Because even though I’m stretched too thin, I know that if I reach my hands a little farther, I will grab the hands of my friends and family, who always grab my hands back with love and understanding. They tell me: it is ok to feel this way. It’s ok to be anxious, short-tempered, and overwhelmed.
As I think about tomorrow and his birthday, I again find myself asking what to wish for. Do I wish to remember everything about him, even though it is so hard, knowing he’s not here? I do. I wish for that. Because the alternative, to not go through that pain of remembering? That is to forget or disregard everything about him that was funny, loving, and wonderful. I will wish to remember all those little things that made him great, and I will wish that my kids will know those things as well, even if they don’t actually remember him.
n that moment, I thought about how my kids love every last bit of me. They love their impatient, frustrated mama who sometimes yells too much. They love their mama who tells them no and enforces rules. They love their mama who tells them “time for bed!” even though they want to play a little longer.
They don’t want a more organized mom. Or a more patient mom. Or a mom who never yells. They don’t want another mom, period.
And then I noticed the first carseat. The carseat cover had been pulled back and there were bits of crumbled Styrofoam all over the seat. I looked back to the other three carseats (yep, so many kids), and two of those were the same.
Who or what had gotten into the van?
I backed up from the van, still puzzled, when I saw little paw prints all over the window. And then it hit me like the smell of one of those forgotten sippy cups of milk.
I remember the first time it happened. It was a quiet, icy morning in Washington, D.C. in 2008, and we were driving home from the hospital with our brand new baby girl. Our first baby girl. The trees, the sky, the streets all looked the exact same as they had two days before. But for me, the world had shifted on its axis. Suddenly, I was someone’s mom, which was surreal and overwhelming. I knew who I was as an attorney, a wife, a sister. But as a mother?
In the last few years, two moms have given me advice that I’ve never forgotten. Their advice was simple but profound: there will be time for that later, and you’ll know it when it happens.
In one of my favorite Coldplay songs, Chris Martin sings: “and the hardest part, is letting go, not taking part, it’s the hardest part.” Oh, Chris Martin. You get me, you really get me. Did you plan for those lyrics to perfectly describe what it’s like to parent a tween?
To my surprise, my Mom replied: “oh, he wants tricks? We’ll give him tricks!” (I want to say she cackled there but maybe that’s just my memory embellishing this story a bit.)
Ten years into parenting, I sometimes feel like I know less now than ever before. And that got me thinking, what do I know for sure about parenting? What do I know for sure about being a mom? Here’s what I’ve got:
Because even though I’m stretched too thin, I know that if I reach my hands a little farther, I will grab the hands of my friends and family, who always grab my hands back with love and understanding. They tell me: it is ok to feel this way. It’s ok to be anxious, short-tempered, and overwhelmed.
As I think about tomorrow and his birthday, I again find myself asking what to wish for. Do I wish to remember everything about him, even though it is so hard, knowing he’s not here? I do. I wish for that. Because the alternative, to not go through that pain of remembering? That is to forget or disregard everything about him that was funny, loving, and wonderful. I will wish to remember all those little things that made him great, and I will wish that my kids will know those things as well, even if they don’t actually remember him.
n that moment, I thought about how my kids love every last bit of me. They love their impatient, frustrated mama who sometimes yells too much. They love their mama who tells them no and enforces rules. They love their mama who tells them “time for bed!” even though they want to play a little longer.
They don’t want a more organized mom. Or a more patient mom. Or a mom who never yells. They don’t want another mom, period.
They want me, as I am. All of me.
And then I noticed the first carseat. The carseat cover had been pulled back and there were bits of crumbled Styrofoam all over the seat. I looked back to the other three carseats (yep, so many kids), and two of those were the same.
Who or what had gotten into the van?
I backed up from the van, still puzzled, when I saw little paw prints all over the window. And then it hit me like the smell of one of those forgotten sippy cups of milk.
I remember the first time it happened. It was a quiet, icy morning in Washington, D.C. in 2008, and we were driving home from the hospital with our brand new baby girl. Our first baby girl. The trees, the sky, the streets all looked the exact same as they had two days before. But for me, the world had shifted on its axis. Suddenly, I was someone’s mom, which was surreal and overwhelming. I knew who I was as an attorney, a wife, a sister. But as a mother?
In the last few years, two moms have given me advice that I’ve never forgotten. Their advice was simple but profound: there will be time for that later, and you’ll know it when it happens.
In one of my favorite Coldplay songs, Chris Martin sings: “and the hardest part, is letting go, not taking part, it’s the hardest part.” Oh, Chris Martin. You get me, you really get me. Did you plan for those lyrics to perfectly describe what it’s like to parent a tween?
To my surprise, my Mom replied: “oh, he wants tricks? We’ll give him tricks!” (I want to say she cackled there but maybe that’s just my memory embellishing this story a bit.)
Ten years into parenting, I sometimes feel like I know less now than ever before. And that got me thinking, what do I know for sure about parenting? What do I know for sure about being a mom? Here’s what I’ve got:
Love is not a victory march. Love is showing up, day in and day out, even when you want to give up. Even when there’s nothing left to give.