Tag Archives: reflection

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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Birth & Death – A Continuation

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On May 21, 1981, I was born to very proud first-time parents.  My mom couldn’t put me down that first night, even to sleep.  In the morning, the woman who shared her hospital room asked incredulously, “Did you hold that baby all night long?!”.  She had just delivered her sixth baby and thought that my mom was crazy not to take advantage of putting me in the nursery overnight.

Fast forward 35 years and now I know that kind of love – the kind where I don’t want to miss a thing – like conversations about birth & death with my 3 1/2-year-old.  In honor of my birthday, I’m recording one such recent conversation.

Yesterday Mattie asked me, “Where was I  before I was born?”.  (He has also asked specifically where he was when I was a little girl, or on our wedding day, or when his great-great grandparents were alive.)

I answered him, as best I could, with my practical and philosophical thoughts on the matter.  A follow-up question came shortly after:

“Where will I go after I die?”

I was struck by how similar my response was to this and to his question about where he was before he was born.

“Maybe we are in the stars?”, I suggested.

“Or maybe we return in the form of another being?”

“Or maybe our spirit lingers close to those we love, traveling with them everywhere they go?”

“Yeah”, Mattie said, “it’s kinda like magic”.

“Yeah”, I said, “It’s a lot like that.”

Then he continued his inquiry, wanting to know the names of people and animals I know who have died.  I listed a few, and when I mentioned his great-great grandpa Matthew he said, “What?!  Did I die?!? That’s my name!”

I reassured him that it was someone else named Matthew who died, but that we passed that name onto him because he was a very special person in our family.

Then he asked, “Did he come back to life as me?”

To which I responded, “Well, I think something about his spirit may have came back through you, but I don’t think you’re the same person.  We really don’t know what happens to our spirit after we die though.  It’s a mystery.”

His line of questioning continued, as he pressed me to find out what happens to our physical body after death.

“Does it become meat?”

“Will my bones be in a museum like a dinosaur?”

I described how bodies decompose and that we often bury them so that our bodies can return to the earth.  Then he became concerned about the idea of being buried & needed reassuring that it wouldn’t happen to him until AFTER he died.

Which led to, “But WHEN am I going to die?”

“And WHEN are you going to die, momma?”

He’s been asking both of these questions a lot lately & I respond as honestly as I can.  I say that we really don’t know, but that we hope it’s not for a long, long, LONG time.

For a child that relates to the world primarily through concrete concepts, pondering the mystery of birth & death is no easy feat.  It’s not easy for grown-ups either.

Where was I before I was born?  What is this life a continuation of?

Energy.  Love.  Form.  Formlessness.

Bursting forth & dying back.

My birthday marks a continuation of this life and whatever came before it.  I no longer expect a miracle akin to my birth to occur on this day.  But it’s not easy to let go of all expectation, to hope for some kind of magic.

I do see magic all around me today  – in the warm sun on my skin, the single purple iris blooming today in my flower garden, in the love I feel from my family, friends, and even the occasional stranger.

There is magic in the decadent chocolate cake with raspberry sauce made late at night by my dear husband, even though it didn’t turn out quite as he’d hoped.

There is magic in the hand drawn family portrait and the necklace made from rainbow-colored plastic beads made by the tiny hands of a boy who loves me to the moon and back (and tells me that every day).

There is magic in sharing the exploration of birth and death and the meaning of life with my son.

There is magic in being present, in showing up for each and every moment, and leaning into the mystery for all it’s worth.

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The Gifts We Bring

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“Do you know that you are the gift?”, a wise man once asked me.  Hearing these words from my teacher and friend generated a flood of relief within me.  We were on the phone only days before Christmas and I was expressing my desire not to lose myself amidst all the pressure and expectations of the holiday.   Absorbing the meaning of this simple question allowed me to relax, to unwind from my tightly coiled state of nervous anticipation, and to breathe and find the ground beneath me. It also allowed me to move through the days that followed with more grace and ease than I would have previously thought possible.

So today, in my tense, wound-up state of efforting – of trying to manage, strategize, prepare, plan and perfect – I stop and ask myself:  “Maggie, do you know that you are the gift?”  Do you know that even without “doing” anything that you are a gift to those you love, just as you are?

This truth is easy to glimpse, but easier to forget.

Thankfully, I was reminded of this question recently.  I was attending a yoga & writing retreat to help myself remember, well, myself, and to attempt to get grounded before the chaos of Christmas time.   Though I am desperate to remember and honor the truth and the spirit of the holiday season, it is difficult to stay present and not get consumed by outer-focused doing.   Having another tiny human being who demands ALL of my attention ALWAYS doesn’t help.  But it’s hard even without that, honestly.   So it takes planned and intentional moments, like this retreat, to stop and take the time and space to turn inward and get into my body to sit, reflect, write, and remember.

When it came time to write, the prompt came in the form of another poignant and well-timed question, this time from a wise woman (the group’s facilitator):

“What are the gifts that you bring the world – the ones that live inside you?”

This question, like the one so helpful to me years ago, I am receiving as a gift and a healing medicine this holiday season; to remember my own unique and innate gifts as a daily practice.

To say that it is not comfortable for me to claim my gifts confidently, out loud, is an outrageous understatement.  Our culture does not condone this.  It is not in my nature. The mere thought of it makes my skin itch from the inside out all over. And yet.  It feels vitally important somehow to break this unspoken code of conduct and do it — to transmit the gift all the way to anyone else who may want or need to receive it.

And so …

I name some of my own gifts here in the hopes that it might help you remember and celebrate your own inner gifts in this season of gift-giving.

  • I am open.  I am eager to listen compassionately and empathetically, without judgement.  I crave deep, meaningful conversation that brings light to darkened corners and possibly even allows healing to occur.  I can go deep inside the strength and source of myself to reflect back to you what I have heard you say, or what I haven’t heard.
  • I am a writer; always have been and always will be.  My relationship with stories, words, and language has been intensely intimate for as long as I can remember.  My life-long writing practice began with a diary in second grade wherein I expounded on the benefits of learning cursive, passing love notes on the bus, and the injury inflicted by being excluded at recess.  My ability to maintain the practice has ebbed and flowed over the course of my life, but it has been a constant touchstone to return to; a source of comfort and pleasure. Writing has also served as an entrance to self-reflection, healing and transformational work.  I am surprised and grateful for the revelations that occur in me when I stop long enough to reflect and write.
  • Writing is also my work, in one fashion or another.  I think this is so because I am skilled at distilling a story or an idea to its very essence and translating it into the words that best communicate that message; the story most wanting or needing to be told.
  • I can take a walk through the woods and notice things; tiny beautiful things all around me.  I may collect some of them to bring home and display on my hutch, my altar, my table to remind me of the beauty of the natural world when I am indoors, to create an opening to the calm feeling of sacred stillness that exists in me when I am in the forest.
  • I love fiercely and deeply.
  • Somehow, I find deep wells of patience in me even when pushed to my farthest edges by my dear little boy.  I can diffuse a power struggle with a song or by talking in a funny voice or growling like a tiger or by throwing myself into physical play and affection until rewarded by the most delicious peals of laughter. And sometimes I can’t – and I explode – but then apologize later.

Though I am trying to focus on my gifts, I notice how quickly feelings of shame, judgement, and inadequacy come crashing down on me as I think about those moments when I do not have the patience or compassion I wish I had as a momma.  Perhaps because those moments happen more often than I would like to admit.  However, in large part I can see that this most often occurs when my own need is so great that it is banging down the door, kicking and screaming for time to be quiet and alone — to be noticed, explored, and attended to.

So here I am attending to you, dear need, dear me; I will try to give you this gift more often in the coming year.  It feels like a precarious balancing act though, to weigh the needs of all equally.  I am trying to keep the great teeter totter of life, of marriage and motherhood, not at an equilibrium per se … but ever-moving … so that we all get to HAVE FUN.

Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Balancing it all may be the greatest work of my life. Today I am at the center, as I breathe and remember my gifts — and that even without doing anything at all — I am still the gift.

And so are you.

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2014: When Exactly Did My Baby Become a Toddler?!

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Last year was my first full year of being a momma and the expression that summed up 2013 for me, as you might remember, was:

Holyshitfuck!

DSC_0671As the close of my second year draws near, I am more seasoned and less shell-shocked. Yet, I am still reeling and confused most of the time as I find my way as a momma with no manual to guide me.

I’ve been struggling as a parent a lot lately. This transition from totally dependent, sweet but all consuming baby into an individuated, unpredictable being that wants different things than I do is…really freaking hard. And it happened so fast. When did it happen exactly???

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Over the last few weeks there have been days where Mattie refuses nearly every diaper change, clothes change, and god forbid putting on his coat, boots, hat and mittens to go outside. I have found myself avoiding leaving the house unless absolutely necessary rather than engage in this struggle.

Last week he had his first dentist appointment, which he was actually looking forward to for some time. We practiced playing dentist and talked about it a lot and he was totally into it.

Until the morning of the appointment, that is. When it was actually time to get ready to go.

He was playing happily by himself, so I got myself ready and let him know that soon it would be time to go. I tried everything in my toolbox to make the transition as smooth as possible. But when it came time that we couldn’t delay any longer, a total meltdown ensued. He screamed and cried and refused my every effort – such that I had to physically force diaper and every item of clothing onto a thrashing, sobbing child. He, meanwhile, tried to remove each item – while insisting repeatedly that I put his dirty diaper BACK ON. This painful struggle carried on as I buckled him into his car seat against his will, and then he continued to sob for the entire drive to the dentist’s office, repeatedly telling me he wanted to GO HOME!  So. Hard.

All I could do was breathe deeply and say, “I know, honey, I know. I love you.”

Somehow I managed to remain calm through all of this — approximately 30 minutes of sobbing and struggling in total. This is not true of every meltdown; more often I find myself equally frustrated and impatient, which causes me to hate myself on top of everything else.

Thankfully after entering the dentist’s office the transition to the new environment snapped him out of it. It usually does. And the visit was a success, more or less. The fact that we made it into the exam room at all was a total success in my mind, given the effort and the doubts I had about getting there at all in the midst of our sad battle.

And then?! Then for the rest of the day he was cooperative, happy, snuggly and truly delightful to be around.

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When we left the dentist’s he willingly climbed into his car seat (frequently a trigger for struggle) and was eager to join me in a trip to the grocery store. He happily ate $7 organic strawberries under the cart singing and talking to me the whole trip.

I have to say (and pardon my language), this is a total mind fuck – how these vastly different personalities exist within this same little being (who was a baby who didn’t talk, I swear, two seconds ago) – and how quickly he can flip from one to the other. I can relate to this in myself, of course, as these extremes exist within all of us. But to witness my baby transforming into this little complex person is fascinating, flabbergasting.

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Take this conversation, which took place later the same day while unloading groceries, to highlight this complexity:

Mattie: Are you happy momma?

(This was out of nowhere; I have no idea what prompted this question.)

Me: Why, yes, Mattie. I am happy right now. Are you?

Mattie: Uh-huh.

Me: Do you remember how sad you were when we left the house earlier? When you cried and cried because you didn’t want to leave the house?

Mattie: Huh. (Pause.) Uh-huh.

Then ten minutes later:

Mattie: Momma, was I crying because I didn’t want to leave the house?

Me: Yes, honey, you were.

Mattie: Why???

(Why?! Wow. I am taken aback. How to respond??)

Deep breath…

Me: I don’t know, my love. You didn’t want to leave when it was time to go. And so you got really upset.

Mattie: Huh.

”Huh”, is right…

I never know from one moment to the next if what I say, what I do, is the right thing. But I leave this conversation feeling both exasperated and like maybe, just maybe, I am doing something right after all.

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*****

And then to contrast the meltdown episode even further, this happened recently:

Mattie and I are cuddling on the couch together, looking at books. He’s nestled under my arm and I lean down to kiss his head and say, “I love you, Mattie”, like I do at least 100 times per day.

This time, however, he looks up and says, “I love you too, momma”, like it’s the most natural thing in the whole world.

Except that it isn’t.

It’s the very first time he has told me he loves me, and I melt and soak it in, hand to my tender heart.

That was a couple of weeks ago. Now he whispers it to me regularly, often saying it just like I do: “I love you so much, momma”. And each time, every time, my heart melts a little more.

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*****

This mothering stuff is so complex. It takes my breath away. Daily. One moment because I’m so frustrated and pushed to my farthest edge and the next because I’m completely overwhelmed by the swelling of love inside me I can barely stand it.

Yes, it IS a total mind fuck – which seems to be an appropriate phrase to describe my life right now, 2014, year two of motherhood.

Maybe some year soon my reflection on the year won’t feature the “F” word. (She says, hopefully.) Or, maybe (more likely?) it will continue to turn up year after year, as I muddle my way through each new phase of Mattie’s development, parenting, and life. But who am I to even venture a guess about anything the future holds?? If I can’t predict what my life will be like from one hour to the next, a whole year is certainly beyond my capacity to comprehend.

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*Photo credit to Jenn Ebbott for all photos in this post.  Thank you, Aunt Jenn!!

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.