The kids and I just sat at the table together for close to an hour. We laughed so hard Sydney snorted her soda. Our bellies hurt and we begged each other to stop so we could catch our breath.
The kids got into a spelling challenge and grabbed notebooks. We talked about all sorts of light, fun things— and a couple of things that were a little heavier.
We only sat down to have cake- a delicious lemon cake we made yesterday, that we all love. It has lots of sugar and flour and a delectable buttercream frosting.
When the kids were ready to go up to their rooms they both thanked me for the cake, gave me a hug, and went upstairs with rosy cheeks and smiles. As I walked back to the table I saw this scene and decided to leave it for a minute…because it’s so beautiful.
I hope my kids will always enjoy cake at my table wherever it is and however old they are. I hope when they pull in a chair at my table they know when they push it out again their bellies and hearts will be full.
I could say “no” to cake and time and other things that draw them near. I’m so grateful I was shown another way. A way that understands emotional and mental health are important. A way that values connection and critical thinking. A way that knows food serves many purposes and tables should be comfortable.
I have some more years with my kids at my table eating most meals with me- cooked by me, or Kristopher. I can’t make their tables comfortable when they aren’t with me. I can’t help them leave with a full heart if I’m not there.
I can set the foundation now though so that comfort, love, and acceptance are what they know at my table, so that when they need it they know where to come.
Yes. I’ll leave this scene for a minute. It’s so beautiful and I love it so much. ♥️
I was blindsided by motherhood. I had no idea how much it would change my life.
Before my oldest child was born, I was committed to keeping my life as it was whether children were a part of it or not. I held fast to my commitment to read, work, keep up with the house, maintain my relationships with friends, and my husband.
Then Owen was born. And I was not prepared.
For the connection I would feel for him, the way that life was only right when he was peaceful and touching me, the fact that with the birth of my first child, my eyes would be replaced with new ones.
Every desire that I had before children became distant in my mind, seldom receiving any consideration. All that mattered to me was that Owen was comfortable and content.
I am not embarrassed by this. I do not feel ashamed that my priority suddenly became my children. I feel grateful. Now.
But for the first months, and years, I tried to maintain it all. I tried to work, and stay connected with my “self” (the definition of which was my pre-child self) and not let life change.
Of course, life had already changed and I was just pretending.
Twenty six months later my daughter was born and as she began needing attention I became a maniac. I tried desperately to meet the needs of both of my children all of the time.
I was constantly stressed. Even if both kids were sleeping, I was beating myself up over the way I had handled a situation or I was prepping the house for when they woke up.
I was either making lunch, putting away toys, or planning an activity. Anything to free up my energy and time so that it could all be devoted to them when they woke.
Somewhere during this time I stopped working. Entirely. I tried to take my children on outings planned around nap times and snacks and enroll them in music class.
My inability to accept that life had changed created both an inner struggle and tension between my children and I. My life had no rhythm, and though I tried, I could not find a groove.
Then, without planning or realizing it, Sydney’s napping became more predictable and Owen spent more time playing on his own. The house began to stay organized more easily as Owen began to consistently pick up after himself, and Sydney. I became calmer. And several months ago, I realized that things were getting easier.
Owen and Sydney started playing together- frequently and for close to an hour at times. I often just sat and watched them. Amazed. Mornings could be spent reading books together, watching a movie with popcorn or doing laundry.
Owen and Sydney joined in to help me prepare lunch.
As blocks were turned into structures, I sat on the couch in front of my children. I read my book, or caught up with friends on Facebook. Music played quietly in the background.
Instead of cries of frustration and prayers of desperation, giggles and conversation became regular. Suddenly, it seemed that not only did I love my children, but I loved Motherhood.
As I reflect now on life since Owen was born, I realize there was nothing magical about this transformation. I gave up lots of preconceived notions about how things “should be”, and started doing what felt right to me, and made my children happy. Expectations were altered or eliminated all together. This removed unnecessary resistance and chaos from our lives and changed our dynamic.
We were no longer trying to force an outcome, we were going with what was in front of us. This is not who I am at my core. Or, not who I was. I am learning.
Every day is not perfect and neither am I. I cop to my weaknesses and shortcomings regularly. But mostly now, I enjoy each day. Grateful for this amazing life-for spending most of my moments with my children. By choice.
And when Sydney turned two just a few weeks ago, instead of being filled with a feeling of bittersweet that she was getting older, I was filled only with joy, that my baby is so happy.
Because now I know that I am not fighting motherhood, that I am comfortable, gratefully sinking into it. That I appreciate nearly every moment and am giving my children the best part of myself.
The regret that I so frequently felt when Owen was two is now replaced with confidence. An assurance that comes from knowing my children are more calmly loved and appreciated.
Instead of ending each day thinking of how I will do better tomorrow, I end it smiling with the knowledge that I have finally found my Motherhood Groove.
It was 7:00 on Friday and both kids were asleep. I came downstairs, sat down and I cried. I cried like my high school boyfriend had just dumped me. I knew that it was going to happen. As soon as I felt my son drift off to sleep, emotion overtook me.
My husband had been away all week. He left on Monday to return late Friday night. Kris travels regularly, so I’m used to it. But, this was a long week. The weather was unlikely in July and unheard of in September.
The rain and humidity were intense, and at my request the air conditioners had been taken out the weekend before. Given that we bed share and nurse, the heat made it too uncomfortable for either of my two children or me to sleep. The morning after Kris left I got a cold that quickly turned into a sinus infection.
All in all I had done relatively well while being the only parent at home, particularly with these additional challenges. However, my “relative” is not one that I like to use for comparison.
Just after Sydney was born the adjustment to having two children was difficult for me. There was a slight return of my postpartum depression, but mostly the hard transition was due to my total lack of ability and unpreparedness to nurture two children.
My precious, wonderful, beautiful first born whom I had given everything to before Sydney came, must have been heart broken during these months. I know with certainty that the guilt from how I handled that time will never subside. My patience had evaporated, and my praise and adoration must have felt like a distant dream for Owen.
For the first time in his life he had been yelled at, ignored, and repeatedly ordered to be quiet. My precious, innocent, vulnerable, trusting little boy who gave nothing but love, and trusted me fully and completely with his life, emotional health and general well-being.
I was Owen’s world and his world was ruined.
My behavior this week with Kris away reminded me of what my first baby had to go through after his sister was born. I’ve heard that every child has difficulty adjusting to family expansion. For my family, my child adjusted just fine, it was me who couldn’t adjust, and it was my beloved first born, who suffered the consequences.
Those who had been through it before me could pseudo counsel me that my son was “just adjusting, he would get better, things would get better.” He was my innocent, unsuspecting, undeserving scapegoat. But this is what they had to tell me. What else was there to say?
And so, tonight I cried. I cried because I couldn’t be the mother my son deserved and because I miss the uninterrupted bond that we used to have. I cried because I would have life no other way than to have my daughter in it, and because I feel like I am missing so much of Owen’s development, as well as Sydney’s.
I cried because I can already see the love between my son and my daughter and it is the most beautiful thing I could never have imagined. Mostly though, I cried because these gifts that I have been given, these wondrous lives that have been entrusted to me, deserve so much more than I can give them. More patience, more nurturing, more explanation, more play time, more knowledge, more of everything wonderful, positive and beautiful in life.Things could be so easy if we had only had one child. The bond between Owen and I would be so strong, and I can imagine the person he would be. Still, I can’t imagine the person he would be without his sister. And that is what allows me to eventually fall asleep at night.
After a long time, the crying subsided and I vowed that I would not let this emotion be lost. I would store it away and draw from it the next time I was faced with the perfect storm of challenging behavior from my son, and my diminished patience. I would remember that Owen only wanted my attention, my love, for our relationship to be what it was before.
Eventually, I did stop sobbing. I thought about the wonderful moments of pure enjoyment Owen and I had shared earlier that day. That while the babysitter was here I chose to take Owen with me instead of getting some desperately needed alone time and that our time was brilliant while we were together.
Somehow this dimmed the awfulness that my son endured from me over the week. My tears, as they always do, ran out, and though my eyes remained red, I got myself together. I filed my feelings from the week away, a reserve of fuel during the next storm.