the arrival of spring; and a blonde squirrel perched unmoving on a stump for the longest time, seemingly contemplating in the sunshine (just as we were). I named each wild creature for Mattie and he carefully repeated each name, many of them brand new to him.

For the first time he is witnessing the grass and mud emerging from the snow, being revealed for exploring with fingers (and event tasting!), the frozen sheets of ice melting into running water, and new wild creatures moving in and filling our environment with activity and sound; all of it new and amazing and filled with possibility.

I am astounded as I fully recognize my role in this, his earliest education, and how much power I have in determining what he experiences – or not.  And I am inspired to explore how I can continue to use the natural world and play and a variety of different environments to teach my son.  While it feels almost cliché to say, I am also so grateful to have the opportunity to try to see it all through his eyes, to appreciate it with the same intensity, curiosity and admiration – as though it were my first time too.  It feels like a sacred opportunity that I dare not miss – an opportunity to appreciate and admire the world just a little more, opening to all that it awakens. Today the sun and my son melt and awaken my world, without and within.

Mattie Exploring the Trees

Mattie Exploring the Trees

 

Coming To My Senses

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Oy.  My brain is tired and full, straining to remember and hold onto all the details that need to be coordinated over the next 3 weeks to submit 20 documents to the federal government on behalf of 8 clients.  I’m writing all day long, telling other people’s stories in the body of application templates — researching, analyzing, calculating, categorizing, strategizing – using my left brain far more than I’d like to.  I feel stressed and overwhelmed, like there’s too much work to be done in not enough time and the pressure is getting to me.

Especially since I’m trying to do it all – to work as much as possible AND be with Mattie as much as possible.   The result is that I feel as though I’m failing at both.  And the shift from being with Mattie most of the time to working most of the time has been tough.  I’m longing for this to be over so that I can return to spending my days with him and clear my mind to allow it to fill again with creative ideas, to play, and to write my own story.

Lately I feel as though all my senses are dulled in this all-consuming singular focus on my work.   I spend each day in our cluttered office: typing, thinking, talking on the phone, making lists, crossing things off lists, and sending email upon email upon email.  Then when I can’t stand it anymore, I get up from my black swivel chair, brush away the accumulated crumbs scattering my desk, and collect my plates & cups from the meals of the day.

I walk down the stairs that are increasingly cluttered with clean folded laundry, dog hair & other random items that (I cringe to admit) currently includes a box of brightly colored wedding thank you cards that were written and never sent — rediscovered nearly 6 years later in a recent cleaning frenzy making room for more Mattie gear.    If you are one of those people who never received their thank you card, please receive this as my formal apology!   Oh, the guilt!

I set aside the guilt, deciding to leave the collection of things in their places for one more day and complete my descent, unlatching the baby gate at the base of the old staircase.  I push open the shiny green curtain in the doorway to the living room & barely have time to set my dirty dishes on the seat of the oak foyer bench before Mattie notices my entrance.

And then I am his.

He reaches for me, needing me.  If I am lucky, I will be greeted by the two sweetest syllables I know, “ma-ma”.  But more likely, once in my arms he will just scramble to lift my shirt, desperate to nurse & reconnect after the long day apart.  We’ll settle into our spot on the worn leather sofa or a stool in the kitchen (if Papa is cooking) and drink each other in, skin to skin. I might sigh, overcome by his beauty, his sweet pudgy, sticky face and big brown eyes locked on mine.  His fingers are now busy exploring – stroking, twisting, and pinching all over.  He may pause nursing periodically to look at me intently and say “up” and “down” (pointing with emphasis), or “woof” or “naaa”.  And with a smile, I’ll confirm, “yes, that’s up, and down”; then look over to our dog “yes, there’s Girl,  she says woof”; and then locate his stuffed plush lamb strewn on the floor; “and yes, there’s your lambie, naaa”.  And he’ll return to nursing contentedly, satisfied that I’ve heard and understood him.

Maybe my senses aren’t totally dulled after all – I’m just saving them for this moment, letting them all slowly flood back in until I’m fully present.  Because this is when I need that awareness most, to engage fully in this intimate conversation between mother & son reunited, rooted in the sensual exploration of one another and the world around us.   This is what I’m living for these days.  This is what’s getting me through.  Yes, it’ll do.

Resistance and Snow

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Wow.  It’s been almost a month since I’ve been here.  I have a couple of excuses, and at least one of them is pretty good.

My biggest work project of the year was announced the week of Thanksgiving, with a February 24th deadline looming.  All of my “spare” time is now spent frantically trying to move that project forward.   This is my “good” excuse.

The other “not so good” excuse is that I keep wanting to (eloquently & comprehensively) define what this blog is about for me.   And when I try to sit down and do that, I get completely overwhelmed by the vastness and complexity of it, and quit.  So for the moment, I’m giving up on definitions and allowing myself to relax into more fluidity and imperfection.

Each week I attend a contemplative writing class with a small circle of women, wherein we meditate together for 10 minutes, write for 20 minutes in response to the prompt from our instructor, and then share what we write with one another in the remaining time. It’s a wonderful practice, and it’s one thing I can rely on to get me to write every week.  And because we write for 20 minutes, there’s no time to go back and edit or make it perfect – what comes out is very stream of consciousness – but  can be amazing and often surprising.

This week I was feeling a lot of resistance to writing about winter (the prompt), so I got up and grabbed a few brightly colored note cards.  I started by drawing a few snow flakes with a sparkly pen, and then this is the story that came out.  Each time I start a new paragraph, it’s because I ran out of space and flipped over to a new side of the note card.  It had an interesting effect…

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 “No.”

This is how Mattie pronounces the word “snow”.  It’s darling.

It can be easy to confuse with the word “n-o”, given that he’s been using a LOT of that one lately also, to convey what he doesn’t want.  No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner.  Only snacks and sweets and mama milk, thank you very much.  No medicine, no brushing teeth, no sitting in his high chair, no taking a bath, and especially no removing him from precarious situations (like standing on the end table, for example).   These have been his preferences the past few days, much to our chagrin.  With each refusal we learn something – about ourselves, and how we think to handle each interaction.  Parenting — the greatest self-discovery tool of them all.

But Mattie has also been beyond fascinated with the s-n-o-w version of “no”, drawn to pull Ken and I by the hand to look at it out the window, leading us to the door to let us know that he wants to go out in it.  It’s not easy for him to understand that we can’t just walk out onto our front porch barefoot anymore.  And the resistance and the n-o version of the word “no” come back in full force when it comes time to putting on his snowsuit…and his boots…and his hat…AND his mittens.  It takes great patience and psychological preparation for the shrieking battle these simple actions can invoke.

Once outside, bundled against the cold, calm returns.  It is an incredible relief to close the door behind us, leaving that particular moment behind, never to have to be repeated in exactly the same conditions.  I’m thinking of this in terms of contractions right now.  I remember living through a really painful, intense contraction and telling my midwife that I didn’t know how many more like that I could handle.  She told me that EVERY contraction is different and that I’d never have to do THAT one again.  Sometimes I think of parenting moments like that too.

But these last few days have been so bitterly cold and windy that the feelings of serenity don’t last long.  I put Mattie in his sled and pull it with one hand, grab Girl’s leash with the other and set off down the sidewalk, determined to get some sunshine and exercise for all.  But the gusting winds blow s-n-o-w into our faces, causing us each to gasp simultaneously, forcing us to return to the house in less time than it took us to leave it.  We return too soon, leaving at least one of us feeling dejected and disappointed.

Thank goodness we have the fire in the pellet stove to return to.  There is comfort there, at least, and from its warm and cozy glow we can look out the window together, pointing at the s-n-o-w “no”, talking about how cold it is out there.  Mattie signing the world cold is delightful – he puts both hands out in front of him in fists and clenches them (and his whole body – including his teeth and jaws) and makes a grunt like he’s exerting himself strenuously.  Uummhhh!  It’s awesome.

All of this until the next day, when we’ll likely repeat some version of the same maddening, frustrating, delightful dance of n-o “no” and s-n-o-w “no”.

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After thought:  It didn’t occur to me until after I published this post that there was another irony that I failed to note in my preamble.  I was feeling a lot of resistance to the writing prompt…and then I ended up writing all about Mattie and his resistance and how that impacts me.  So…interesting!