Do you ever feel like this?
How do you handle it?
Confession
August 6, 2009 By 17 Comments
There is a gargantuan full moon hanging by a thread in the night sky. I can see it out my kitchen window. But I can’t really appreciate it, because all I can think is – it is midnight and I am still up.
I should be sleeping so I am rested for the morning when the small people inevitably wake me up – sometimes with a snuggle and sometimes with an elbow to the ribs.
But I don’t want to sleep. I want to work. I want to write. I want to finish proposals and posts, emails and comments. I want to edit video and upload. I want to prepare speeches and finish books.
And that is selfish.
Really selfish. Because right now? I have no desire to play Barbies, to read children’s books, to make beds, to play Bingo or to color. And that is terrible, right?
My small people begin their true school journey in two weeks. Delaney starts full-day kindergarten and Cooper will leave me for the very first time – heading to preschool three mornings a week. That means I have 14 days to soak them in – to absorb their giggles, their smells, their sweet ‘kishes and hugs’ and even their sassy ways. As of August 20th, there is no turning back. I will never get this time again: when they are three and five and still think I am worth all the love they can give.
And yet, I want to work. It makes me feel sick to my stomach to even write that sentence. If there was a way to make those words teeny-tiny, like a whisper, I would.
I should be wanting to nibble their little elbows, to tickle their toes, to dance aimlessly to the Jungle Book and sing The little Mermaid at the very tip-top of my lungs.
But I don’t.
And that makes me feel guilty. As though there is some mothering test I am currently failing.
When I’m with them, when I’m not with them, I adore them. They make me whole.
But there is this other piece of me. I have been starving for some adult fulfilment that only comes in the form of a business task accomplished, a consultation given, a proposal written, a speech delivered, a video edited, or a post breathed into life on the page.
And so, my internal battle wages.
And I know who will win.
Mommy always wins. And that is ok. Because I won’t get this time back.
Danielle, the worker-bee can wait. Danielle, the Mommy can’t.
Lost
May 17, 2009 By 27 Comments
Today was supposed to be fantastic. Stellar. A Family Day for the record books.
The St. Louis Zoo on a 70 degree day. It was a packed house less than an hour after it opened. Both Coop and Daddy were recovering from being sick.
We were having a knock-down good time.
We saw the jaguars, the tigers, and my favorite, the penguins.
But then something terrible happened.
I LOST MY DAUGHTER.
One minute she was right in front of me – 4 feet away, looking through glass at the hippos, and THE NEXT SECOND, as I started to walk toward her – SHE WAS GONE.
I turned to my husband, “Where’s Delaney?”
He couldn’t see her.
I called her name. Nothing. I pushed through the crowd, “Delaney?” Still nothing. My heart started to race. I was finding it hard to breathe. But still, I had my voice, louder (and quivering) this time, “Delaney?”
Silence. My ears had turned out anything that didn’t sound like her voice. I was waiting on the trembling, “Mommy??” that I knew was on the tip of her tongue, where ever she was. I was trying desperately to conjure up everything she was wearing…..just in case.
And then a bellow from only a few feet away, “Did somebody lose a kid?”
I answered with what I am certain could only be a screech, “Yes!!!” and all but threw my body in the direction of the man’s voice.
Fortunately people could sense my panic (and Delaney’s) and moved out of my way.
In seconds I had scooped her up and we were both crying. I thanked the air around me because the man had already walked away.
This all happened in about 4 minutes. It felt like 4 hours.
Earlier in the day, Delaney had turned around and not seen me right away, though I could see her. With tears in her eyes, she ran to me and glued herself to my legs, “Mommy, I thought you lost me.” And you know what I said? “Baby, I will NEVER lose you!”
So much for promises from Mommy.
Seven hours later, the guilt is still hanging over me like a cloud.
Prayers that included, “Please don’t ever let Mommy and Daddy lose me again.”, probably didn’t help.
I lost her. How could I do that? She was RIGHT THERE…..and then she was gone.
Fortunately, I have a happy ending…but what if….
Itty bitty – that’s me
March 31, 2009 By 10 Comments
Like many of you, I constantly struggle with balancing everything. I’ve talked about it before and asked your advice – many of you have given brilliant answers and suggestions. For that, I thank you.
Having been gone for 5 days, and preparing to leave again for 7, I feel alternately behind and pressed to be moving ahead at warp speed.
There is laundry to be done, clothes to prepare, a schedule to nail down for the trip and then all of the work related stuff that is clearly not going to take care of itself. And I am tired. I desperately wanted to take a little nap when the kids went down, but it just isn’t an option.
When Delaney got up, she padded into the office, blanket on her shoulder, thumb in her mouth and wanted to snuggle. I took a quick break, but could feel the magnetic pull of my computer and work load as if there were physical tentacles attaching themselves to my hands and shoulders.
So, I cuddled and went back to work. Delaney could be heard reading to herself in the next room.
A few minutes later, she reappeared in the doorway asking for a snack. And then juice. And then she settled in next to me to chat. One question after another. One 4 year old sized thought tumbling out of her mouth every few seconds.
I can’t write, or think when people are talking to me. The pressure I have put on myself makes me snap at her, “Delaney – PLEASE!”
You know what she did? Dropped her shoulders, bowed her head, let small tears fall from her eyes and said, “It’s ok Mommy, I know how you feel about me.”
Pardon me while I adjust the giant lump in my throat and try to lift the weight that has cemented itself to my heart. I feel this big – and by ‘this’, I mean itty-bitty, teeny-tiny, the smallest of the small. How I feel about her? She couldn’t possibly know how truly, madly I love her. How I can’t get through an hour without thinking about her sweet smile or how I wouldn’t be able to get through my days if she wasn’t a part of them. She couldn’t possibly know that I love hearing her sing, I tickle her just because her laugh is the soundtrack to my soul, that I could cry as I listen to her learn or that I could dive right into those big brown eyes and get lost forever.
But what she is feeling right now? That is how I have made her feel – like she was second place. And this just might be the worst feeling in the world. She could pick me up and hold me in the palm of her hand. That is how big she is in my world, and how truly minute I feel as I rush her in to my arms to reassure her.
I take a deep breath, wrap my arms around her – trying to make her feel secure physically to make up for the way my words and actions have failed her today.
She says, “I’m so sorry, Mommy. I just wanted to tell you everything.” She is sorry? Nope – this is now me – feeling as sorry as I have ever felt.
I cut loose the tentacles tying me to work, pull her into my lap and play. We read. We laugh. I try to teach.
I do what a mother is supposed to do: put her child in First Place.
