Thoughts from My Rocking Chair

We were out late the other night, which almost invariably means that a tantrum will follow in the wee hours of the morning.  As I sat in the rocking chair, cuddling my girl, finally calmed, it struck me just how big she has grown.  Her feet hung over the side of my lap and through the arm of the chair.  Her head rested on my chest and her little eyes blinked slowly and quietly in the darkness.

A year ago, she was a baby.  I nursed her and rocked her to sleep many a time in that chair.  Now she is, in every sense, a toddler.  A little girl.  It made me ache to realize how swiftly and surely time is already taking my babies from my arms.  This girl who scarcely sits still, who can climb almost anything, and who repeats everything I say, is becoming every day less mine and more her own.  It's such a sweet little ache.

When silence had reigned for a several minutes, I found myself hesitating, not only because the transition from Mom's arms to bed is always a delicate one, but because my desire to hold on to that quiet moment, that peaceful embrace, rivaled the desire to return to bed at 2:30 AM.

It was just another one of those moments that convinced me all the more, that there must be more to what we are and why we are here, than the life that ends when we stop breathing.  Too many mothers have snuggled their little ones only to see them grow up and walk away, too many of these perfect moments have happened and ended - not to mention myriad worse things - to have this earth, this life be anything but a tragedy, were it not so.

This moment need never be reduced to only a memory.  This child is and will always be more than a complex structure of molecules, forming cells and tissues and organs, governed by external stimuli and external chemical reactions.  This life extends beyond the confines of time.

And it is no tragedy.

Dex

A few months ago, this eight-legged guy appeared beside my front porch.  I don't have a photo, but picture this: black, white and yellow stripes, each leg at least an inch long, angular body - majestic in a terrifying sort of way...

Despite my strong aversion to spiders, I decided to let him stay with an unspoken understanding that, so long as he kept his distance, he wouldn't see the bottom side of my tennis shoes.

I decided to call him Dex.

Yes, I even gave him a name, maybe because it made me feel like I had a little control over him or something.  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?  Metaphorically speaking, of course.  If he had built his web in China, I would have felt much more comfortable with the situation.

About a month ago, he moved right up behind the front door.  OK, Dex, I thought, but come no closer.  You're on thin ice.  I don't think I've passed once through that doorway without glancing his way.  And shuddering.

I mentioned him in a conversation with my spider-loving friend the other day, along with the mysterious disappearance of mini-Dex.  Her response (it was over text, but I just know she was elated): "Then it's a she and she'll have babies soon :)"

Oh.

She has plumped up in the last few days, huh?

Eew.  It makes my skin crawl, and not in a good way.  I don't think that phrase has ever been used with a positive connotation, but just in case it has, I want to clarify - in a bad way.  I hate spiders.

My conscience: Are you sure?  Hate is a strong word.

Yes.  I hate spiders.  And one big one living in plain sight and close proximity is more than enough.  How did Charlotte's Web make an arachnid invasion seem so not-creepy?

Be afraid, Dex.  Be very afraid.

Dear Stay-At-Home-Moms: My Response

I stumbled across this article today and while the title gave me the feeling that I was about to be attacked, my curiosity won out.  After reading it, along with a few recent comments, I began to write a response.  When I saw that my comment was becoming unwieldy, I decided to just make a post about it, rather than attempt to be concise.  

While I agree with the message of this article - that motherhood is a privilege and should be treasured - it proved to be every bit as volatile as the title promised.  I don't think any human being has the right to speak to another in the way that this author did, much less to a large population of people - such as 'stay-at-home-moms'.  Everyone faces unique challenges.  We have no idea what the mom who complains to us in the grocery store is going through or has gone through, although we may convince ourselves that we can make an accurate guess.  

Raising children is extremely difficult, but it's also a learning experience.  Children are very good at teaching us things like patience and perspective, both qualities that the article advocates.  We are all at different places on the path to acquiring them, moving at different rates, and facing different obstacles.  No one enters parenthood knowing fully what he or she is about to take on, but you will be hard pressed to find a mom, stay-at-home or otherwise, who is doing what she does for the wrong reasons.  We are all trying, we are all working hard, and we are all learning along the way.  

As a stay-at-home-mom, I try very hard to keep things in perspective and to express gratitude often for the experiences I have.  When I blog or use social media, I try to conclude with a statement or thought that illustrates the situation in a new, and hopefully clearer light.  I try very hard not to flat-out whine, and usually I'm not inclined to do so.  I don't claim that my life is harder than anyone else's, but I do write and talk about the hardships I face and I don't apologize for that.  

I think it's wonderful that we have blogs, social media, and other outlets that let us connect with other moms and support one another.  If you don't like somebody's posts on facebook or twitter, you don't have to follow her.  If you don't like someone's blog or website, you don't have to read it.  If you can't handle letting someone unload to you, don't answer the phone or invite her in to sit at your kitchen table.

I write the things I do because I recognize that I am in the midst of what is likely to be the most difficult and most fulfilling time of my life.  Writing is an outlet for me, a way of channeling my thoughts and troubles into something redemptive, a way of understanding.  I also realize that a lot of my friends are going through the same things that I am and it's a way for me to try to lift and relate to them.  I write for other friends whose lives are very different than mine, but who are genuinely interested in what my life is like.  If the things that appear on this blog come off as whiny, moping, or judgmental, please - and I mean this sincerely - please don't read them.  If I am dragging you down by what I post, please steer clear of it.

And I won't deny that I have my down moments.  Like most difficult things, motherhood isn't only daunting.  It's surprising.  I feel most inclined to complain when I find myself faced with an obstacle that was completely unforeseen.  I try to save my complaints for my mom, my husband, and close friends who are willing to hear me vent because they love me, respect how I've chosen to spend my life, and want to help me along.  Nevertheless, if I do happen to let slip, on a hard day, that I think my life is difficult and momentarily can't see beyond that, please consider that I am on a long journey that includes continual self-improvement.  I ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt and know that I will endeavor to do the same.

I am grateful for the opportunity that this article afforded me, not only to reflect on the blessings of motherhood, but also to step back and consider how I look at other people.  Both those who are and aren't mothers deserve my compassion if I am going to listen to them, and, if I am not able to be a nonjudgmental listener, my candor, in explaining quickly that I will not be able to provide the support that they seek.

Happy Thought - Extension

At the risk of sounding like a broken record - yes.  This post is also going to be about motherhood.  That's where my mind is these days.

As we have settled into our new routine, I can't seem to get a handle on all of the additional clutter that is appearing in every corner and on my counter tops.  Junk mail, toys, lonely socks and even vegetables from the garden (one of Addie's latest obsessions) accumulate more quickly than I can find homes for them.  I never was one for tasteful decorating, much less perfect order and cleanliness.  I can confidently say that my home is appropriately sanitary.  Beyond that, it's never been anything impressive.  Even my nesting instinct, in the last days of pregnancy, translated into massive amounts of canning rather than decorations for the nursery or deep cleaning.

I'm coming to accept that, despite my best intentions and daily efforts to get on top of my household chores, I'll always be a little bit behind.  Always, or at least, for the next decade or so.  Still, there's something special about the things I see around me lately, from the pictures on the walls to the homeless boxes that live, stacked, in corners, alphabet magnets on an around the refrigerator door.  My earliest memories are of similar things - cracked sidewalks, a screen door that I struggled to open, a blue rocking chair, a wicker laundry basket...  None of them were remarkable, but in my mind, they are accompanied by a soft, pleasant glow.

And this little house, even with my poor decorating and organizational skills, suddenly seems so much more significant as I look around it with those memories in mind.   I begin to see how the little trappings in and around our home now will remain with my children, pixels of the images that they will one day call their childhood.