Happy Mother

To mothers, one day consists of several mini days. By 10:30am, we’ve already lived one of them. The early morning: first milk, first meal, first diaper/clothing change, first tears, first sibling scuffle, first laughs, first enormous mess to clean up…we live lifetimes within lifetimes.

We don’t measure time by hours and minutes; for moms, there’s no “quitting time”. Our time is measured by seasons and cycles: feeding time, soothing time, quiet time, pre-nap time, nap-time (hallelujah), post-nap time, trying-not-to-yell time, making-cookies-to-make-up-for-losing-it time, is-it-too-early-for-a-glass-of-wine? time, why-aren’t-you-sleeping time, holding-sick-baby time, oh-my-God-this-child-is-magical time, and so on and so on.

Don’t ask me what day it is because I might not know. It’s slightly irrelevant.

Even when we’re away, whether it be a rest & relaxation weekend, business trip, or solo grocery shopping vacation, we’re still planning, wondering, worrying, smiling at photo memories on our phones.

An invisible umbilical cord tethers us to our young and we nourish them as they reciprocate by feeding us life, whimsy, and for every gray hair they inspire, a dozen unexplainable love/angel/star dust-filled moments where you look around and say “Oh my God did anyone just see that? Did you see what my baby said/did? If the world saw this it would bring world peace. Did anyone see that?”.

I’m always just a little bit tired. Oftentimes, I’m exhausted. I’ve never been completely done with the laundry. The floors need mopping. My youngest needs to learn more words. My eldest needs learn less words. I need to stop buying dark chocolate covered almonds and pretending like they’re a healthy snack.

The last regular period of good night sleeps I had was before my first pregnancy- when my world was my own and I still had personal space. Even when they’re silent from 7pm to 7am I still find myself staying up until 1am just to relish the silence and then waking up at 3am to make sure they’re chests are still rising and falling, life is still inside of them.

I’m an unreliable friend. Maybe I’ll call you, maybe I won’t. Ask my small supervisors. Talking on the phone with one kid trying to slap the device out of my hand and the other taking advantage of my distracted state to create a mess that will take 45 minutes to rectify makes conversations with the outside world an inconvenient novelty. Maybe I’ll see you, maybe I won’t. If by some miracle I have an $11-12/hour babysitter, have completed my work for the day, have cleaned up the disaster created in my home from a days worth of kid-rearing (check out the disturbing amounts of food on the kitchen floor- that’s just from dinner), and have the energy to remove myself from my bed after the kids are down, let’s do something.

At times I want to flush both of my children down the toilet. Other times, I feel close to tears at the realization that we only have 60 or so years left on Earth together. And only if everything goes right. Sometimes I hide from them in my own home, as if they’re little squeaky-voiced intruders with toys in their greedy fists instead of guns and knives. At other times I squeeze them so tightly and for so long that they wrestle their chubby bodies out of my grip, gasping for air (”Where are you going? Mommy isn’t done!”).

But I can’t just be a mother. I’m a lover, friend, sister, cousin…expectations pull me in all directions and all the while my mommy badge stays on. So I ask myself: “What’s the difference between a martyr and a queen?”

Both serve. They both give of themselves. They’ll both eventually die. They’re both worshiped.

But the queen has released her need for angst. She knows that she can inspire others with joy as much as she can with fear. She can enter her own castle while still on this Earth and is not at all shy or modest about the massive, glittering crown atop her head. In some sort of quantum farming experience, she enjoys the harvest while planting it. She fertilizes her plants with her laughter and faith, not her body. For the Queen, time collapses on itself and the suffering and celebration of life are united. And her shoes are better.

The queen and the mother exist inside of all women, motherhood of course intensifies their roles. Every moment, we former girls, now women, have to choose which lady gets the pedestal. Our daughters and sons are watching.

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This entry was posted on Friday, March 18th, 2011 at 8:17 am and is filed under Inspiration, Mothering. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.