Reasons...

July 2002:  Matthew, age twenty months.

 Beyond anything the human mind comprehends,

Further than any great distance covered,

I awake each morning: rise, prepare

for another exhausting day of mothering.

June 2004:  Andrew, age fourteen months. 

And yet, without reservations, without hesitation,

I would (and) do it all,

again and again; day in, out

for all the millions of reasons

every other mother does what's necessary.

October 2008:  Joshua, age eighteen months. 

Our relentless love for our children,

and the light in their eyes,

as they experience a precious moment.

That light goes against all reason...

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Grow...

June 2009: Daddy and the boys in Naples, Florida

Almost twelve years (yikes!) into motherhood,

I am growing in this role.

I no longer quiver when faced

with a bleeding (or vomiting) child.

I no longer tremble when challenged

by hungry, filthy, bored , warring boys

that seem to gain monstrous strength

with each and every passing  second.

No.  I have grown in mothering

just as my boys flourish with

each passing milestone,  every grown inch,

each hard won, exhausting, monumental,  accomplishment.

I stand in wide mouthed awe,

amazed that, in spite of myself,

their growth leaves me behind, small;

but oh, so very much beloved!

And someday, rather soon, I suppose,

they will tower over me: souvenir

of time's passage; my own growth.

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Bring...

Sunscreen, towels, chairs and gossip rags.

Toys, food, drinks, umbrella and kids.

Sunny days, rainy afternoons, hazy laziness.

Hoping the calendar brings summer soon...

Five for Five: Age

I heading towards the big 4-0 in a little over a year.  I know I should not be too worried.  Forty is the new thirty.  I have over a year to get over it.  I understand all of that.  Really, I do.

But I have a son who is going to start middle school in the fall.  I have a son who will begin Kindergarten in the fall.  I can't be young and have a middle school-er, can I?  I mean, do you remember what your parents and your friends' parents seemed like when you were twelve?  I'll say it for you: ANCIENT.

Somehow, the idea of a middle school aged kid and a Kindergartener shouldn't go together.  I mean, they are both monumental milestones.  Forty: a monumental milestone.  I am a little freaked out.  

Really. 

And I kind of feel sorry for my husband.  

Can you imagine what things are going to be like?  Mommy is turning forty and running from a midlife crisis in sensible (read: old lady) shoes while her baby is starting school for real and her oldest is going through pre-teen, emotional, pre-adolescent bullshit. 

Yeah.  Life will be grand.  Please note that this statement is oozing in sarcasm.

So I have done what any sensible woman would do (besides wonder how the hell I got to here).  I booked a cruise.

I know what many of you who have followed my blog for a while and remember last year's ill-planned cruise are thinking.  But I was smart this time.

I know no one in my household will be making a major religious sacrament.

I know that everyone will have testing in April. 

I know when the last day of school is in 2013 (no eye rolling, please.)

I made sure we leave two days AFTER the last day, making it virtually impossible to screw this up.

Except that we won't be celebrating my fortieth on the ship, because my big day is the day before.

Nor will we be celebrating my husband's fortieth (as he is quick to point out, I am eleven days older), because we get back before his big day.

And I'm okay with that.  I want to be in the comfort of my own home, frantically packing for five when it hits. 

I wonder if it will hurt.

I guess my biggest problem is that my mind cannot accept this.  I don't feel older than 25, at most. And maybe there is the crux of the issue.  In my head, I am 25.  My body says otherwise if I carry too many groceries at one time or I try to scoop my sleeping five year old to bed.  My body screams: NO!!  You are not 25.  You are there.  Where you thought you would never be.  You are arriving at middle age.  Shit.

It took me most of my life to finally be comfortable in my own skin.  I have a better clue of what I am doing now in most areas of my life.  I can live in my own head now; the noise has considerably gotten quieter.   I have finally found the courage to be the person I thought I could be.  I have challenged myself physically (6 half marathons in a year, yo!).  I have pushed myself to do the impossible (have you tried to keep three boys clean, groomed, fed and entertained while holding down a full time job?) and still manage to want to try new things (like assisted handstands in yoga or getting up each morning and doing it all again).

How can it be that the calendar says what it says?

I suppose that it is the amount of milestones that we will be celebrating in early June 2013 that has me grasping.  A son finishing his first year of middle school and inching towards 13.  A middle son ready to start his last year of elementary school.  A baby boy finishing his Kindergarten year.  Mom AND Dad reaching middle age.

Any of these, by themselves, are enough to have you reeling, even just a teensy bit.  If broken up into chewable pieces, you can savor each one separately, brace yourself for the next one.  But all of them simultaneously is a lot to get used to in a short amount of time.

This passage of time is relentless.  You don't get to just stop at your favorite part and linger for a while.  It goes by FAST and furious.  Good and bad.  All of it.  The photographs chronicle.  Looking back, it seems like 5 minutes ago.  And that's the cruelty.  There is no time to lament.  Enjoy it NOW.  Or it will seem so five minutes ago, but really be five years ago in the blink of an eye.

And, really, that's all age is.  Time.  Time your ticker has been ticking.  What you have done with the time you have been allotted.  What you have done with the body you were assigned.  What you are going to do to make up for the things you wish you had done differently. 

Age means that you know the difference.  You have the wisdom to discern, to change tactics, and make it okay.

In the end, the extra little lines that make their debut slowly on your face, you've earned.  I would rather have earned them smiling, laughing my ass off (if ONLY that were true!), and etch them deeper in my face by continuing to live on my terms.

I mean, 40 is 30 with ten years experience, right?

Five for Five: Pictures

Scraggly circles with wriggly smiles.  Hair sticking straight up, reed-like arms and legs.  Bodies made of round circles and noses that take up half the face.  Oddly shaped rainbows, the Earth the size of the Sun and families where Mommy is stick thin.  For an added touch, the artist's name is scrawled in capital letters, nearly overtaking the space around the picture.

A house full of pictures that chronicle a lifetime of memories.  Smooth skin and curly hair, clavicles that stick out and thin thighs that are long forgotten. A blushing bride with a poufy veil.  Bright smiles of a honeymooning couple.  Round, pregnant belly awkwardly posed in front of a mountain of welcoming gifts.  Brand new screaming babies.  Proud, anxious parents.  Grandparents in awe of their grandchild.  First toothless smiles.  Wobbly first steps.  Vacation shots at the beach, mountains, national monuments. Children with lost teeth. 

There are haphazardly framed photographs in every corner of my house.  Carefully chosen, they reflect moments that linger within my heart.  They chronicle the evolution of my life,  motherhood: from fearful first-time mother to more at ease mother of three.

For some, a picture might be a way capture an image of an event, now forgotten.  For me, they are a reminder of how far we have come as a family, how far we still have to go.  Pictures of John and I during our Senior Year of high school, as engaged college students, as married homeowners.  They help concrete the reality of things that have been buried in the recesses of our often overloaded minds.  They remind us of a simpler, more innocent time; one without the many responsibilities that shackle us in adulthood, that serve as a reminder that we were once younger and thinner.  Maybe even cooler.

The pictures that mean the most, the ones that I treasure the most are the ones made by the subjects of many of my photographs.  My children's pictures line bulletin boards in the kitchen; hang proudly, framed in our bathrooms; serve as inspiration at school, where they are displayed next to phone lists and emergency procedures.

The pictures that my sons have drawn throughout the years serve as a measure of how far they have come, and how far they have yet to go.  The ingenuous depictions of our family, rendered in pencil, crayon, marker or finger paints hold a special place in my heart.  No matter what day I have been dealt, what crisis I am wading through, a quick glance at Joshua's parade of smiley faces, or Andrew's freehand Mickey's or Matthew's latest blueprints for a new invention is sure to put a spring in my step.

What I have found the most rewarding of all is to sit and thumb through my old childhood pictures, usually flanked by my boys. Their laughter at long and thankfully forgotten fashions and hairstyles, their wonder as they see that their mom was indeed a child herself, their surprise at seeing their grandparents and great aunts and uncles much younger is an experience.  Seeing myself, through their eyes, is necessary.  They don't see the baggage that I carry: the worry if I am doing a good job mothering them, the sadness I feel when I look at myself in some pictures, remembering a day long gone by, another lifetime ago.

It gives me an opportunity to reflect as I sit and look at my own children's multitude of digital shots over the years.  The wonder of how much time has gone by.  How much they have grown and learned.  The bittersweet knowledge that this leg of the journey is fleeting; they are become independent individuals. 

It makes me wonder why there are so few pictures of me with them?  Is it that I am always the recorder of the moments that make them giggle, frozen in a snapshot for all time?  Am I participating enough, yet always hide behind the lens?

Yet, in the moments of self doubt, when I wonder if they are okay, a small, or medium, or large hand will quietly slip unexpectedly into mine. 

Yes, they are okay.  I have the photographic evidence.

Without a camera, my eyes focus on the owner of that hand within my own.

 

And my heart snaps the picture.

Sense

Trying to make sense of how

time has slipped through my fingers.

My boys stand at different thresholds,

ready to begin writing new chapters.

I witness; my proud heart photographs.

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Wishes...

Three wishes granted.

Three boys cherished.

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Another move...

Another fall. Another phone call. Worry.

Another set of plans gone awry.

Another chance to do what's right.

Another mess to efficiently clean up.

A house to box up, sell.

Another move to a new place,

to start over at the end.

Dismantling and rearranging lives already lived

never gets any easier; less heartbreaking.

And yet, when given the options,

moving, starting over at the end

is better than hearing, "They're gone."

Because of love, the move's orchestrated,

the worries lessen a bit more.

Others care and monitor, feed, bathe.

And all that's left to do

is love until the last move.

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Sweetness

Skinny, braided pigtails, adorned with ribbons.

Golden curly halo, crowning mischievous eyes.

Resounding choruses of pealing laughter, echoing.

Life gave me three lively boys.

My sister gave me two nieces.

Two beloved little cherubs to adore,

Two precious examples of girly sweetness.

Two girls, three boys, five cousins.

How could life be any sweeter?

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Well Paid, Infinitely Wealthy

Job description notes endless days, nights.

Dirty faces and behinds, whining, complaining.

Rumbling, hungry tummies to be filled.

Injustices to be righted with conviction.

Armed with Mommy's Childrearing Playbook,

tasks are rarely completed as desired.

On days I need it most,

payday is an unimaginable windfall.

Currency: Hugs, kisses, squeals and smiles.

It makes "All About the Benjamin's"

turn an envious shade of green.

I doubt millionaires are this rich.

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"I didn't do anything..."

When that phrase is the first thing you hear, and it is often accompanied by an increasing decibel-ed wail, nothing good can follow.

If you really think about it, they did do something. Actually, lots of some things.

Like make you a mom.

They make you wonder if you are losing your mind on a daily basis.

They challenge you to be the kind of person they already think you are.

They force you to challenge yourself, try new things, just to be an example that puts their money where their mouth is.

They provide you with ample opportunity to stretch your physical limitations on a daily basis, sometimes, even down to an hourly basis. You never knew how strong you were, how much endurance you had until you had a kid. Double that with each additional offspring borne by you.

They make you question every manufacturer, teacher, assignment, food, additive, vaccination, decision you have ever made or are going to make. They make you think twice before ingesting your favorite sanity food (or drink), wondering how it will affect your longevity/health and their well-being.

They make you reprioritize, whether you want to or not. You just can't do the stuff you want to, even when you want to, 'cause you've got them. Everything is colored with the responsibility of their existence; their well-being.

And even though there are days when you feel like you can go no further, that you would gladly walk out and never return, you are a better person because of them.

When those words are uttered in my house, they often bring me a tremor or two (or three) of fear.  But mostly, I am grateful.  Mostly.

So, keep thinking you didn't do anything.

Nothing could be further from the truth. 

And hopefully, one day, when you hear those words from your brawling kids, you will have to smile to yourself before putting your game face on, and know what makes my heart keeping beating happily.

Charmed...

At first glance, it may seem

that the life I lead today

is the one I've always lived.

The moments that caused many tears

are those that now gleam beautifully.

Those charms on my life's bracelet

are the ones I can talk about

and measure how far I've come

from those days of endless sadness.

Those charms on my bracelet gleam,

cleansed from ever being overlooked, disregarded.

My love, my boys, my family.

These exquisite charms; priceless, delicate, breath-taking,

always make me feel as though

this is the enchanted, wonderful life

I was always meant to live.

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Craziness and another 365 days for Joshua...

This is a red alert, folks. For anyone who will read, it is important for you to know that Joshua is four today, and therefore, defying logic and a serious height problem when compared to his older brother, Joshua is big.

The week has been beyond crazy. The following week offers no reprieve. More on that later.

Right now, we will return to regular programming, including another frog birthday cake and the excitement only a four year old can have on his birthday.

Drowning...

The past few weeks have come with their own set of issues and challenges. Between frantically teaching material before our state mandated exam and ending of the grading period, I am tired. Add renewing my national certification, my middle son's communion in the next three weeks, a family cruise (YAY!) and two birthdays and I am wiped.

Plus, I stepped on a scale the other day and nearly died. Not happy folks. So not happy that I rejoined Weight Watchers and I am now having to relearn all the points for my favorite stuff.

But what has me the most unhappy is the loss of my beloved Thai Red Curry Chicken. I am so sad. Do you have any idea how many points the amount of yummy Red Curry Chicken makes my heart sing? It would take DOZENS of consecutive half marathons to undo that damage...(sigh)

So, in many ways I am drowning. There are not enough days in the week. There are not enough hours in the day.

The only thing that is helping me get up out of bed without sobbing and downing serious amounts of pharmaceuticals is the idea that in a mere ten days, I will be surrounded by Disney magic.

On a ship.

With all my guys.

In the open waters of the Atlantic.

And if it gets too bad, I can always jump overboard.

Into a vat of luscious Thai Red Curry Chicken!

Cupid's got a sense of humor...

Valentine's Day is for single people. How do I know?

People who go out to dinner, buy and wrap gifts, fill out cards and plan evening lingerie have the luxury of time. They have illusions. They do not have children.

People with children plan Valentine's dinner...at home. They do their shopping ahead of time, because the thought of taking your children shopping for food on Valentine's Day can send you to an early grave.

People with children scribble their Valentine's Day card to their significant others 5 minutes before they give it to them. They buy their practical Valentine's Day gifts along with the week's supply of toilet paper and milk.

They don't bother with lingerie for the evening, fully knowing that the only action that will happen is if the three year old has a nightmare and comes to the bed of his comatose parents.

I tried pre-planning. I tried celebrating ahead of time. But my kids tennis coach decided that she would cancel LAST week's classes versus this week's. Ever tried making a "nice" dinner when the crew is eating in shifts and you are picking up and dropping off children in cycles?

My plans went to hell in a hand basket. I forgot the orzo. I had to go to the store, twice, with my children.  I nearly got run over by a three hundred pound woman who had a fierce look on her face as she was barreling down the incredibly narrow aisles in the gourmet market. Enough said.

I overcooked my green peppers and onions. My husband said my dinner was "pretty good" as he picked out the kalamata olives from the orzo.

My class brought me my own weight in chocolate today as gifts.

I threw out my back two days ago.

I am so tired I want to cry.

Cupid's a lying hound...but he did bring pretty flowers, yesterday.

And I managed to fight a couple of women in the bakery department for the last two cannoli.

Hubby did pour the good wine while I whined about my afternoon.

And I got the most beautiful Valentine, ever...

Seconds...

It seems I live my life

in a series of moments that

are reluctantly, inevitably, "seconds from..." something.

The next catastrophe, or great accomplishment.

The next moment of infinite joy.

The passing of debilitating self insecurities.

The mothering moments in which I

could very easily lose my mind.

But the happiest hours I spend

are always with all my boys.

Regardless of how endless it seems

these hours seem to be disguised.

They unavoidably pass as fleeting seconds

within my ever watchful, timekeeping heart...

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What I needed most...



Image by Christopher David Ryan


Today was a regular day. Not too much going on. But for some reason, as the day wore on, my own insecurities, anxieties, and other emotional dredge threatened to take me under.

I stood under the hot water for a long time tonight. I wondered when I would ever get my painful childhood out from under me. I wondered how much of that childhood taints my children's every day.

I wondered where the time has gone. Matthew, in spite of being so big, still was incredibly emotional about something seemingly meaningless this afternoon. My big boy, who often scurries from me when I try to hug him, let me hold him today when he cried. I wonder how often he needs my arms for comfort, and I don't offer them, because he scurries, because he is so big.

Because our timing is off. When I offer, he doesn't need. When he needs, I don't offer.

I know he is asleep now. My ever growing boy, who will too soon be too big for his bed. He is already too big for me to fold into my arms and hold him completely. The pages of his childhood are flying rapidly...Am I missing it?

I put on my pajamas and shuffled out of my bedroom to a final kiss goodnight sweep for three beautiful boys. I was welcomed with the sight on Andrew, asleep on the couch. When I gently rustled him ( I cannot even begin to think of carrying him anymore) he made a face that took me back to when he was a infant, sleeping in my arms. I walked him back to his room, tucked him in, gave him another kiss goodnight.

Joshua started talking in his sleep. Exclamations that only my little Buzz Lightyear would utter. Drunk in his sleep, he smiled. I walked over to my littlest boy. His small little hand found the crook of my neck and pulled me closer to him.

"I love you so much," he said, words slurred with sleep.

"I love you too," I whispered. "Have good dreams," I said.

"I wish I could fly," he sighed, eyelids so heavy.

Oh, little one. I wish you could.

I wish you could fly to me when my arms miss you the most. When I am with other peoples' children. When I should be with you, holding you close. Trying to hold on to you as you are right now.

I wish you could fly to me, as you did tonight, with your sweet voice, your inviting little arms, to save me from myself.

"I always miss you," he said. His sleep, breaking down whatever restrictions a three year old could have; his heart speaking the truth within it.

My heart broke. I always wonder if I am doing the right thing; working outside the home. In the lowest moments, I fantasize about how clean and organized my house would be. What the wondrously nutritious and inviting meals I would make for my family. That fantasy ends rather quickly during the summer months, when I am home, having fun, being lazy with my boys.

Nonetheless, I wonder how badly I am messing up when I hear things like this.

In the same breathe, I hear, "I love you so much Mommy," sleepily sighed. He is already far into the dreamland he is creating behind closed eyes.

It is exactly what I needed tonight. A reminder that in spite of all the bad, I have these three shining rays of light, that are surely guiding me out of darkness.

Summing it up...

Surely, the greatest joy of motherhood,

And the one that I can't ever

seem to get quite enough of.

Whenever I hear my boys laugh,

I'm reminded I needed to hear

that music that makes life complete.

And often wonder how they know

That's exactly what I was thinking...

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Crossing the finish line...

My first half marathon medal!  I DID IT!

Six months of training. Six months of fundraising. Six months of pushing myself in ways I never dreamed possible.

Countless good wishes, cards and a music mix for good measure, to encourage me, to propel me to cross that line.

Sunday was race day. The ninth annual ING Miami Marathon.

I was nervous. I was excited. I was missing some pretty important people.

My mother in law was scheduled for her second to last chemotherapy Monday morning. My father in law was trying to figure out a way to get down the hours it would take to see me cross the finish line. I put my foot down.

My sister was going to bring my nieces at the crack of dawn, in that multitude of people, to see me cross the finish line. I put my foot down.

My brother and sister in law, so far away in distance, so close in my heart. Their card a few days before moved me to tears. Such powerful words written on such an innocent looking card.

I carried them all in my heart instead.

The night before, as my family and I sat amid over 200 other Team In Training runners, I looked over to my husband. The face that has mirrored my own happiness and sorrow for the last twenty years had eyes filled with tears, bottom lip trembling. When I whispered to him, asking him if he was okay, he held me close. His voice breaking with emotion, he said, "I am so proud of you."

I looked over to my sons as they sat with us. The faces reflected back my own excitement. Their smiles, lighting my way.

It was a restless night. Motherhood does not take a day off just because of a 13.1 mile race. I tossed and turned, worrying I would oversleep and miss the gun. But I would only oversleep if ever got to sleep, though.

In the still darkness of Sunday morning, my alarm went off. I rose, weary. I glanced at the sleeping men in my life, and knew that I could do it.

As I got ready at 4:00 am, I wrote my family an email. In part, it read:

Standing front of the mirror this morning, I do not recognize the woman staring back at me. She is dressed like an athlete. She is ready to undertake the most physically challenging event she could dream of. Yet there she is, and looking back at the last 6 months or so, I know that I could not have done this without any of you.

I did not recognize the face I saw. The face was confident, strong, athletically determined. The face showed none of the fear I felt within my own heart. The face showed preparation, an air of calm, and anticipation that I dared not feel.

Yet, it was my own face. My own eyes that would see the glorious sun come up on the MacArthur Causeway at 7:00 am. It was my face glistening in the heat of this beautiful morning, as my legs carried me, fueled by months of training, adrenaline, joy.

It was me.

During the race, my neighbor and I ran side by side. Much like the past six months, we were able to motivate and carry each other for 13.1 miles.

Throughout the race, there were hundreds of spectators, armed with beach chairs and homemade signs, cheering the brave souls that ran, walked, or hobbled by them. Countless, smiling faces, urging you to go, to run, to do better.

Seeing the kids at mile 11...

At mile 11, I saw my boys. John had gotten on the People Mover, and decided that he would be able to meet there and still have enough time to make it back to the finish line. How to describe the feeling when I saw my boys? When I saw my greatest cheerleader? I was afraid the emotions of the day would bubble to the surface, bringing me to my knees with over two miles to go...

The end came slowly. It seemed that every turn would bring the finish line. The split where the full marathoners came. For an instant, I thought of what that would be like. To complete 26.2 miles. I stayed on my own half marathon track.  I am not ready.  YET.

Racing towards the end...

The drum lines kept urging me on, with each beat pushing me a step or two closer to the finish.

I felt strong. I felt invincible.

And then, the cloud of orange and blue balloons, intertwined to create the arch I would run under. With a sudden rush, I felt myself run faster, harder, than I ever had in my life. I was there. I CROSSED THAT finish line RUNNING!


View of the finish line from our hotel room...

All the emotions I thought I was going  to feel never materialized. Instead, I felt like vomiting. I don't know if it was the strenuous exercise that I had just put my body through, the surprising heat that made its appearance halfway through the run or the fact that I REALLY needed fluids, but the tears I was sure I would have weren't there.

I received my medal. As I gazed at it, I thought of the past six months. I thought of the past 37 years. Of keeping myself within these self imposed boundaries. Of wanting more, of being afraid of trying things that scared me. And I thought to myself, from now on, that finish line means the beginning of being a tad bit fearless.

I called John to let him know I had finished. He told me the boys had seen my whiz by at the end.  We made plans to meet up. I called my neighbor, Sande who was just behind me, waited for her. We hugged each other, knowing we had done it together.

I searched for my family. When I finally found myself in my husband's arms, I felt the tears come. Tears of joy, of relief, of disbelief. Had I really done this? Was I really standing here, among all these people, celebrating this accomplishment?

Yes, I was.

And they were here with me, sharing every incredible second.

Even the ones I carried within my heart to cross the finish line...

There is no turning back.  I am changed in ways that I cannot put into words.  I am grateful to have been able to something for others, that helped me do something for myself.

Warming my days...

Your little hand within my own.

Your sparkling eyes speak volumes, baby.

Nothing makes me feel more loved

Than the sight of you running;

Arms outstretched, smile radiating, eyes aglow.

The music of your contagious laughter

Hopelessly shames the summer sun's warmth.

You and your brothers; my everything.

You boys, the source of my existence.

I am irrevocably devoted, completely humbled

By the magnitude of this love.

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