(by Stacey of Is There Any Mommy Out There?)

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I expect it to be like a cloud. That moment of walking in the door.
A gold-tinged cloud scented orange with an undertone of cinnamon. It’s more like hitting a wall of thin arms and loud reedy voices, their smiles bright, their garbled tales spilled at my feet like slippery fish from a basket. I am surrounded by noise where I anticipated hugs set to the flicker of a silent movie.

The baby is up. Quiet time is over. It’s time for snack. They played in a tent. Do I want a cookie? That one is hopeful. They made cookies with Daddy. Might they perhaps, if I wanted one, have a cookie too?

My brain is frozen, shocked and sluggish, like the marble-eyed deer we nearly hit three nights ago on our wild escape through Palouse hill country into the night. Why oh why does it smell like fish?

It is one of those things they don’t tell you about motherhood. This matter of going away and coming back again. Or maybe, to be fair, it is one of those things that can not be taught. Like child birth and that instinct that tells you this fever is serious and not like all the others, this can not be explained before it is experienced.

It’s not that you miss them. Or maybe that’s just me – I might be odd in that respect, though I doubt that I am alone. Three years into sharing my thoughts on mothering this way, I believe firmly that I am never alone. There is always someone out there searching for this nugget, this truth, this strange fossil of a thing that they find buried in themselves and that they are glad to see someone else hold up to the light and turn around, curious. Will you look at this? Isn’t that odd? Look at how the shell turns back on itself. A new creature entirely.

{by Heather Westberg King}

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He has asked so many questions that don’t have answers and I’m just so tired. I ask him to help his brother. I say, “He’s going to get hurt, can you help him?” He asks, “Why will he get hurt?” I answer through gritted teeth, “He just will! Just help him!” Then he sighs and his big blue eyes look sad and I wish I could find the strength for more patience and less surprising anger.

When I walk into my room to get dressed, I pass the crumpled bed and want to get in it. I want to curl up on my side and cry. I’m not sure why, but I want to do it. I start to walk that way and then I see her, the me in my mind’s eye, on her side in the bed where I am not. She looks like she’s repeating history. She is carrying this disease and she thinks she isn’t and then sometimes she thinks she is this disease. She is me and I am her and she is them and she is not.

She is so afraid that she’s given it to them.

I know that if I were to walk in and find her curled there, I’d think she should get up. I’d think she should shake it off. It’s not her fault she’s there, but she needs to get up, I’d say. Then I’d wonder if some of it is her fault, because I know memories of ridiculous choices can flood in and bring with them the funk, curling her up.

So I get dressed. I wash my face of yesterday’s make-up and I put one foot in front of the other to make sure that I’m not her or them or her past. I fight it because I know that when I do, it gets a little better.

I fake it sometimes, but strangely, most of the time I’m truly reveling in the buried joy. The miraculous happiness that comes through the eyes of my boys. We make a hide-out in a closet and they are thrilled with their flashlights in the dark. I well up with joy because they are who they are and I believe we can change this. Even if it doesn’t stop, it can be lighter, it can get better. Even if they feel it, they can learn that it doesn’t define them. I will tell them. They can learn from the truths we speak over them…

{by Christine Green}

I was a feather of a girl for a while there. I could stand on my head in the middle of the living room floor for what seemed like hours. My mother would peer at me from the kitchen nervous that I would fall, but she did not scold or ask me to be sensible. She simply let me be.

She knew, I think, that those days were fleeting. She knew that someday the weight of many responsibilities would sit on my shoulders and my easy lightness would be replaced by a heaviness that would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

I’ve tried now, cautiously when no one was around, to spend some time upside down again. But I can barely lift my legs into the air, and my feet feel like lead weights. I’ve tried, too, in yoga class with plenty of prep and lots of help from the instructor, but I always freeze up. Fear washes over me and I convince myself that I will fall and break a leg or embarrass myself in front of the entire class. So I quietly move on to something else: a nice, firm warrior pose or a quiet, safe child’s pose.

But I see the others do it and wonder at the ease with which they seem to turn their world topsy turvey even for a second or two. I see them and I remember those sunny childhood afternoons I spent with my feet in the air and my heart easy. There was no fear, just action, as I swung my legs upwards toward the clouds. Then there was a calm while I watched the world pass crazily by as I stood on my head, motionless and quiet.

My son seems to be taking after me these days and spends inordinate amounts of time with his feet above his head. I watch him as he hangs upended on the couch, his small, perfect feet drumming a rhythm on the wall as he watches Scooby-Doo, and I envy the carefree flexibility of both his body and spirit.

I should, like my mother before me, let him be. I should let him hang there upside down among the cushions where he is happy, free, light. But I feel compelled to turn him right side up, tell him to stop before he gets hurt.

{by Amy Whitley}

It’s staying light a bit longer each day, but we still have a long way to go until spring. I can tell because I still have to switch my car headlights on driving the kids home from the karate studio or the soccer fields, still have to flip the porch light before calling them in from the neighborhood streets. In another lifetime (which wasn’t too long ago), I’d sit out these winter evenings indoors, the kids too young for unsupervised neighborhood roaming, my own motherhood too new to risk a public toddler meltdown or unscheduled nap after nightfall. From my watch at the kitchen window, the sun would disappear behind the city long before dinner was served, and something heavy and panicky would rise in my chest and sink in my belly as the outside darkness closed over me like a blanket, locking me into a fate of 5 pm until 7 pm with only my babies for company.

It would have been so easy to switch on Backyardigans and switch off myself, but most days, we resisted the lure of the TV. Instead, I’d play cars on the mat in the boys’ yellow-walled room, listening to the vrooom-vroooom vibrating against their lips, then to the bubbles blown in the bath, the run of the water from the faucet as they brushed their tiny, pearly teeth. I’d find Hidden Pictures, change diapers, press playdough between my hands. I’d pause to find blankies and binkies before scraping the dinner dishes and setting them on the sideboard to dry.

We were on our own most evenings back then, my husband needing to work late every weeknight, every weekend. (I still can’t believe we ever got used to that, but we did.) As the clock inched toward 7 pm, I’d finish the forgotten loads of laundry on the bed, each t-shirt and burp cloth and OshKosh overall cooled and wrinkled in the heap. The blackened windows would reflect my face—too tired for my twenties—and I’d wonder how to make it another hour. Another twenty minutes. Another ten.

{by Aidan Donnelley Rowley}

It is one of those moments. I am curled up in a bed not my own. Wrapped sloppily in scratchy wool. On my left side. It is late morning. The girls are outside playing with their father. Looking for hippos and dinosaurs. Making believe. Being kids.

And I am here. There. Resting. Because I am tired, so tired. And it’s quiet, so quiet, too quiet. In the distance, I hear the growl of a washing machine, the clanking of pots, the dragging of something big. But mostly? I hear the buzz of being alone.

An avalanche of anxiety. I think of all the things I must do and haven’t done. In the next two months. In my lifetime. I think of the sadness, sweet and stubborn, that lurks in the ale of adulthood; the pearly mist of melancholy we see and feel once we stop pretending. I think of my friend and the unthinkable tragedy she and her family suffered on Christmas day. On Christmas day.

I lie here. There. Body motionless, mind whirring with wonder and dread and, finally, some improbable and exquisite peace. I feel a kick. A thump. A something. Bold and strong and full of life. Just next to my belly button, that spot, small and centered, hidden so well. Beneath clothes and blankets and the most ferocious of fear. I reach my hand under the layers, real and imagined, splay my fingers wide and rest them there. I wait for more. For another movement. Another reminder. Another something.

And it comes. And here, there, alone, never alone, I smile to myself. And words come, a slow trickle, a silent stream.

Everything will be okay.

{By Tanis from Attack of the Redneck Mommy}

My child recently had to write an essay about the hardest thing he ever had to do. For him, it seems to be trying to keep his damn room clean. It’s mission impossible for a twelve year old sloth I tell you.

But this essay inspired a conversation between us that I have long since been thinking about. He asked me what the hardest thing I ever had to do was.

I didn’t know how to answer him.

What does hard really mean? Gestating and giving birth to three rabid badgers who tore my insides out was hard.

Coming home with a disabled baby no one expected or prepared for was hard.

Trying to explain to people why my beautiful son never smiled was hard.

Spending endless nights, months on end, staring at a boy in a crib in a hospital and wondering if my family would ever be whole and under one roof together was hard. Dealing with one doctor after another in a never ending series of medical emergencies was hard.

Missing field trips and precious moments with my older two children because I had to be with their younger sibling was hard.

Driving alone, in the middle of the night, with a dying child in the back seat of my car was hard.

Looking into my husband’s eyes when he arrived at the hospital and having to find the words to tell him I failed him and our son, was hard. Phoning our family to tell them our boy had died, was hard.

Walking out of the emergency room with nothing but a plastic bag of a dead boy’s belongings was hard.

Mustering up the courage to walk into my childrens rooms, sit them down as their father stood behind me weeping, to tell them their brother died in the middle of the night and they would never have another opportunity to hug him was hard.

Seeing the mound of dirt heaped upon where my boy’s body lie and having to walk away from that boy for the last time, was hard.

Hard doesn’t seem adequate enough.

{by TKW of The Kitchen Witch}

Three weeks before her third birthday, Miss D. starts seeing monsters. My fierce warrior child, who fears nothing, now cowers in corners and under covers. Monsters usually appear around 3am. I wake with my heart pounding in my throat, hot with the strength of her scream.

“Monsters! Help me Mommy! I scared!”

I fumble for lights, footing and child simultaneously in the night and realize that I’m just as scared as she is.

**

I was almost in my third trimester with Miss D. when the newspaper was late. This drives my part-German self crazy. I need coffee and the paper to make me human in the morning; without them I am foul. Sourly, I resorted to the television. Mornings suck hard enough without some perky anchor with teeth too good to be true telling you what traffic’s like Out There.

I flicked the screen on just in time to see the second tower of The World Trade Center descend into rubble and smoke.

I thought it was a joke at first, or some weird movie stunt. Everybody did. You just don’t believe things like that can happen, particularly if you’re my age and have missed most of the good tragedies like JFK and World Wars and even Lennon, who I was too little to know.

I spent the rest of September 11 like most Americans did, grotesquely tuned-in. I channel-surfed maniacally, looking for answers or truth or the latest horrible picture, but it was a one-handed quest. The other hand was glued to my swollen belly,and I remember looking down at it and and thinking, “What on Earth have I done?”

{by Heather, of the former Queen of Shake-Shake}

Last Friday was Field Day at the boys’ school. Two hours each of Go-Fish, bouncy houses and terrible carnival-type food. Ages seven and nine now, Payton & Parker don’t need me there. They run off and leave me as soon as we get to the field. I’m simply there to hold their drinks, trinkets, and sand art jars. This is perfect because just the other day my arms and hands were telling me how very bored they were. Thanks goodness I had children so I would have random shit to hold for approximately 18 years!

So while I stood around like some kind of humanoid storage facility, I chatted with other moms who also resembled humanoid storage facilities. I was introduced to another 3rd grade mom and I have such awesome social skills that I couldn’t remember her name 30 seconds later. But this nameless mom said something I found very interesting….

“Isn’t it funny how the kids will be friends with one person this week, or for a month, and then someone else will be their best friend the next week? Kids are just so funny that way!”

They are?

They do?

Is this what “normal” kids do to friends? Shit, and they think my kid is weird? That’s rich.

Neither of my boys do that, even my very typical Parker, so maybe it’s girls? Or the future generation of shallow backstabbers?

I think of Parker and his favorite playmate. He’s been the favorite since they were, I don’t know, three? Four? When they were placed in separate 1st grade classes (after pre-K & kindergarten together) I thought surely Parker would move on to another “best” friend. He’s just so social, after all.

Not so, though he does have other more casual friendships. They still play together every day at P.E. and Parker is very worried they won’t have class or P.E. together next year.

I think of Payton and his one best friend. They’ve been close for three years now. Of course, Payton is my kid who could possibly be called “socially delayed,” but shit, the other kids flutter friend to friend, week to week. I don’t know, it seems my kid actually knows more about quality of friendship over quantity. Who’s delayed again?

_____________________________________________________________

Two hours earlier

I’m in between Parker’s field day time slot and Payton’s, waiting in Payton’s classroom as they prepare to go outside.

I don’t know what it is, but every time I come into Payton’s classroom there are three girls who gravitate towards me. Maybe it’s my hair. Or my cookies. Do I permanently smell like home-baked cookies? I can’t figure out why I’m like a magnet to these girls. I don’t think I exude liking for other people’s kids.

Of course, Payton’s best friend is in this group. We shall give her the blog name Macy.

As soon as I find a seat in his room, I’m overwhelmed by Payton and his scientific questions. As usual. He sees me, throws his hands in the air, yells “MOM!” and then shoves a nonfiction book in my face. This is how he greets me nine times out of ten. (Just so you know, the tenth time is a very unexcited and distracted “hi. Apparently if I’m not good for shoving a book in my face, I’m not that important.”)

With Parker, it’s “Mama!” and smiles and sweet, little boy hugs. But with Payton, it’s “Mom!” with hands in the air (sometimes jumping is included), science book in the face, and serious queries only.

Friday’s question was whether you pronounce the Tachina Fly as ta-key-na or ta-chi-na.

{Originally published on Velveteen Mind}

When we finally decided that we were done having babies (you know, before we found out that we were pregnant with our third. ahem.), I spent some time mourning the little baby girl that I would never have. Mourning is the best way I can describe it because it truly did feel like a loss.

I am a girl. That’s fairly obvious given the creation of babies in ze belly, but I’m not a girly-girl. Perhaps the girliest thing about me is that I have always wanted to have a girl. I’ve always had those little baby daughter fantasies.

Before we find out if this new baby is a girl or a boy, either of which I would be thrilled about (well, thrilled if it’s a boy, thrilled and terrified if it’s a girl), I feel like this is my last chance to capture these “what if it’s a girl/what if I never have a girl” feelings.

A few months before I found out about our new baby, I was watching a movie that included a scene of a mother and small daughter taking a bubble bath together. With no warning, I found myself crying. The feminine tenderness of the image knocked around within an empty spot in my heart and left me breathless. I wanted that and had decided that I would no longer pursue it. Happily decided so, with no less than a heaping helping of relief, but it was a loss nonetheless.

We all give up on certain dreams throughout our lives, often for sound reasons, but we mourn the loss of their warm glow just the same. These dreams that have kept us company and occupied a bit of our imagination for so many years. For me, it was the image of my dream daughter peeking around corners of my mind any time I would see a little girl that reminded me of her.

My daughter. The one that exists in my mind has long dark, curly hair. Her eyes are almond-shaped and deep brown. Her skin is the olive of her father’s. She is the one child of my three that looks more Lebanese than Irish. Who would have ever imagined that my Irish genes would put the beat-down on my husband’s Lebanese stronghold?

She is the mysterious princess that might not fit in quite so well while growing up but that all of the boys will clamor for when she grows into her own. She is a woman beyond her years from the moment she is born, yet full of mischief and light.

I celebrate my daughter.

{Originally Published on Classy Chaos}

Naturally as a mother, my ultimate goal is to raise happy, confident and loving children. However as an immigrant in this country, I desire more.

This desire. This hungry for more is a common thread between many immigrant experiences. Library shelves are full of fascinating written words ranging from Japanese-Americans assimilating into the vineyards of California to the Mexican migrant workers surviving droughts in Texas to the Jewish people building an empire with their hands in the early years of NYC. The mothers in these carefully crafted histories did more for their children then just basic mothering.

They came to America for a better life. Leaving behind all the hardships in their homelands for a chance to conquer all the opportunities in a free world. They witnessed living in countries where success was measured by the entree served for dinner instead of by experience and education. Immigrant mothers grew hungry for more, taking nothing for granted.

There’s a valid reason why I can not really identify with any references made to Saturday morning cartoons from the 80′s. I remember the scent of my mother’s hair as she knelt down before me and repeated in a heavy Polish accent, “I did not come to this country for you to sit and watch TV.” Minutes in front of the TV innocently robbed us from essential backyard free play, from extravagant vacations to Machu Picchu, from endless summer fun at the community pool and from rhythmic gymnastics competitions. TV and video games deferred us from my mother’s desire for a better life. “We are different. You are different.” She repeated my entire life each time I begged to go to the mall or asked to watch The Wonder Years, yearning to become more American like my peers.

Richard Rodriguez’s acclaimed autobiography Hunger for Memory set a nationwide debate some years ago by addressing, “If Richard Rodriguez could succeed given his obstacles, why can’t everyone else?”

His success came from his desire for more. His hunger. That motivated him. I do believe that those factors are a result from his immigrant experience as he witnessed the hardships of the community first hand. Of course you don’t need to be an immigrant to experience hardships and to have desire/motivation for more. Although. Had Rodriguez been born into third generation Latinos his life might have been different on a more stable and paved journey through life. It’s difficult for educated immigrants to watch life in America pass them by; instead, they leap at every available opportunity within their sight.