Writing On The Bandwagon

I’m pretty ticked off about the Time magazine cover article, Are You Mom Enough? I can’t help but want to know what moron decided that mothers need more reasons to pin themselves against one another. Moms who work verses those who stay home, moms who breastfeed verses those who don’t, moms who co-sleep verses those who let them cry it out. Guess what, there isn’t just one answer for every mom! 

A Little Something Sweet

When I was in fifth grade, my favorite activity was swinging on my school’s swing set. At this age, my parents had me playing soccer and basketball, as well as taking piano lessons. In soccer, I received a trophy with the other team members that our very nice coach had taken the time to engrave with personal messages, such as, “Best Goalie”, or “Strongest Fullback”. Mine read, “Most Potential”… And in basketball, I was always being told to be more aggressive. During piano lessons, I never really understood why I should learn the notes when it seemed much simpler to follow the little numbers above the notes. I was that kid who was too afraid to ride on roller coasters, I ran away from the soccer ball more times than I ran toward it, and I cried the first time I shoved someone to the ground in basketball. I was a girly girl. I was not a tomboy.

Shedding Skin

I’m thankful for my local coffee shop today – to be able to sit – away from mommyhood – in an environment that makes me feel more like a person than a mom. Why do these two things seem so separate in my mind – me as a person, and me as a mom? Why can’t the two co-exist harmoniously? I feel split and lost with two identities. I know what I should be as a mom – what I thought I would be. A mom that’s on top of things – putting my children first – doing absolutely everything to make sure they don’t suffer in ways I did – to make life better for them – to educate myself – to push them and to ease up on them – to be loving above all else – to live for them.

Sitting Still

Sitting on the deck in a lounge chair, listening to cheerful birds chatter as the soft wind whistles through tree leaves. Across the lake someone is playing Celtic music - just the flute playing – soft, mournful and simple - echoing off the mountains - hugging the lake with a sound of despair and hope mixed in a maze of sweet melody. The wind carries the lake water to the beach, as it gently licks the shore. The clouds above the mountains are grey and still, hovering like a crowd of people waiting for something to happen. But the clouds know better. Only they can make it happen – the outpouring and release of rain is up to them – only they decide when to crack open and spill all that has been held with in.

It has been the summer of rain. The clouds unable to retain much – always spilling out onto the land. And the days that do remain dry, carry a wind that is slow and wet, the clouds threatening to crack at any moment. It feels as though the earth is mourning – mourning for the spirit of a people that are broken – that hold onto hope and optimism – but who are cracking on the inside. I feel I need to take my cue from the clouds and stop waiting for something to happen. I must spill what remains in my cracked spirit – must spill the sorrow, hurt, shame and fear. And only when the last drop has been purged from the very depths of my soul, only then, will I begin to heal.

The flute music has stopped. The wind is still. All that remains is a cheerful chattering bird, and the heavy clouds.