Spring Cleaning

Tonight I went back to yoga class for the first time in three months or so, the laptop is open to something other than Word, and there's something just a bit footloose and fancy free in the air here at Parkview House. Another semester is over. Nine more credits down. I find myself in what feels like a vacuum between what was easily the most challenging end of semester to date, and my upcoming May term. One relatively unscheduled week has arrived in my calendar and it feels positively luxurious. Last night, I browsed on Ebay for hours like a crazy yard sale addict sneaking a fix. The night before that, I put away winter clothes and pulled out the baby's 18 month bin, (where, to my surprise was my Super Mom cape and tiara I though I'd lost.) Tonight, I'm blogging. Tomorrow, I'm planning to put all of 2011's photos into a giant photo book online. For months, projects have been rattling around in my brain and sitting on detailed to-do lists.  I'm a list maker- somehow, in my brain, if it's written down, it's halfway done. Let's just say, there's been a lot of unfulfilled lists in my recycling bin lately. But this week, the evening hours are again my own, and I'm getting shit done. I feel like Rosie the Riveter.

This past month was somewhat less pretty though. I had a come-to-Jesus moment about the state of my home. It was messy. Messy and dirty too. Grimy windows, smeary walls, cobwebby corners, dusty ceiling fans, cat hair on the curtains, new civilizations rising to power behind the oven- you get the picture. Spring cleaning was looming. Usually, this ritual, accompanied by a donation purge and comprehensive storage re-org is one that gives me great gratification. This year I felt like David with out a sling shot and my Goliath filth and clutter was about to eat me whole. After a few weeks of stewing, scheming, and feeling generally inadequate (where did I leave that damn cape?) I ran to the back yard and shook the money tree and had the whole house cleaned top to bottom- windows, walls, trim, oven, fridge, floors, kitchen cupboards and bathrooms. (If you've never tried this.....) The way I felt each Thursday when I got home was worth double what I paid. The house looked so lovely, and I no longer bared the responsibility of making it that way. What a weight lifted. (Seriously, if you've never tried it...) It was difficult for me to accept that I was just too busy to tackle a project like spring cleaning this year. I could've put it off until I had more time, but the mess was bothering me. Mom's blog all the time about how we should empower and support one another rather than make comparisons and criticize, and we all know it's true. So, here's my message of empowerment to all mother's- at least once, hire a damn cleaning lady. (If it happens to also be your mother, still pay her.)

Next week, the May term begins and I'll be taking a math class every day for three hours for three weeks. Yes, I am a glutton for punishment. Life at Parkview house will be back to crazy for a little while longer as we attempt to balance everyone's needs. It's likely I'll be compulsively writing to-do lists, and feeling as though each day I must simply put out the biggest fire in order to move on to the next. What I've learned though, is that it is okay to compromise. (Cue philosophical insight...) We make choices about where our energy goes each day, and how we fill the hours we have. When energy and hours are exhausted, well, things get left out. There just isn't any choice. I'll make peace with that to-do list. Super Mom status will not be threatened by putting off painting the kitchen cupboards and re-seeding the back yard for a few weeks. I'm going to plan ahead and cook meals as best I can, but, I'm also going to buy a ton of convenience food. I'll get the vacuuming done, but, I'm also going to keep paying for housecleaning. Everyone reading this may not be a working, student, mom, but I'll assume everyone does have their own personal version of my spring cleaning/ identity crisis story. I've figured out that letting go, is sometimes more graceful than trying to do everything, and that I can still wear my cape- even in sneakers while eating frozen pizza.

Thanks for reading.

Mother's Resume

If I was interviewing for a job at Super-Moms Will Rule the World Inc., I would have an impressive resume, polished to last detail, describing my many, many attributes of superness with respect to mothering and it would surely include, along with sections on harried multi-tasking, the speed shower, functioning on caffeine, and schlepping, a detailed list of all the things I can do one-handed. It would look something like this:

*I have advanced abilities utilizing coordination, balance and agility as demonstrated by the following list of tasks I can perform with mediocrity using only one of my hands. Things I can get done while holding my kid include, but are not limited to:

vacuuming
slicing cheese
peeing
emptying out a french press
making a bottle
taking a shower
making the bed
filling up a humidifier
folding laundry (no, not really this one, just kidding)
putting on and taking off my winter boots, the ones with zippers
loading and unloading the dishwasher
making mac and cheese
feeding the cats
putting away groceries
sweeping and mopping (engage the hips)
putting on socks
texting
pushing a shopping cart
applying mascara, and finally,
typing a blog post

Thank you for your consideration.

The Mother and the Child- First

The Mother and the Child- An Installment Series

When the baby was born, and for a few weeks prior to that the mother had, by necessity began to distance herself in small ways from the child. For example, she taught the child to nap independantly in her crib in the afternoons, and stopped driving or cuddling the child to sleep. The mother considered herself fortunate to be blessed with a husband who was involved in raising the child, and she knew that he would have to assume more responsibilities in doing so when the baby was born. The father rose brilliantly to the occasion, taking on the role of point person for the child in areas such as bath time, bed time, and daytime outings. Meantime, the mother nursed the baby loyally in two hour intervals, wore the baby nearly continuously as she went about her domestic routine preparing meals, tidying, even studying. The mother, the baby and the child all spent many hours every day together and learned quickly how to be a unit of three. They shared hundreds of stories, trips to the library and park, drives around town, bowls of macaroni and cheese. Adjusting to the new baby had been a fairly smooth transition for the child who seemed to genuinely love her.

There were times though, sometimes several in a single day when the mother ached to hold the child when her arms were busy already cradling the baby. She'd hoist the child onto her hip and hug her with one arm as tightly and sweetly as she could, and it usually seemed to do the trick for the child, but always, the mother was left feeling a little sorry. There would be other times when the mother was nursing the baby that the child would call to the mother, or ask the mother to play a character in a pretend scenario she'd invented, or the child would suffer some minescule yet seemingly earthshattering injury, and the mother would be unable to respond with the quickness that she so desired to. And so often the moment of need had simply passed by when the mother was again able to be present for the child who had already forgotten. When these instances ocurred in the evening or on the weekend days when the father was home, he was able to fill in with out interruption from the baby. This attention was special to the child and watching the bond between the child and her husband strengthen gave some comfort to the mother's heart which ached from the separation she felt from the child.

As the weeks and months passed by the mother struggled to handle the child's developmental changes as she sought independence. Many difficult days were spent negotiating the roller coaster that is the second year of life. The mother read books and asked her friends for advice and cried to her mother when she felt overwhelmed, which was often. Less and less, it seemed, were the simple sweet moments shared between the mother and the child. The mother's despair, fueled by conflict with her strong willed child, grew steadily as she mourned what she felt to be the loss of her docile, affectionate first born baby. The child coped with the loss of her mother's undivided regard by turning squarely to her father. Her preference for her father was constant and ongoing for months, even as she continued to spend the majority of her time at home with her mother. Finally the mother, feeling desperate enrolled the child in a half day preschool twice a week. The mother was the only one feeling any separation anxiety the first day she dropped off the child, but the preschool was aptly timed and very well recieved by the child. The mother felt encouraged by the positive change.

As time passed, and the baby grew the mother slowly began to work a little more. She began to notice signs that the child, after all, did still love her. The child learned to brush her own teeth, put on her own clothing, make her own toast, wash her own hands and her relentless oppostition to the mother slowly began to decline. The mother, in turn, learned how to harness God like quantities of patience from the universe, choose her battles judiciously, and incorporated one on one time with the child into their daily routine while the baby napped, independently in her crib. The mother and child had come to some unspoken reckoning, each giving the other a little more room to be imperfect.

For months and months the child had been putting herself to sleep in her big girl bed with little or no fuss, and the mother and father would take turns tucking her in, leaving her surrounded by stuffed animals and books, content to spend a little alone time before drifting off. One night though, when there had been no nap, the child was upset when the mother tried to leave her room after tucking her in. She cried loudly and woke up the baby. The father poked a stern face into the room, telling her to quiet down. The child wailed as the mother switched off her star lamp, and then wailed in the irrational hysteria of an overtired three year old for the tree lamp nightlight to be turned off, and then again because her hip itched. The mother stroked her head and shushed her as she writhed and sobbed, and then said to her, "can mama rock you?" The child nodded silently, and climbed into the mother's lap, curling her head down to her tucked in knees. As she sniffled the mother wrapped both arms around the child and began to rock her side to side slowly as she sang,

"Tell me why the stars do shine, tell me why the ivy twines, tell me why the sky's so blue, and then I'll tell you just why I love you. Because God made the stars to shine, because God made the ivy twine, because God made the sky so blue, because God made you, that's why I love you."

The child's breathing slowed after a few minutes, and her tensed body relaxed and grew heavy in the mother's arms. A few minutes more the mother swayed with the child before she placed her, sound asleep in her bed. She spent a moment studying her face, suddenly filled with gratitiude, realizing it had been over a year since she had last rocked the child to sleep.

The next morning the child grimaced as the mother planted a kiss which she felt to be entirely too wet on her forehead. She refused to change out of her nighty or share toys with the baby. The mother didn't mind that day though because she knew that no matter how independent the child insisted on being, she still needed her mama, every once in a while, to rock her to sleep.

Holiday Reflections

The holidays, though fun, are as hectic and over scheduled for my family as they are for everyone else. I'll tell you about it:  We did a Santa's Village trip with one branch of my family early in December, which we decided to substitute for our traditional get together and present exchange. I was in total favor of swapping the gifts and squeezed  in gathering for the opportunity to create new traditions with my children and their grandparents, but the four hour drive and two overnights between our work schedules  made the trip a hefty undertaking. The following weekend, we threw our three year old her first real birthday bash at the Maine Jump. She loved it. I justified the party's high price tag by playing on any apparatus I could fit on. That same morning I was at church attempting to rehearse a pared down version of the Christmas story with ten or so kids ranging in age from 3 to 13. I came in late because I had volunteered to sing in the service and left early to get to big D's party on time. I arrived ten minutes late with a store bought peanut butter cake with writing on top that had gone smooshy from sitting in the fridge overnight.

The next two weeks brought lots of Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph watching, and finals which included speed reading an uplifting two inch thick novel about a paranoid schizophrenic Native American serial killer complete with graphic murder scenes, and a few papers. As well as the complete demolition and reconstruction of our interior staircase which leads to both girls' bedrooms and our only bathroom. I also had a wall built smack dab down the center of our living room to create a third bedroom on the first floor. Ongoing throughout the weeks was the shopping. A bit online, a ball popper for little D, digital frame for Mom. A bit at Target at the eleventh hour, "Oh  crap the tree looks bare" gifts for my girls and husband, after vowing to myself and Jesus not to over commercialize our family's Christmas. Mostly though, I shopped locally, dropping a goodly sum at Briar Patch bookstore and the Natural Living Center. The Christmas cards squeaked out, in typical week-of fashion, and I wrapped gifts with a bottle of wine on the 23rd. About half way through (the bottle,) a girl friend who I hadn't seen in months invited me out for a bite. Frowning at my saggy kneed sweatpants, wine glass, and pile o presents still yet to be wrapped, I regretfully declined. That same night big D came home from Grammy's with the flu. Then, my husband decided to resign from his job. 

My mother came home from Florida to spend the holidays with my sister and I and our families. She offered to come over Christmas night to spend a couple of days with us. She ended up nursing me through a particularly nasty run of stomach flu. When I could finally stand again, we took down the tree and every last bit of red and green, and sent it back to the attic for another year. I was Christmased out. I could tolerate no consideration of New Year's Eve plans, and so, made none accept for an impromptu trip to the kids party at the library. We popped a cheap bottle of bubbly at 8 and I was in bed after three flutes at 11. The last few days have felt so quiet and restful I've even found myself in the evenings wondering what to do. Hence my (much anticipated, I'm sure,) return to Life By the Beans. 

Pausing to reflect on the craziness of the last month has given me an awareness of the craziness of the last month. I know many people live like this during the holidays. We get run down, and get sick. We over plan and forget to enjoy the simple moments. We set sky high expectations that leave us disappointed. Then, we get the aptly timed chance to resolve to change our ways for the upcoming year. Another fresh start. It feels good to shed the excess of the holiday season, in favor of a calmer, quieter, more pared down version of our  selves, and our routines as we head in to January. It's like running on a treadmill that suddenly stops. Outside my house, next to the trash can, lays the naked Christmas tree, tossed out, like a disgraced politician, having enjoyed it's bedazzled moment in the living room. I've made a few resolutions, subconsciously, I suppose, over the last few  weeks that have helped me to get from one moment to the next. "When things slow down, I'll start a designated laundry day," "Next semester I'm definitely not going to attempt to read every single assignment," "I'm reducing my battles with big D strictly, to ones regarding hygiene and safety." When I really stop to consider what I'd like to resolve for the upcoming year, I'm humbled by what my heart truly tells me, and I'd be willing to bet that I'm not alone in my wish to be a more patient and playful mother, a kinder and more appreciative wife, a more frequent good samaratin, and a better steward of my own body, mind and soul. 

January holds the start of yet another semester for me, a daughter's first birthday, a bathroom remodel, a changing career path for my husband and who knows what else. I am so thankful for this brief time of relative calm and opportunity for reflection, for another year gone by, and a new one laid out before me.

Happy New Year.