Picking My Battles

This is what happens when I ask my husband to entertain our child for 20 minutes.

22 months

Dear Sophia,

I now know why every parent I know complains about being a parent. It is effing hard. I am not going to sit here and say how much I love it and how much I was meant to do it, because that is just going to make every mother that reads this cry harder when they are alone tonight. With this letter I am already breaking the most important rule of mothering: only talk about how hard it is after periods of desperate alcohol consumption. That is when the truth comes out in loud, sloppy ways.

The thing is, I love you so completely that I would never, ever choose another life path. That basically sums it up. I am so lucky and so tired.

At 22 months, you have learned how to speak in full sentences, how to count to 13, how to identify all colors and every letter in the alphabet. You have learned how to be beside-yourself happy and horribly crabby in the same minute. You have also mastered the art of making me crazy by whining at my feet and pulling on whatever clothing you can reach. You know the scenes in horror films before the murderer is about to snap and the picture gets all kaleidoscope focused with a kind of nails-on-the-chalkboard background music? That is so what I feel like about 300 times a day.

The other day you were playing with candles as toys. (UNLIT candles, Internets...Jeez, I haven't lost it that much!) You grabbed one like it was your baby and declared, "Mine!" Then I handed you another one, and said "Here is another one, now what that you have two?" To this you replied, "Mines!"
It is this type of intelligence display that makes me think I will never be able to relax again.

Of course, some times you use your smarts to be sweet. Last night as I was pouring your bath, I quickly changed into a nightgown that is a bit flirty, even if I did buy it at a Wal-Mart in Clemson, SC over a decade ago. The typical bedtime attire that you are used to seeing involves a wine-stained race T-shirt and pants that declare "Housework is Evil" all over them in playful lettering. You quickly reacted to the nightgown with wide eyes and shouted, "Mommy cute!"
I was so touched. After checking me out for a moment you decided I deserved a hug, which is so rare these days as you learn to love independence. As I bent down for the tiny embrace, it occurred to me that this was your way of saying, wow, congrats on the momentary emergence from frumpiness, lady.

Thank you, baby. I try.

Love,
Mom

Mid-Summer

Lindsay lifted her foot out of the watery blue from where she sat on the edge and let it drip. The sound made her have to pee, but she couldn't possibly get up and go. She would have to remove her three-year old from the pool, which would result in a wailing armful of kicking and shoving. She just crossed her legs and gazed at Hanna who was dumping bucketfuls of water on the pavement. Lindsay pretended not to notice the lifeguard's frustrated stare, and honed in on the conversation of two moms sitting across the square, shallow pool. They were both propped up on their elbows, legs outstretched into the water. Their floppy canvas hats didn't hide the fact that they had already been in the sun too much that spring. One of the women forcibly laughed as she said something about "Mike" and "never letting her do that." Lindsay could hear them clearly but kept tuning out to attend to her own thoughts.
Did they wonder if she was listening? Were they glad they were not her, remembering a time when every day was an awkward attempt to fill the minutes of a toddler's life?
They had no children to watch after in the water, but Lindsay suspected that a couple of lanky boys running around the grassy area were theirs. Hanna would look up and watch them at length, her tiny face registering the potential value of a playmate.
Lindsay pursed her lips into a sad smile, realizing that she was a partner in loneliness with her tiny girl.

Eureka

The other night after a bottle of wine I decided that I really loved being a mom. Today, I still feel that way. Seriously.

It is the only job that makes me smile as much as it makes me cry. One for one. You just can't get that sort of return anywhere else.

Confession

Catholic teaching often states that there can be no reconciliation without confession. I am apt to think that this is just a way for a bored priest to hear juicy gossip. If God knows my heart, if God IS my heart, then why verbalize a confession to someone else? Fear is the only sin anyway, and all sin-like actions and thoughts are born out of fear. But today, thanks to Patti Digh once again, I not only have found words to express what fear does to my soul when I let it in, but I am now aware of another poet who is going to require at least a day of Internet stalking.
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These words are from the poem "A Purification" by Wendell Berry:

To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck;
have listened to too much noise:
have been inattentive to wonders;
have lusted after praise.
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Forgive me.

Spring, we need you

Our family of three ventured to an upscale bookstore with an extensive play area on Sunday to get out of the house. Cabin fever is making us all certifiable by now. At the bookstore there was this wonderful display of stuffed Audubon bird toys that made authentic chirping noises. We stood there mesmerized for a couple of minutes, desperately squeezing the toys to hear the sounds that we have not heard in months. It was so pleasurable, that I actually thought about snorting one of the birds. Then I picked up The American Crow and gave it a squeeze, when it occurred to me that in Cleveland we do hear the American Crow occasionally throughout the winter.

"Ug. That sound is so depressing! Why is that sound so depressing to me?" I threw it back on the pile.

My husband shrugged and sighed, "Because it is a sound that that makes you think that there is a rotting corpse nearby."