Not Mommy of the Year

It’s 10:00 at night and my eyes are dry and heavy. My shoulder twinges every time I move it the wrong way – which is every way, apparently. My mind is spinning but I can’t focus on any one particular thing I need to be working on.

The to-do list is out of control this week. I have deadlines on projects I’ve been procrastinating on, new fires to put out and new opportunities to stretch outside my current role. I want to take every assignment that crosses my desk and hit them out of the park – sometimes.

The kids started swimming lessons two times a week. My parents were here for a long weekend. Craig traveled. I have work travel to book, bills to pay, grocery lists to make, dinners to plan and laundry to fold.

I can’t watch the Today Show or scroll through Facebook without hearing about “Leaning In” or “leaning out.” All these news interview, blog post and pretty quotes about work-life balance, being present with your kids, growing a career – each one makes my head spin.

I read the advice that says to pay attention, step up and do more. I hear about finding balance, putting the phone away and ignoring email for a whole weekend. I read about career women with regret that weighs heavy on their shoulders and I see working moms struggle to get through the week, only to spend the weekend running from activity to errand to critical must do house project. I listen to seasoned professionals caution against trying to have it all and well-meaning experts remind us to take a little time for ourselves.

And still, my mind spins.

I can’t be the only person whose opinion on the elusive parenthood work/life balance changes with every article she reads? I can’t be the only person who isn’t sure if she wants to lean in, lean out or go play in traffic just to catch a break?  And I can’t shake the guilt I feel every time I read a new opinion.

I want to sit with a beer at the end of each day and think about the things I did right. Instead, my last thoughts are often about the things that went wrong. And with the added constant pressure to take initiative at work without sacrificing family time or carve out time to do something just for myself with the responsibilities that wife, mother, employee, daughter-in-law and every other title I wear brings, I end up feeling like I suck at all of it.

Chessa asked me last week why I have to work so much. “I don’t need any more toys, Momma,” she said as I tried to pry her off my leg on my way upstairs to work. “I have a lot of toys.”

At the same time, I look at the quality of work I’m producing and wonder if it’s good enough. The funny thing about writing is that it’s never really final. There’s always a word that could be better, punctuation that could be tweaked, entire paragraphs that could be stronger. I know this and I accept a bruised ego as an occupational hazard, but it still stings.

Nobody is getting enough of my time, my energy, or my passion.

But that’s life. Working is not a luxury. To quote a coworker, it’s not something I do for entertainment. I enjoy it (usually) and I’m good at it (so they say) (sometimes). But it’s not something I do for fun. Parenting is my greatest accomplishment, but it’s hard too. Not a day goes by that I don’t sigh inwardly (or outwardly) and count to a bazillion in my head.

And so, while I appreciate the sentiment and I love hearing stories of how others shaped their careers or faced tough decisions, I would be happy if I could just decide what exactly it is that I want to be when I grow up.

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The air smells like barbeque and salt, musty and damp and at the same time fresh, a stale cigarette breaks through and is then gone. The sounds of the seagulls overhead combine with the waves crashing and the dull hum of conversations taking place all around us. The sky is littered with kites and parasails, Frisbees and footballs.

We make our way through the sand, careful not to step on beach towels, reminding the kids not to run or kick sand. Craig pulls the red plastic wagon, overflowing with blue and purple buckets, orange shovels as tall as the kid and a small cooler packed with drinks and snacks.

We find our spot and spread out. Cole grabs a shovel, Chessa takes off with her favorite heart bucket, Craig sits on a soft worn towel imprinted with his college alma mater and I collapse into a chair with the latest copy of Real Simple.

The quiet moment is just that, a moment. Chessa asks to go in the water now and Cole cries because his hands are too covered with sand to eat the pretzels.  Craig and I each take a kid and walk into the ocean bobbing with the waves, giggling when we get splashed and holding tight when the little ones begin to get nervous.

A little while later Chessa and I sit in the sand and have girl talk. I ask about her favorite things and learn that peanut butter and jelly is her favorite lunch, Circle Time is her favorite part of the school day, Daddy is best at taking her to bed and Cole is best at swinging with her. Cole and Craig come out of the water and Cole sits down beside Chessa.

“Cole!” she says. “What were you doing?!”

“I was jumping waves,” he says in a matter-of-fact manner I didn’t know two-year-olds could master.

“By yourself?” she prods.

“Umm… yeah!” he giggles.

Their banter makes me smile and I promise to commit the moment to memory; to remember their conversations in the sweet and childlike voices with simple questions and active imaginations.  I swear I will remember the way his hair curls from being damp and the sand that’s streaked across his face, her messy ponytail and the pile of sand she’s kicked while we’ve been chatting.

And just in case I can’t remember it, I take a picture.

The trip is short, an hour or two building sandcastles, looking for seashells and eating all the snacks and then we’re back in the car, taking way too much sand home with us, caught in our bathing suits and stuck to our skin.  We drive home and the trip across the intercostal takes my breath away. I smile, holding onto a hope that this – the quick trips, the brilliant blue water, the smiling and happy kids – will never feel as ordinary as it really is.

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Three sets of hands are clapping in time with the song, playing through the car.

“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

From the backseat I hear Chessa’s hands smacking together and see Cole lift his arms high up over his head to clap them. Beside me, Craig takes his hands from the wheel and claps them too.  We’re driving home from a late dinner. The kind of dinner where we threw our order at the waitress the second she walked to our table, begged her for a beer and really fast service.

Our pizzas didn’t take long to come to our table, but it also didn’t take long for dinner to be over.  We were all tired, the kids were fighting colds and I was a wee bit grumpy.  I definitely wasn’t happy and knowing it.

“Clap your hands,” Craig commands me.

I laugh at the goofiness and the irony. But on the next round, I play along and pat my knees.

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Days later, it’s a dreaded bath night, and Craig has a late game. Cole was still fighting a cold that had led to an upset stomach so I got him in and out of the bathtub quickly, leaving Chessa to play while I dressed him.

As I diapered his bottom and pulled the shirt of his pajamas over his head, she yelled out to me. “Mommy, I’m going to do it myself OK?”  I called back from the hallway asking her to hold on a minute and that I’d be right there.

But when I looked up, I found her, head wet and reaching for the shampoo. “Just talk me through it, OK?” she asked.

So I talked her through rubbing the shampoo into her scalp and down to the end of her hair, using a washcloth to get the dirt of off her face and making sure to use soap on her dirty feet. She insisted on doing it all herself, down to wrapping herself with the towel and combing her own clean and wet hair.

I watched her as I listened to music filling the bathroom from my iPhone and mindlessly tapped my toes to the beat. As I watched her try to comb the hard to reach back of her head, I noticed her foot tapping along too.  And so I started to shake my hips and in the mirror, I saw her hips shake. I grabbed her hands and together we “danced” to bad country songs, me singing along with the song, Chessa singing half of a word behind, both of us laughing.

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We are on our way to school and Chessa asks for “her” music. I flip the button and out plays kids music – I’m a Little Teapot; Wheels on the Bus; Where is Thumbkin and Down By the Station are all fan favorites in my car. I listen to the two voices from the back sing along.

I don’t know if I’ll always remember the pitch of their songs or the way they mix up the words. I don’t know if I’ll remember grinning as I hear them sing or the chaos of the morning routine. I don’t know if I’ll remember that nearly a month after his birthday, Cole still thinks the Happy Birthday song is for him and that Chessa always asks if they can finish listening to whatever song is playing before jumping out of the car.

But these are the sweet moments lately. The kind of moments that make me smile and make me look a little bit differently at these little people buckled into car seats, snuggled into pajamas, or wearing headphones that are two sizes too big. When everything else feels flat, repetitive or like it’s just trying too hard, hearing these songs, seeing these kids sing and dance and laugh is the spark that I need to just keep swimming.

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I stand in a kitchen cluttered with boxes, stray dishes and packing paper.  Several boxes are opened, more are still taped shut. Cabinet doors are flung wide, chairs are shoved around and a step stool sits in the middle of everything because I’m too short to reach nearly half of the shelves.  I move plates from one location to another, thinking about the most logical place to keep them. I look for smart storage solutions and realize the house we love, the kitchen I love, has only four drawers, none of them next to one another and I’m so very confused about whether the silverware should be in the far left corner of the kithen or the opposite right corner.

I think about giving up on unpacking. I sigh and wander around the house and the garage again looking for the box marked “wine glasses”. And then I hear a giggle from outside. And then another. And then little girl squeals as the door swings wide open and Chessa runs in with the girls across the street on her heels. As she runs through the house she yells, “I want to show them my new room, Momma!”  Cole trails behind them, trying to keep up but decides to stop for a kiss and a pack of fruit candies.

The wine glasses don’t seem like quite as much of a necessity now and I smile thinking about how lucky we are that a house with a layout and a backyard that we loved, happened to be in a great neighborhood where kids play in the street and run in and out of each other’s houses.

Days later the furniture is (mostly) in it’s place.  The wine glasses have been located. The boxes have been unpacked, broken down and taken to recycling.  The apartment keys are in a pile on the counter, ready for a trip across town to return them.  We still have pictures to get on the walls, we need a rug here, an accent chair there, a new comforter and some odds and ends.

But, we’re home.

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Dear Chessa,

Take little steps.

Someday, many years from now, when you walk down the aisle and the love of your life is waiting there for you, take little steps.

I see you now. All of three years old, with your blonde hair that curls at the end and ties itself into knots while you sleep. Your cheeks are usually flushed and streaked with dirt or Oreo cookie crumbs. Your painted fingernails have dirt under them, your knees are scarred and your elbows sport Band-Aids.

I see you watch the world around you and I see you finding your path.

And you are so much like me. So much that it frustrates me when we go head to head over bedtime, food thrown on the floor or toys shared with your brother. So much that it makes me laugh when you sing in the bathtub, warms my heart when you reach out and hold Cole’s hand or snuggle into your daddy’s lap. So much that I can envision the battle of wills we will have for the next 18 years or so. And so much that I can almost picture the things that will break your heart along the way.

You’re forming relationships now and I see a new part of your personality beginning to emerge and you are so much like me.  It makes me want to spew everything I’ve learned through 32 years, countless mistakes and missteps, some heartbreak and a lot of luck into a manual of sorts for you. And I’d title it, “Lessons from your mother” or something far more catchy.

I’d tell you to have fun in high school and college and not take yourself so seriously. I’d tell you to watch more movies and read more books and study and not put your work off to the last possible second. I’d tell you to work in a restaurant because the money is good but also because it’s fun and you meet people and it’ll teach you how to pick the assholes out of a group (hint: It’s the person who shakes a glass at you.)

I’d tell you to find a friend, a good friend, to hold all of your secrets.  I’d tell you to laugh when things are funny, cry when they are sad and yell when you are mad.  I’d tell you that you can feel whatever it is you feel and that if you get it out, you’ll feel better.  But I would also tell you that you are responsible for how you make others feel.  So make them feel good, but not at the expense of yourself.

I’d tell you to be careful with your heart, to make sure that the person you give it to, deserves it and deserves you. I’d tell you that your heart can physically hurt sometimes – and sometimes that’s bad and you should run away and sometimes it means you should dive in and fight harder.  And I’d tell you that when you find someone who makes your heart hurt in a good way, you hang onto that.

But you wouldn’t listen to me and you wouldn’t believe all my wonderful words of wisdom. And the truth is there will be beauty in your mistakes and lessons in your heartbreak, so I’ll try to bite my tongue and let you find your way.

But I will tell you, that on your wedding day, you should take small steps. And I tell you this because I want you not to rush that moment, of course. But also, if you take big steps, you’ll kick out the bottom of your dress and it’ll look weird in the pictures and on the video. And nobody told me that, so I want to make sure that I remember to tell you.

Take little steps.

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“Write that which should not be forgotten.” Isabel Allende

The way Cole’s hands are still just the tiniest bit chubby, the curve of his toddler cheek and the dimple in his elbow.  The blonde hair that curls at the nape of his neck when it’s damp. Sand caked between his tiny toddler toes, dirt on his hands and brush burns on his knees.  I have to look hard to find my baby, but it’s still there – just a little bit.

His hands holding my face while he plants a big, sloppy kiss on my face and then giggles. And does it again.

Cole’s never-ending pleas to draw more Frosty the Snowmans, sing Frosty again or watch the Frosty video, again. The sound of his voice as he sings out, “FWOOOOSTY SNOWMAN, JOLLY SOUL, COB BUTTON NOSE, COALLLLL!”

Cole’s toes inches behind Chessa’s heels. His need to keep up with his big sister, the way he mimics everything she does and the way he looks out for her. At one time I wanted to hold her back to make it easier for him to keep up. Now, I let them both run and grin watching them go head-to-head.

The sound of his voice, the way he repeats every single thing and the way he talks in way that is too big for his not-quite-two years.

Her budding independence combined with the need to be assured that we’re just around the corner. Testing limits and pushing just past her comfort zone.

Her determination and stubborn streak. Her need to try again, to try again and to try again.

Her first “big girl” bike ride and the way she beamed from ear to ear when she finally figured out how to pedal.

Negotiations over extended bedtimes. Hearing her ask if a snack is healthy and pleading for her to eat a few more bites of dinner.

Listening to her preschool voice sing along to all the songs on the Doc McStuffins DVD and trying to equally distribute Doc and Frosty time between my little girl and my littler boy.

Reaching for my hand and Craig’s so that we can swing her across the parking lot on our way to the car.

The visit “home” to Pennsylvania where I realized that even though the region held so many of the people I loved the most, it no longer felt like “home”.

The way my breath catches in my throat as I drive through our new city, looking at the bright skies and swaying palm trees, wondering how we got here. 

Chessa from the backseat says to Craig, “Daddy, I’m glad we live in Florida. If we didn’t live in Florida we wouldn’t be able to go the beach and we wouldn’t be able to play outside and we wouldn’t be able to ride my bike.  Right, Daddy? Am I right?”

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Like mothers across the country and the world, my throat has been tight all weekend. My arms have been wrapped around my babies tighter, bedtimes extended, work put off for the visceral need to just watch them.

I watch them play and run, his tiny toes barely leaving the ground when he runs. I watch them splash and laugh, her shoulders decked out in foamy suds. I watch them fight and cry, and I pause before I yell. I imagine many parents are holding their words more carefully this weekend, because the relief of still having them with us? Well it far outweighs the frustration of toddlers who don’t share or eat their vegetables or who whine for not getting their way.

I cannot fathom being on the other side of this tragedy. And yet my tears this weekend come from imagining the heartbreak of the Sandy Hook community, from the sheer sadness of so much tragedy and from knowing that becoming a parent is perhaps the most vulnerable a person can ever be.

I can’t say anything about this tragedy that hasn’t already been said. There are no words to give it justice. Heartbreaking doesn’t cut it. Senseless isn’t even a start. Devastating isn’t strong enough. And so I’ll pray. In the quiet moments while I watch my babies sleep and in the chaos of life, I’ll pray.

I’ll pray that, in time, these families find peace. I’ll pray that heaven is full of ice cream for breakfast, toys in every shape and size and an abundance of love. I’ll pray that this type of tragedy never graces our headlines again. I’ll pray that my children grow up feeling safe and secure, always. And I’ll pray that somehow, some way, the world becomes a better place.

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“Is today, tomorrow Mommy?” Chessa asks.

“Today is yesterday’s tomorrow, but today is today.” I explain in an attempt to bring her clairty. “It’s Tuesday.”

“But Miss Michelle said that yesterday was today!” she’s getting agitated because she doesn’t understand how today is today, if yesterday was today.

We’ve been at this for a few weeks and other than referring to the actual day of the week, I haven’t been able to explain to her the concept of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

“Mommy, Kristen* said she wasn’t my friend today,” Chessa announces as I tuck her in for the third time.

I sigh, it’s not the first time she’s told me this about Kristen or one of the other girls in her class of three-year-olds. I’ve seen Kristen make her cry on the playground, every morning she wants to dress to match Kristen and last night she colored a picture for the girl who apparently said my baby couldn’t be her friend anymore.

I cuddle up with her and we talk. I ask if she’s nice to the kids at school and who she sat beside at lunch and what her favorite part of the day was. She says that she can’t play with boys because they are BOYS, mommy. And I tell her that of course she can play with boys.

I tell her that it’s important to me that she be nice and be good, but that if someone isn’t being nice to her, she needs to find someone else to play with. I hold my emotions, and my tongue, and I tell her to simply say, “You’re not being nice to me, so I’m going to find someone else to play with.”

I tell her that I think lots of kids like her in her class, that they call her name when she walks in the classroom in the mornings, that her father and I love her very much and that most importantly, Chessa likes Chessa.

She sort of looks at me like I’m explaining the concept of yesterday, today and tomorrow again.

I kiss her head and turn around to find Craig pulling a blanket out of her closet and making a pillow out of a stuffed bear.

“Do you want Daddy to lay here with you?” he asks while making a “bed” on the floor.

She grins. Of course she wants her daddy to lay with her.  And so he does. While I play my conversation with my daughter over and over in my head, wondering if I said the right thing, wondering if I’m making too big or not big enough of a deal over playground interactions, making a mental note to talk with her teacher and wondering when three became thirteen…. While I do all of that, Craig simply lays on her floor until they both fall asleep, showing her that he will always be her number one friend.

*names changed, obviously

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