21 years ago today, everything changed for me. A beautiful, enchanting creature came into my life and I suddenly became responsible for someone other than myself. I was only 21 at the time. I had no idea what I was doing. I still don't. I do know that there has been nothing more difficult, magnificent, complex, agonizing, rewarding, daunting or awe-inspiring than these years. I know that I became the person I am through trying to navigate the often tumultuous, sometimes placid, always challenging waters of parenthood. Half a lifetime ago, I became a person who learned to: * Be a safe place at a time when I never felt more vulnerable * Hold back my own choked sobs while desperately trying to soothe another * Put the needs of someone else so far ahead, that hers became mine * Feign knowledge. And patience. And strength. * Calm fears with a serenity I seldom felt * Feel every heartache, every victory, every anguish of someone else more keenly than I felt my own * Long for the right words to say, but make due with all the wrong ones * Know that giving up was never an option, even when it's all I wanted to do And because of it all my life is richer. Fuller. More miraculous and amazing than I ever imagined was possible. I got someone who loves me for my insufficiencies, my weaknesses, my failings. Who believes in me as much as I believe in her. Happy birthday, Fantasia. Happy birthday to the girl who changed my world. No gift I could offer could compare to what you have given to me.
Life is fleeting. Death, a certainty. Each of us is but a single one of hundreds of billions who have lived, are living, or will someday live on Earth. Knowing this, then, is there anything we can really do to leave the world a better place? To make it greater than it would have been without us? To truly have an influence that makes a difference? I believe we can. And I think we do it through the way we love. Through a commitment to care. To nurture. To comfort. To provide rescue, relief and reprieve. To serve without judging. To give freely and generously with no expectation of return. This alone, like the flapping of a butterfly's wings or a stone dropped in a pond, creates the breath of a breeze; ripples that reverberate beyond what we can measure. This is how the world is changed.
My oldest daughter lost her beautiful Gramma 'Rina last month. It was too soon. She was far too young. Her time on Earth cut tragically short. There was surely more she had to give. To do. To be. People left to touch. Journeys left to travel.
But while she lived, she loved with her whole heart. With a ferocity far greater than her tiny stature. With a zeal and a power that almost overwhelmed. She loved and she gave. She brought laughter and light to all who knew her. She inspired. She elevated. She transformed. She left behind family and friends who are shocked and shaken, despaired and anguished. Sisters, children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews and more who will feel the void she left each and every day. My daughter is one of those people. I am one of those people. But I will take comfort in the fact that Marina made a difference. In my life and in the lives of countless others. She lived. She loved. And the world was changed.
That glimmer up ahead? It's the light. The kind of light they all talk about. No, not the go-into-the-light-Carol-Anne creepy kind. The good kind. The kind that makes you think that maybe you ARE actually in a tunnel, albeit a long one, and it's not a cave after all. That kind of light. The kind that, even though it is just a glimmer, feels brighter and sweeter and warmer than you ever thought possible. The kind that appears after the storm of life-changing fears. And challenges. And monumental failures. And successes that still felt like failures. And learning things about yourself that you would have been perfectly content to never know. Some things that amazed you. And some that were so ugly they made you shudder. The kind that twinkles after dark, sleepless nights and anxiety ridden days. After knowing you cannot possibly get through another year of making dinner and mortgage payments out of nothing at all. After you forever bid a heartbreaking farewell to the dream of one day being a stay-at-home part-time author/part-time Pilates instructor/cookie baking/immaculate-house-having wonder woman. And delve into the nightmare where the burden of supporting your children financially and helping them with homework and getting them where they need to go and still having the energy to be their mommy becomes just a little too onerous to carry. The kind of light that sparkles after you spent so much time second, third, and fifteenth-guessing yourself. And thinking maybe you should have just sucked it up and taken 18 credits this summer and graduated in August. Even while acknowledging that it probably would have {literally} killed you dead. And may not have even made a difference. The kind that beams brilliantly when you land the perfect job. After a two and a half month long application process. Which gave you plenty of time to go from confidence to humility to certainty to self-doubt to worry to complacency a million times over. After two nerve-wracking interviews almost a month apart. {The second one, in front of a panel, being the one where you may or may not have compared yourself to the Karate Kid.} That kind of light. Where your future, which is unquestionably still fuzzy, becomes just a little less blurry. A little more defined. And for a minute you get to take a deep breath. Knowing that while you're not quite sure working full-time in the summer while your children run lord-of-the-flies-style wild at home is going to be ideal...you at least know that you won't run out of milk, and toilet paper, and laundry detergent. Knowing that this job, teaching a student success course, will be challenging and different. But also awesome and rewarding. And that because of the things {both marvelous and unattractive} that you have learned about yourself in your life thus far, you know that you can pull it off. And maybe even be great. Which leaves you feeling overwhelmed with gratitude and super enthusiastic and maybe a tiny bit anxious. Which was articulated brilliantly by Oscar Choi (played by the always fabulous Own Wilson) in the immortal film Armageddon:
I got that "excited/scared" feeling. Like 98% excited, 2% scared.
Or maybe it's more - It could be two - it could be 98% scared, 2% excited but that's what makes it so intense, it's so - confused. I can't really figure it out.
I can't quite figure it out either. But whichever it is...3, 2, 1...liftoff.
I'm not a big fan of the memes. (And still not 100% sure how to pronounce it...mee-mees? mems? may-mays?) They are too-oft repeated, misspell words, reek of supposed-to-be-inspiring cheesiness or just aren't as funny as they think they are. Sometimes all of the above. But every now and then, I come across one that resonates. And has the power to stop me in my tracks. (And unless your name is both Ben AND Jerry, that takes some doing. Let me tell you.) Like this one:
This one made me stop my scrolling. Past recipes I will never attempt. Past workout clips I couldn't attempt if I wanted to. Past "please copy and paste this status"es I will never understand. Past politics I don't want to see. Past pictures of friends I do want to see. Past sad things. Past funny things. Past all of it. Simply stop. And reflect. Because this is me. This is the me of the last two years. Buried. Under monumental stress. Under feelings of failure. Under mountains of sadness and hopelessness I have no right to feel. Under unshed tears. Under the crushing weight of very real fear. Under an unwillingness to relinquish control over circumstances I have absolutely no control over. Buried. And it does indeed feel dark. And lonely. And, admittedly, a little silly. And self-indulgent. Because I know that I am blessed. With so, SO very much. I know. But knowing and feeling are so different. And I can't get my heart to line up with my head. And I've been trying. I really have. Trying to find the happiness and gratitude that I know I should feel. Trying to look for bright sides and silver linings and tender mercies. But still ultimately feeling very, very buried. But chances are that I am not. I am not buried and forgotten. Chances are that darkness is not an inevitability. That buried is not my final destination. Chances are that I am supposed to BE more. To bask in light. To grow and maybe even thrive. And it's hard. This becoming. This growing. And it hurts like hell. BUT...in order to grow into something glorious and useful, a seed has to first spend some time in the deep dark soil. It has to wallow in seemingly endless deluges of water. And ultimately, it has to rip apart. Split completely open. That can't feel very good either. But it submits. Because it knows that it is destined to be so much more than just a seed.
After a lifetime (okay, okay. I exaggerate...only HALF a lifetime) of finding chapstick, lipgloss, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, Barbie shoes, and more chapstick in the washer (if I'm lucky) or dryer (yes, usually here.) I have spent the last few years finding decidedly different objects in the laundry. Rocks, cars, candy, bits of asphalt, Legos, handfuls of dandelions. Oh, and here's a new one...tampons. Well, technically just the applicators. (Yes, unused ones. Don't be disgusting.) I know you're thinking: Geez lady! Check the pockets once in a while, why don't you? To which I would tell you: I do. Every single time I do laundry. But I am, at this point, convinced that there is a secret invisible-to-moms pocket...maybe even portal, in all kids clothing. This portal is used to hide items that will undoubtedly cause destruction to clothing. And also to suck up socks. One from each pair. Why? you ask. Why tampon applicators? Well, this is the very same question I posed to my 6-year old son. Why? His reply? They look like bullets. I found that I have no words for this. But this is often the case when you have a son after fourteen years of all daughters. There are just no words. And there are a few select things I've dealt with over the last few years that I have never dealt with before as a mother. And I've dealt with a lot. For example:
Having a child that pees in places that are not the toilet. Like the floor. Or the trash can. Or the grass. Or the bushes. Or the driveway. Or my shoes.
Having a child that asks me regularly, "Can I punch you in the face?" Followed by, "Just kidding mom. I love you. I'll ask dad if I can punch him."
Having a child who likes to lick things that aren't food. The walls. The table. Grocery store carts. His sister's feet. The more it grosses me out, the funnier he thinks it is.
Having a child who is obsessed with boogers. He picks them. He wipes them on walls and counters and hand towels and sisters. He even tried to feed one to his dad. So. Gross. (But better him than me. That's what I always say.)
Having a kid who pantses (depants? unpants?) his friends at recess. In kindergarten. I gotta admit, after the multiple meltdowns of getting him to preschool last year this one was not even on my radar. I was so worried about him just being ok and not sad. Turns out that not only is he not sad, he likes showing people underwear. His own. Other people's. He's equal opportunity that way. He also likes to call people "terrible words about private body parts that we do not talk about in school" (according to his teacher.) I never thought I'd be so relieved to hear that my kid called someone else a butthole. I know. Not a nice word. But I've heard worse from him. Judge me if you must.
Having a child who thinks he's a ninja. Always. He wants to get dressed like a ninja. Eat like a ninja. Go to bed like a ninja. Get in the car like a ninja. I'm pretty sure real ninjas don't kick and punch when they are doing these things. But he does.
Having a child who wants me to do literally everything for him. Get him dressed. Get him undressed. Brush his teeth. Dish up his plate. Buckle his seatbelt. Turn on the TV. All things he is quite capable of doing himself. He even went through a phase where he would engage the childlock on his car door. Because he didn't want to open it and get out himself. He wanted mommy to do it. It's like having a second tiny husband.
Having a child who sleeps with his hand down his pants. (See second tiny husband above.)
Having a child who puts holes in his jeans like they were made of paper. PAPER! I was warned about this one, but seriously, it's insane. He has put holes in at least 8 pairs of jeans since school started. Always in the left knee. That must be his ninja-kick leg.
It's new and it's different. It requires a little getting used to. BUT, on the flipside I also have a child who cries only when he's tired or hungry. Doesn't go batsh&*# crazy when I brush his hair. And wants to snuggle me all the time.
