I didn't think I could do it. doubt laid embedded in my heart as the perspective of 27 disappointed children was piling weights on my momster shoulders. always climbing, but never reaching. wishing I were a Martha Stewart bionic mom. but I did it. the weird thumb big white mitten.
I am stressed out. maybe it's my boys. the horrible fours creeping in making me allergic to morning routines. maybe it's my husband. playing the same old cracked record of our marriage's defects. maybe it's house hunting. not owning walls and door knobs. maybe it's just me. momster software back kicking in. dredging validation and good company in inappropriate places.
but this moment. that one moment. being at the right place at the right time. and the pride, oh the pride of being a mother. thinking. this is not what I live for. this is why I exist.
27 children including my own sons are expecting me to knit the mitten in "The Mitten". and you can't fail 27 children.
I'm in big trouble.
it is only 5am. I am conscious but not awake. the wind whistles through the shutters. and my mind wanders from thought to thought. of course, it's always about the kids. and the most simple things. a moment, perfect in every detail, too small, too trivial, too fortuitous to be depicted. sometimes too painful or too miraculous to be shared. but you know how this is. like the fog soon melting away after the sun rises. I know they were. but I forget. the simple things. so I turn on the light. put on my glasses. and I write.
Sean sleeping with a toys catalog tucked under his pillow.
the bathroom door shutting on Will's fingers.
the day Sean let go of his balloon and I wish I were Super Mom.
Sean instinctively sharing his lunch with his brother making sure they both have the exact same number of fries.
Will disposing cereals between his toes.
I sigh with relief. now I will always remember. the simple things.
I love their house. like buns and a glass of fresh milk. feeling snug and toasty by the fire. I love that I am startled by postcards, artwork, photography and antiques everytime I turn round a scanty corner. I love that you can get lost looking for the bathroom. if I ever buy a house, I want it to be like it. a recollection of memories, of myself, and of love.
everytime they invite us for dinner we are expecting to meet new people. and we love meeting new people. yet it was one of those evenings you repeat your lines over and over in your head wishing you had a disposable napkin to jot them down before throwing them inappropriately into random discussions about art fairs, swiss movies and an odd place in Normandy called Berk Plage. and of course, food. French always talk about food. it was one of those nights you literally jump off your chair everytime you hear "Mommy!" and run away from profound conversations about Bali impossible to mingle with babyhood expertise and mother-to-mother support.
silence encloses and glints unveil two sleeping angels in the backseat of my car.
my trophy boys.
it was one of those moments you briefly question yourself. but not your life.
taking off the momster suit and venturing into thunderous, unpredictable parenthood. blazing my own trail. spreading love as far and wide as I need to. running the marathon of mommyhood. and loving it.
I look at Sean and Will with disbelief as they spiral out of control, again, bouncing off each other, pushing boundaries and shredding months of theories and expectations, again. and I smile. I chuckle. I laugh. my palette is just as emphatic. yes, things change. and kids grow up. lately I've felt like my life paused its hectic course. momsterhood is now almost recreational. I do not roll out of bed every morning and spend my day working out the kinks of my life. I start noticing things. clouds throw dapples of shadow over the busy streets framing babies wearing tiny hats with perfectness. solitude is not as precious a commodity, but it also comes bearing the resonance of meditation.
you can keep spinning just so long before you fall flat on your face. but I think I am ready now. the years of violence. the negligence. the fear. it is time to forgive my parents. and to be absolved.
peeling off the band aids and laying lush roots. my breath coming in short. but I know I am not alone. daring to love. and stringing all the pieces of my self together like beads to be a better wife, a better mother. to just be.
Nov 12, 2005
