maya

In the Belly of My Closet

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It isn’t a thumping like they say in books. Nor does it sound like the hard edging of her slipper hitting the floor- bomp, bomp, bomp. It’s a river, a desperate rush of adrenaline that mimics the overflow of our Colorado spring.

I am stuffed into the dark belly of my closet, clogging my ears with fingertips so the only thing I hear is my pulse. Crouched and spent I begin to speak honestly.
I’m unraveling. I can’t do this well.

Because I could scream and cuss and take out all my frustration on them the way they’ve been doing with each other. God knows I want to.
Oh I’m sorry, do those statements make you uncomfortable? Well. Welcome to the guts of good parenting. The place where you put yourself in timeout for the sanctity of everyone’s survival. The moment that brings a meshing of surrender and relief. Sometimes it’s enough to just choke out loud, “I cannot. Do. Another second.”

Her screaming seeps through to my hearing and so I make a mad dash to the door. “Is there something you need?” I ask as she flails in the hallway.
“I don’t want to be out here!”
I consider kneeling down to join her but how would that be helpful. “We are all split up and taking a break. You need to look at books quietly before you can get up.” And also so I don’t call the psychiatric ward on myself. 

The morning has been reduced to this. The broken glass because he was doing chores because he’d hit his sister because she was copying his every nuance because her sister was egging her on because no one in this house can have breakfast in civil fashion.

Summer vacation is supposed to be laughing and pools and s’mores and relaxation and book-reading and you know, a vacation. But the thing is, they are always, just always there. And they are always fighting. (Ok not always.)     

When I can finally trust that my voice will stay at manageable levels I gather them close. We sit on legs, feet, and the little one rolls on her back. I approach with a question since listening, I’ve learned, is actually more telling.

“What do you think about how things have been going? How do you feel about the way we’ve been acting?”
“Stressed,” says the oldest with a half-smile. Don’t start with me, girl. 
“What do you mean by?” says the other with her toes in the air.

“Pick one of these: sad, mad glad, scared.”

“Sad.”
“Mad.”

“Yeah, and why?”

“Because she was-”

“Eh!” I close my eyes in dramatic gesture. Maybe there are times when they need to listen. “We’re all guilty here. And we don’t treat each other the way we have been. We’re a team that has each other’s backs, loves well, and helps out.”

“Ok but can I play the Ipad?

What have I…don’t even…”No.”

“Let’s all try to do better.”

They scatter and I open the fridge to find the milk jug decorated in my son’s signature design. Some things aren’t worth the energy.

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy

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My bedroom feels new since we put in blackout curtains. Hanging them may have been the smartest decision of my adult life. So when my youngest comes in all snuggled as a bug on my stomach, it’s easy to drift into the serenity of our breathing.

“Mom?”
“Hm?” I keep my eyes closed.
“No, Mommy?” She demands my full attention as well as visual contact. If I play dead she will stop this early morning insanity.

“Mom? Mommy? Mommy?”

I consider not inhaling, or exhaling.

“Mommy…Mommy…Mommy.”

Don’t. Give. In.

She becomes music, matching what was once our rhythmic slumber. “Mo-mmy, Mo-mmy, Mo-mmy.”

“What.” Period intended.

“Does maybe mean yes?”

Are you for real right now? 

Folks, it’s only week one of summer break.

As Big As

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Even with the swirl of air in the car I can smell her hair. Like some sort of laundry candle from a body care store where they entice me with lotions and potions that mostly just leave me wanting dessert.
I’m reminded of how all my children need haircuts and really, why can I not ever complete the task of making the appointment?

“How old is God? Like, as tall as a hundred million?”
“Bigger. He is forever.”
“Is He like, as big as our neighborhood or somethin’?”
I try to stay focused on my speed. “Or somethin’,” I respond with a laugh.

This is why I need children in my life. For the fun of it.

What She Doesn’t Know, Yet

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She has her typical determined saunter. Which is an art considering “determined” and “saunter” are difficult to marry. But that’s my girl.

“Mail, ” she breathes with a flared nose. “Is this actually mail?”

“Yes. Are you going to pay my bills?”

“Wait,” she says suddenly serious. “What am I going to do?”

Mm-hmm. That’s the nature of bills sometimes, Sweet One.

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My kids call it the spider tree. It’s the Aspen at the back of our yard, forced into the corner where two sides of tall planks of fencing meet and shield our neighbors from unsightly behaviors like headstands gone awry and thirds of s’mores. Only a bush when we signed closing papers, it has grown with the years we’ve made this space ours. A ball stop for my husband as he pitches to our son, the starting point for Easter relay races, the shade needed for family photos. And this time, the backdrop for a showcase of Harry Potter characters.

Someday they’ll tell us in drawn out, annoyed voice inflections about how “we always had to take pictures outside.” I will care not. Because in ten years when one of them is balancing 12 credit hours, another is explaining scientific theorem of tornadoes using words too large for my comprehension, and the youngest is a pock-marked hot mess of hormones, I will be thankful for these snapshots that captured time. I will remember how they couldn’t quite fill the Gryffindor robes. How my son’s glasses were the most authentic addition to the costume. How black and orange tights bunched just behind the sweet bows of little shoes. The kind with a strap over the top of her foot and a rounded toe. The kind she won’t want to wear in middle school.

When I look back on this day I will not remember bad attitudes or impatience over darkness taking a millennia to arrive. I won’t remember their eye-rolling about arms so nearly touching each other’s they could gag, or the restlessness in all of us while Dad figure’s out camera settings.
I’ll see how their smiles were a clue to their budding personalities: her crinkled nose often accompanied with that signature, infectious giggle; his relaxed, obligatory grin; her lack of lips as she pulls them tight so her cheeks bulge sweetly.

Some leaves are starting to brown around the outer margins, like ready pie crust. Some are just peaking in yellowed brilliance. But most have dropped from every cool breeze that brings with it a promise, it won’t be long now. The earth groans for winter’s rest. The way I’ll groan for them to be young again.

“You are but a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”  -James 4:14

Just like that, the limbs will be bare.
Just like that, snow and ice will have their way.
Just like that, my daughter will have her own babies. My son will stand tall and strong in tears and a tux as he watches his bride walk down the aisle. My youngest will have taken more risks than I could have ever dared.

Just like that, they will be gone. And I will miss all this.

Why My Daughter Got a Bob Cut

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It was the stack of mail- envelopes, flyers, dreadfully artificial campaign poses for the upcoming election- that made me relax. Because it looked exactly like the three piles I’d stuffed into the corners of my kitchen. I sort of wanted to shout in exuberance, “Your children run around in their underwear with Easter baskets on their heads while they’re supposed to be brushing their teeth and putting on their shoes for school, and this is why you don’t have time to scrub the grease out of your hair let alone open mail or pff, sort it into manila folders for proper bill paying…too?” But if I’d said it out loud she might have taken that horribly uncomfortable look of confusion which says, no, that’s just you. I couldn’t risk such vulnerability.

The three friends ran to us seconds later with princess dresses that needed zipping. “Can you help me?” they asked.
“Yes. I sure can.”
With giggles in their palms they scurried upstairs.

We chatted about the utterly exhausting nature of a motherhood while I watched her slice apples in a way that made me want one simply for the beauty of it. “Girls!” she yelled. “Come wash up for lunch.”
Hands behind my back, I scanned their pictures like I was putting together a puzzle. Sunshine and smiles, outings and events, the stages of their history as family. “Girls!,” she said again and turned to me. “What are they doing?”
I wasn’t concerned. I mean, three ladies of royalty were likely just having their pre-lunch tea. Right?

“I’m going to put this little one down for nap and tell them to head to the kitchen.”
“OK, sounds good,” I said and took a piece of cheese when she was out of sight. I pondered the flow of her hair, how thick and perfectly brown it looked. Perhaps I should stop searing mine into submission every day.

“What are you doing?!” she screamed.
With bite marks on the edges, I put the cheese on the counter like a guilty puppy. I was about to remind her she had invited us for lunch when I realized she wasn’t talking to me.
“How…why, did you think this was OK!”
Ahh, I thought. Another mom who loses her cool once in a while. Yes. Friends we are to be.
“What were you thinking?!”
OK, this is becoming a bit extreme. How bad could it be? Nail polish on the carpet? Paint on the bedspread? Laundry hanging from the ceiling fan? The girls hanging from the ceiling fan? Maybe she’s not used to having playdates.

I climbed the stairs, Monterey Jack still in the corners of my mouth, and said her name in sweet softness I hoped would mediate the tension. “Is everything all right? Can I help with something?”

She opened the second of her French doors. “No, everything is NOT all right! Look at them,” she said in a panic I wasn’t expecting. I started scanning them for missing limbs, blood spurting in the length of feet, lipstick gone wild across cheeks. There it was, two little tails of hair hanging where the rest of my daughter’s curls used to land. I sucked in air the way I do when I think my husband is about to get into a head-on collision. The gasp he hates. “Oh…honey,” I said touching her head. “What happened?”
“She cut our hair.”
Her other friend kept a finger to her lips like she was going to lose it, so I scooted her into an embrace and tried to give her the freedom it looked like she needed. “You can cry if you want.”
“I don’t want my hair short.”
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”

My friend sank to the floor in defeat. “What do you even do in this situation? I cannot believe this. Look, I’m shaking,” she said, fingers covering her eyes. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“It’s OK,” I said. “It’s hair. A real problem is a cut-off ear, someone touching private parts that are too young to be touched. This, will grow back.”

The girls remained silent, except for her daughter who was on repeat saying, “I’m really sorry, Mommy.”

We tried to distract ourselves with lunch and after all that, God knows, we were hungry.

“I just, you guys are so put together, I’m…” she said of the other mother and I.
Hold it right there. “That’s a lie. No one is ‘put together.’ I got a call from the school last year because my son was dared to cut off another girls bangs. And he did it.” Good one. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
“Yeah, but-”
“Listen, this is going to be the BEST story. You will probably tell it for years and even laugh about it.”
“Can I just say thank you for being you? You’re being so great about this.”
Um, you don’t need my permission for that. “Oh. You got it.”
“Want to see the bathroom floor?” she said with a smile.

We gasped together that time, marveling at how much was strung along the tile, and took pictures because, well, it was unbelievable.

“I guess we should make hair appointments,” she said.
And it’s like she’d turned to me in the deepest pit of parenting, put an arm around my shoulder and asked, “You too?”
“Yep, me too.”

Children, What Say Ye?

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“Mom, um…um…what did I wear when I was a ballerina?”
“Oh this?” I ask, holding up what I think sparked this conversation.
“Uh huh.”
“A leotard.”
“What? A lenar?”
“Le-o-tar-D.”
“…I do NOT know what you just said.”  –my spunky 4 year old girl

“Say you could do anything you wanted today. Go-”
“Stay home.”
“-anywhere and it wouldn’t matter-”
“Home.”
“-how much things cost.”
“Play games on the Wii.”
“Really? Not Disney World or some wild adventure like hiking the tallest mountain in U.S.?”
“Actually, playing Wii all day with Tyler.”   –my introverted 7 year old boy

“I feel like a slave,” she says looking at the mound of crisp, flowery-smelling, perfectly folded clothes she must organize.
“Well, how should I feel then?” I smirk because I’m giving her the reality check of a lifetime.
“Like the King of slaves.”
Until she says that.   –my sassy 9 year old girl

 

Beuford the Skeleton

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They come off the bus like bouncy balls on stairs and I greet them with a smile that cannot contain the love I feel.

“Hey guys. How was school?”
“Amazing!” my daughter says. “We started our project on Ionic and Covalent Bonds and oh, Mom, it was so easy.”
“Whoa. Good, Sweetie.” I turn my attention to my son by wrapping my palm around the back of his neck. “How about you, Bud?”
“Recess was awesome! We played football in the open field and I threw the ball like, 25 yards or something and we scored right before the bell.” My eyebrows raise in awe. “The guys were freaking out and lifted me on their shoulders. They carried me all the way to the classroom, can you believe it?”
“That’s great!”

Reaching the house we all notice who is now up from nap. Behind folds of her blankie she runs to give them hugs. “I missed you,” she tells them.

“Okie dokie, let’s get your backpacks put away and have a snack. Do you want chocolate cake with Ganache frosting and a raspberry center or triple fudge mint ice cream? Because I made both today.”
“Mmm, Mom did you clean? The house looks fantastic.”

By now I hope you’re as annoyed with this story as me. Because it’s a load of bull.

I sit down to Pinterest or a Family Fun Magazine spread and this is the kind of scene I’m presented. Pictures of laughter and camaraderie. As though my kids will cheerfully, compliantly do the crafts I’ve so thoughtfully planned and paid for, sing songs about love, use their manners to pass the glue, and ask for extra hummus and carrot juice, if I will just follow these 27 1/2 simple rules of parenting.

Somehow in the distance between the accordion doors of the bus and our front porch, hell breaks loose in place of hand-holding skips.

They hit the pavement like trash bags. “The new driver is SO slow I want to tear out my eyeballs.”
So do I at your attitude. “I noticed you’ve gotten here a little late the last few days. How was school today?”
“Good.”
“Yeah? Why was it good?”
“I don’t know.”
How utterly thorough. “Well, what did you do?”
“Nothing really. Mom, can I play Wii?”
“No.”
“But why? I didn’t get to play at all yesterday and you said.”
“I said nothing. There was never such a conversation as this in the last 24 hours. I’ve seen your face all of a couple sec-” We hold our breath because somehow we just know we must. “Who, what…is that your sister?”
“That’s definitely her.” He says it without the urgency I think a statement in this situation deserves. Dare I say, he thinks it’s funny.

We reach her hysteria and I feel in my bones all the cracked blinds of neighbor’s windows. But since she’s my third child I’m not too concerned and figure they can thank me later for not leaving her in the yard to work it out on her own.
“You, lef, me, I, din’t, know, whe, you, were,” she says through hiccups. Well, Little One, if I can hear you through the house walls I think I’m close enough.

Scooping her, I smell the trash I won’t remember to take to the curb until I scramble in pajamas the next morning hoping beyond hope the garbage men will take a little longer at the next door.

Through the house is a swamp of backpacks, strewn shoes, papers about after school clubs and fundraisers.
“Excuse me, am I the only one living here? Pick up your stuff, please.” Actually, let me be honest. I didn’t say please. And I growled the other words.

There is fighting, sneering over snacks they claim to have forever hated, and despising of homework (and they don’t really like it either). There’s second grade football that is cancelled after we risk our lives in rain and lightening on the field. There is more fighting on the way home, not from the kids. There’s yelling to get ready for bed.

We’re so far from a Pinterest square that I’m ready to shove my computer somewhere a lady should never speak of. So I won’t.

Then I get an idea.

“Brush your teeth, grab a pillow and meet me back on the bed.”
“What are we doing?” they say suddenly interested.
“You’ll see.”

My youngest can’t keep still, my oldest is trying to wedge her skinny butt in the best seat, and if I don’t hurry we will have gained nothing.

“We’re going to build a story together. You get one sentence and then it’s the next person’s turn. You start,” I say to my son.

“Once upon a time there was a skeleton,” he says with a machine gun giggle.
“He loved eyeballs so much he wanted some.”
“Um, I um, I don’t know what to, umm. He had some eyeballs!” More laughter.
“His name was Beuford and one day he saw a beautiful girl skeleton named Susan.”
“He fell in love with Susan and grew a heart.”
“Oooo. Tee hee.”
“The end,” he says. And we all crack up.

Beuford, the skeleton who will never have craft instructions or make children content, but who one night made a family, a family again on a queen-sized bed.

 

Saved by the Bell

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“And the ho-o-o-ome, of the-e, bra-a-ave!”

She’s not even close, and who of us ever actually hit that note well? A small margin. The rest of us kind of lip sync, our hearts swollen proud and hands reverently gracing our chests while the “singers” fill in what we cannot. Or, we hurt the ears around us, like she’s hurting mine just now.

My little one is pounding my shoulders and kissing the back of my head. Her Frozen ballad comes next, clashing nicely with her sister’s patriotic scream.

I get out bread, crusty at the top from nearly being burned by the freezer. With a knife I spread peanut butter in swirls, trying to make it look perfect the way the old father/son JIF commercials used to advertise. Always, always I needed a sandwich after watching those. And then I’m remembering the ponds from past Country Time Lemonade ads. Kids jumping in, the narrator charming me with his raspy voice, and suddenly I want to be there too. I want the nostalgia, the feel of what’s vintage and safe and fun.

There’s a fight near the coffee table and someone has moved on to, “Now bring us some Figgie Pudding, nah nah nah…”

Time for school.

 

 

Coffee Cold as a Blizzard on Mother’s Day

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It sits there with just a few sips missing and I know I’ll end up drinking my coffee as I do almost every other morning. Reheated.

The usual escapades are unfolding. My daughter is angry that her brother has infected the air of her bedroom with his cootie-like oxygen molecules, and Miss Petite is having a meltdown about wearing snow boots with her favorite dress.
I know, I want to say to her. It is nearly two weeks into May and the idea of that blizzard, the one outside, makes me want to spread eagle on the bathroom floor too. But one of us must keep it together. So I’ll do it. I guess.

I get ready in spurts, half-listening to the articulate speeches on inequality in our household republic given graciously by my oldest. Except then I remember this is a dictatorship. Go change into something not jammies, and without peace signs. Thank you.

The clutter of combs, earrings, toothpaste, too many hair ties, an old watch, or two, and various sizes of brushes slam against the face of the drawer as I open it. I pull out the big round one and turn up my drier. I think they talk to me, the kids. At least, I see their lips moving but it’s like listening on the other side of glass. I make some confused motion that will exasperate them from still trying. They just get louder.

Finally, I’m in a zone. The kind where I’m doing something monotonous and there is just enough space for me to think. I push myself to come up with words but instead, it’s all faces. Beauty. Of the amazing women I know.

There’s one with fists like iron, to fight lawmakers by day and to keep her marriage together for her kids by night.  

There’s one who sits on the toilet lid as tears slide from her knuckle to the hundredth stick test that never shows a second line no matter how much she prays in those 4 minutes.

The one who knows the only baby she wants is the revolving door of patients that walk through her office, and a small cat named Tibbles.

The one who is actually a dad carrying both roles, spent and depleted in every way and still missing the wife he sees when his little girl giggles.

One who has a daughter she’s never said by name, or held, or heard whimper because she was called home before she made it to her mommy’s arms.

One who lives with newspaper ink on her fingers from scouring coupons to feed the five foster kids that need a place to name home.

I sit on the side of my bed and tell the kids to come close as I open my card from them. The first word is Grandma, picked out by my son who really just loves Snoopy no matter what the sentimental words declare on the front. I mean, he’s seven, and has obviously not made me a grand anything but messes. I open it, and I’m grateful. To be their mom, to be in their life.

But also to know some pretty incredible women who do some pretty unbelievable caring, biological mother, or not.

Would anyone like to warm up my coffee? I need to sit here and remember a few people.