wandering

30 things to do in my thirtieth year

rue Laffitte

three-oh

the sound of stamping little feet on the wooden floor. the morning light brightening his sleepy face. trailing his security blanket behind him, Will silently climbs on my knees, wraps his arms tightly around my neck and nestles his head on my shoulder.

"happy birthday Mommy" he says.

I always thought that by the time I was thirty I would have a lot of things figured out. and I realize that I don't. yet wearing the necklace and hair clips that my sons have secretly bought with their father and kept hidden under their pillows suddenly gives new meaning to all the questions that are left unanswered. and gently reminds me that I have time to learn my lessons, to be confident in my tastes and views. and find out who I am.

oily hair and sticky shoes

pausing a moment in my life to cook and serve meals for sixty homeless people. rain pouring steadily outside while all that is good and gentle in heart seemed to bloom into every face in the large, functional kitchen. filling one more plate, filling one more soul. for it is true what they say. the smallest, homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them. and the more you give, the more you receive.

but what I didn't expect. that I would leave with oily hair, sticky shoes and empty hands. yet with a heart overflowing with love, selfless and indescribably easy. shaping my worldview, defining empathy. love that grows deep inside. love that transcends circumstances. love that heals.

I have learned

that a hug is never wasted.

that you should not try to mold your children into something they are not or that is more convenient for you.

that I must learn to handle my own anger as I respond to my sons.

to check tire pressure every month.

that sometimes your children don't fulfill the expectations you have for your life, heal your wounds, nor undo the damage done to you by the people who were supposed to love and protect you. but the truth is that they probably are the best thing that ever happened to you.

to say I'm sorry.

that you cannot build a strong, positive self-esteem on unspoken guilt, shame and what others might think of you.

that you can always learn from the experiences of others. and from your mother's mistakes.

you know you're a momster when (and did I mention that I have hairy arms?)

you let your kids draw Mr. Men and Little Miss characters on your arm not to encourage creativity and various forms of self-expression, but because you're too chicken to get yourself a tattoo.

when I feel uninspired

I take a long walk in the city with my Polaroid cameras, I get up early to think. I sit at my piano or at the children's section of the local library. I set up my sons' favorite toys while they are at school so we can immediately play together. I knit or buy something for someone I care about.

and despite the doubt, confusion and frustration of the blank page, I realize the value of each moment. enabling me to grow, to be honest, to think creatively about how best to use these moments of discouragement. to make my own rules without feeling guilty about it, and reconnect with my true self.

the antidote to cuteness (and I'm truly overwhelmed by your kind words and support, thank you all so much)

I spent the last twelve hours asking Sean and Will to stop storing pen caps in their mouths, pointing fingers at old ladies while yelling "look Mommy! she's wearing a costume maybe she's going to a birthday party too!", lying completely flat on a sidewalk grate to "see if there's a treasure hidden down there", blaming me because they can't put on their socks and singing songs that combine the words "butt" and "hole".

please, don't tell me things get easier as kids age. 5 is so much fun already.

magical boy