Why Scheduled "Me Time" is Essentially Bullshit

A challenge I’ve relentlessly faced as a single mother is all sorts of uninvited feedback from all sorts of well-meaning people. I know these people (most times) mean me no harm. Yet- it seems as though being a single parent opens the door and throws out the welcome mat for others people’s ideas and opinions about our lives.

Lately I hear the phrase- or phrases very similar that go something like this: “You get to have a life.”

If you’re a single parent you probably hear this a lot too.

I know what they are trying to say- I really do. They’re trying to tell me that it’s okay to do things separate from my kids. It’s okay to take, “me time.” A slogan I’ve come to loathe, but one no less that carries a message on the importance of personal well-being and self-care.

But-

It still makes me cringe, because I already have a life. It’s full and it’s filled with love and meaning and joy and laughter. It’s also filled with endless piles of laundry, repeated reminders to finish homework, unending bickering, and unfinished chores. But- it is a life. It is my life. It is my purpose. It is the thing that grounds me. It is the reason I am both together and a “hot mess.”

And yes, I want to be fun and exciting and carefree sometimes, but I also just really want to sit on my sofa and tune-out. True- there are things I want to do sans kids, talents I want to refine and places I want to visit, but- I also know that when I’m not with them- (most times), no one else is either, and unless leaving them is a necessity it feels irresponsible.

And “me-time” lately feels like one more tiring thing on my to-do list.

At the end of the day me-time looks a lot like me falling asleep watching Netflix on my laptop, only to wake up a few hours later reminded of all the sh** I should’ve been doing instead.

Here’s what it looks like when I make plans to go out and do things sans kids: “Ohemgee! I cannot wait to see you and do ‘the thing.’ It’s going to be such a good time, I really miss you!!”

Here’s what it looks like when the time actually arrives: “Dammit- why do I make plans?! I don’t want to go. Stephanie just do it. Me time-is important. You made the plan now do the plan. Don’t be a flake.”

Here’s what it looks like an hour in: “Wow! Look at you out and about doing the plan! Go girl. I’m so proud of you.”

Here’s what it looks like two hours in: “Well that was fun- oh- they’re not done yet. Bummer. How much longer is this going to take really?” **Checks time. Feigns interest.**

I know going out with my friends and meeting new people is important- don’t get me wrong here. I’m far too young to become a recluse. But the over emphasis to do the things and make the plans that fall under the umbrella of me-time is really starting to feel like a hostage situation.

It’s not that I’m not going out with great people. I am. I am surrounded by wonderful, funny, inspiring, talented friends and family. It’s not them- It’s me. I’m so bogged down by this idea that I must go out and enjoy myself that it ends up feeling like a chore and I end up not enjoying myself at all.  There are these ideas out there of what “me time” should look like- and I try to live up to that- yet I’m just not cool with that, and it ends up feeling forced and erroneous.

The message I get from catchphrases that get tossed around feels like a set of instructions of sorts on how to live a fulfilling life. It restrictive. Limiting.

Don’t regulate my free time- that just all kinds of oxy-moronic. Yet- the pressure I feel to comply when I hear this stuff is heavy and burdensome and taxing, and then I need a nap after making a mental note to conform.

And in case you’re wondering spending your free-time napping rather than socializing is okay. It doesn’t always mean you’re isolating. And then again maybe you are. However I’m a big advocate of listening to your mind and body, so if its telling me to withdraw from people for a bit, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe I need to hear something that only the quiet can bring. Maybe I’ll hear what I need to from the music that blasts in my ears- tuning you out. Others people’s voices get so loud and deafen the voice inside myself that knows what I need. I can’t always get what’s best for me from you. You have great ideas and suggestions, and sometimes that stuff works great for me- but sometimes it doesn’t, and I need to tap into my own source for direction and guidance.

Myself and I receive enlightening insights about what I need when I’m in the stillness, or the loudness of my own chaotic life.  The cost of buying into other people’s ideas about what a fulfilling life is or looks like- is way too high. I can no longer pay that price.

Lots of people have lots of (unwarranted) good ideas and suggestions for my life. But at the end of the day- it’s my life. Being a single mom- my life is going to look really unbalanced sometimes, it’s going to look messy, chaotic, and maybe even a little fragile in places. I’ve readjusted my expectations though, and I’m okay with it. It feels good to know I’ve given my children the very best parts of me, and I know when I’m due some time to myself. Trust me- I can feel that. I can feel it as strongly as I can feel the hunger pains for supper kicking in on days I’ve skipped breakfast and lunch because I was too busy forgetting to remember to eat.

Update: I wrote this last year, and never posted it, but since then I feel less and less like a single mother everyday. More on that to come!! XO

Much Love,

Stephanie

A Page in My Diary about Death & Friendship & How to Make it Last

 

So. My friend is dying. Probably soon. I’ve began writing a book about his life, and he messaged me the other night to tell me that I better get what I need within the next four months. The cancer is taking over. It’s aggressive and is showing no mercy. I can’t stop thinking about his family, and what a tragedy this is. I know he isn’t the first person to get a terminal diagnosis, but it makes me sad and frustrated. I wonder how people do it; how do they cope? How do they continue on with life when so much of what’s important and meaningful to them has been stripped away? Although- if he’s had any influence on them whatsoever, I think they will be brave and bring light, and humor when the final curtains are drawn on his life. Never the less his wife, kids, grandkids, and other family members will be changed for better and for worse. And in addition to that there is an entire community of people across the country who have been affected by his mentorship in one form or another, and will be equally changed for having known and lost him.

Today I was considering my new friendship with him. How quickly it blossomed. I thought about how he confided to me the other day that I’ve become a confidant of sorts for him. He said I reminded him a bit of an old friend of his. I was honored. Later, it struck me as odd that I’m latching on to a dying man. It’s not that I haven’t had the time to get to know him better until now, because I have. He’s been in my corner from a distance for the last 7 years or so. It kind of makes me wonder what my therapist would say. I suppose it’s in sync with my MO. It’s no secret that I’ve found myself in multiple entanglements with men that couldn’t offer me anything, nor deliver on promises made. It’s ironic though; I feel like this dying man can offer me the world, delivered kindly, and truthfully with an F-bomb (or two or three). And go figure, he’s totally available.

Last night he showed me some photos of him in his youth; twenty something's, long hair, handsome and all bad boy. The kind of guy I would’ve swooned for in my twenties and begged to pull my hair. The look in his eye as described by him was, “What the fuck are you looking at?” I’d agree. He talked to me about what a rebel he was, and how angry he was.  I could relate; the rage, the fear, the search for belonging. My teenage years were tough. Sometimes I’m surprised I made it through. I’ve realized though, that those “lost years” prepared me. They got me ready for the woman I was to become. The one who some think is warm and caring, and well- some think is a real bitch. In all fairness, both are accurate.

My boyfriend asked me, “Why do you think you’re latching onto him?”

I talked in my last post about how through another woman he helped set me free, but the other part of that is that I’m afraid I only have part of the recipe, and a few ingredients. I need the rest, and as his illnesses progresses I feel like I’m running out of time. How selfish is that? I told him I wish I’d grown closer to him sooner. He told me it probably happened just in time. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t help but feel regret for letting years of his friendship escape me.

I asked my friend if he was afraid of dying. I know that question might’ve sounded pointless, as the answer might be a bit obvious, but I had to ask. I needed to hear his answer. Like most of his answers, it was lovely, rare and insightful.

He told me he gets scared of the process. Dying of cancer is ugly; bed pans, soiled sheets, severe pain, and being a burden on his family. He said he has to remind himself though that he’s not there yet, and might not ever be. He also told me he gets scared of death itself, because there might be nothing after this. He said hell or purgatory don’t scare him, it’s just the ending and not being. He talked about how some of his own heroes have died of cancer. He thinks they “prepared him for it, led the way and are pulling for him.” He said that “comforts him and eases the fear.” Then he said something that really made me contemplate the way I live my life. He said, “The fear of not being is all about ego.”

I asked him to explain that. He said, “My ego can’t stand the thought of not being. The spirit understands humility and accepts it. The ego doesn’t, it wants to not only live forever, but rule. Our egos are our identity. It’s what we’re attached to.”

He told me about an exercise he was given that had to do with looking for unhealthy attachments in his life; things such as: money, people, position, image, etcetera. He said that he eventually saw that any attachment made change a struggle, and when he most recently did this exercise he told me he found, “A big one. The biggest one, and maybe the last one.”

Ready for this? He found he was attached to life.

Once my question was answered I regretted asking it. I felt like any response from me would be silly, and futile. Tears began to sting my eyes and roll down my face. As I sat in a Starbucks somewhere in Illinois I cursed his God for the unfairness of it all. I questioned life, and what it meant, and what it was all for.

It just feels like such a tease. I mean, it’s like here’s this life; have it, taste it, view its beauty, and experience the earth’s glory. And love; love hard, and deep, and true. And lose, and take a gamble. Do some deep belly laughing, and accomplish things, and fail. Inspire others, and give of yourself. Take a walk on the beach and feel sand between your toes, feel joy, and sadness. Go outside at dark to contemplate a starry night’s sky- but don’t get attached to it. Don’t get overly attached to this life. If you do- well you’re screwed because it’s going to make leaving that much more difficult.

He’s not even mad at God. He told me God didn’t give him cancer, and that his cells are just fu**** up! If he's not mad- well I sure the hell am. Everything feels frivolous.

He suggested I do the exercise as well. Ready for the irony? I’m attached to him, and I’m attached to what he brings to a community of hopeless people; hope, salvation, and freedom, and love.

I once heard that Eskimo’s (not entirely sure about this) have a tradition of giving away their most treasured item every year as a reminder not to get too attached to anything. I wondered for a bit what I’d give away. Could I get away with pretending to treasure my piled up dirty laundry most? Hmm. Now that’s a thought!

As the day wore on, and I considered more of my attachments I became less angry at his God. I started having this overwhelming sense, this deep inner knowing that I’m going to be a part of people’s journeys to death a lot. And so maybe like the men he respected prepared him; he’s preparing me. Plus, I get to be close to this man that I respect so much. I get to share some of his last time here on earth with him, and I feel lucky that he’s given me so much of his dwindling time. I’ve also come to see that everyone this man has touched will inherit a bit of his strength and courage. And if the people who he’s touched are anything like me- they’ll feel a duty to carry on with his legacy.  

I feel this renewed sense of obligation to share my own experience, strength and hope. With his guidance and mentorship I did something the other day that helped heal and soften my heart a little, and it restored something that I thought my carelessness had broken forever. I think at this point in my life, he’s the only one that could inspire that level of courage and unpretentiousness in me.

Through his own fears he told me he prays for us; his people- not himself nor his own healing. It really is a privilege and an honor that I get to record some of this man’s life and listen to him reminisce as he takes me down memory lane. A lane that’s filled with simplicity and magnificence and miracles. A lane that shines brightly enough so that we may all find our way to it, and continue to carry the message of God and healing and love and laughter. A lane that he’s paved with grit, and courage, and heart, and care, and kindness.

Through all of this, through all of his pain and hardship, he has made me deep belly laugh, every single day since we started this journey together. I still can’t explain why I found my way to him when I did, and why we connected so quickly, or why he was the one to extract the willingness for growth out of me. I think that some things can’t be said with words and they can only be felt with our hearts. I’m beginning to understand what “language of the heart” means. And I have a gut feeling I’m going to crave it a lot more often. I will always hold him responsible, and thank him deeply for sparking a desire in me that I thought died long ago.

Much love to you all.

Stephanie Ann.

http://seemomdo.blogspot.com/2016/01/threesomes-spooning-and-cake-dying-mans.html

Short Story: A Realization About Purpose

 

 

It’s Sunday afternoon and I just dropped Nic off at work. Soon I’ll pick Angiebaby up from a sleepover. In the living room I can hear Elijah studying while eating “brain food.” (More on that later.) Odin is wore out, chillin’ in the hallway with a ball in his mouth. I’m not quite sure why he won’t put it down, because he’s obviously exhausted and has no motivation to play with it. I made a trip to Tractor Supply this morning to get him some new toys because he’s going stir-crazy in this house. Being as cold as it is, I practically have to kick him out of the door to use the bathroom- and he’s a beast. Try budging 90 pounds of stubbornness out of your door sometime. The shit ain’t easy!

Anyway- I’m babbling. This weekend has been really great. Despite the fact that I lost my shit on my daughter yesterday before she left for work, and then she ignored my “I’m sorry I suck,” texts all afternoon. Regardless of that- it’s been the kind of stuff that my childhood dreams of motherhood were made up of. (PS-Nic and I made up over soft-serve in the DQ parking lot when she got off work.)

I’ve been contemplating why this weekend has been so good, and why it isn’t always like this. Why some weekends I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel, in a tornado, or even worse- failing miserably to keep up with it all. I know a lot of families are busy.  I’m not saying we’re busier than you, but- we go hard. Maybe you go hard too. I don’t know. But if you do- you might want to pay attention, because I was startled by what I discovered this morning. Even though it’s not a new message to me. I’ve heard it before, hell I’ve tried it before. I just don’t think I’ve applied it like this before.

So- when my kids were all in grade school they’d come home in the afternoons, and that time was spent; watching TV, having supper, playing outside, doing homework, and whatever else we wanted to do. It’s not like that anymore. Pretty much everyone in this house has someplace to be every day from sun up to sun down. The days where we all have to be in multiple different places at once gets tricky. If we are acquaintances (you and I) and you have a car and live within the vicinity, odds are you’ve driven at least one of my children someplace. At least once.

Life is moving by at an alarming rate. There are so many things to do with such a small window of time to do them in. We’re all just going through the motions in this house. When I write out the calendar for the week, I always say a little prayer, “God give me strength, or if you prefer a pro bono personal assistant with a nice ass and good organizational skills. Amen.” Apparently God thinks I need strength.

So initially this weekend was made up of all this stuff I was going to do, and then I wasn’t going to do any of that stuff and I was going to take my kids out of town. Only, it wasn’t working out. I kept trying to approach it from all these angles, and then another barrier would show up. But I’m the kind of girl who once my mind is made up, I don’t cave. I go full force. And made up my mind was. We were going to visit some people and hang out at a water park.

But then something changed. There became a shift in my intent after I got a string of texts from my son reminding me that exams are next week, and he’s sorry but he’s not going to be able to go out of town with me. He compiled a list of foods that are good for your brain and asked me to buy them so that he can do really well on his exams. (Update: Since Friday that’s all he’s done is study and eat super foods.)

Ahh. There it is though. My discovery. Purpose. Through those text messages my purpose changed. It changed from: be everywhere all at once, and make it to everything, to: just support your babies.

Usually when I’m home I have a million things going on at once, all of my roles are being intertwined. My purpose changing at a moment’s notice. This weekend that wasn’t the case. I was just mom.

I’ve been here, present, and in the thick of it. And I haven’t doubted my decision for a minute. I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be. Home. Here. Rooting for my little champions. Feeding them brain food.

The only role, my sole purpose this weekend was support my babies. I have the rest of my life to support other people and go to water parks. I only have a few years left with these guys to teach them about honor and responsibility and purpose. My purpose was here, dishes, sweeping, keeping it quiet, and feeding brains, and I am totally okay with that.

Elijah never asked me to stay home. In fact I’m not sure that would’ve even crossed his mind, but as people who know each other well do, you read one another. I read him. I read right through “super foods, and quiet places to study,” to, “Mom I need you.”

He makes me. He makes me better.

I know it’s our job to make our children better, but sometimes we don’t know better. Sometimes, every now and again we have to let them guide us, and teach us a thing or two about life, and love, and support, and purpose.

I realized today that when I don’t have any other agendas, I can be where I am stress free, guilt free- essentially free. My purpose doesn’t get clouded and bogged down by other stuff and I can be fully present. Which even left a few pockets of time for me to do some things for myself like talk to a good friend, and write all this down.

As I left the house to pick up Angiebaby I heard my son call after me the same few words he’s called after me every time I’ve left the house for the last few years, “I love you. Drive safe.”

“I love you too, I will.” I say. As I close the door I think, “And thank you Elijah for showing me, on the days I don’t know how- to be your mom.”

In a world full of places to be and things to do, I choose here. I choose this purpose, this place. I have a way of letting my purpose pass me by, so I guess what I really mean to say, that at the end of the day, at the end of this day, is that I'll always remember this. The weekend that I was present and had purpose, and things felt meaningful, and kids were nice, and I enjoyed every minute of every dish I washed.

XoXo,

Stephanie Ann.

Threesomes, Spooning, and Cake: A dying Man's Regrets (of sorts)

I started this blog with the intention of posting every week. I have to admit though life has been hectic. I haven’t been able to stop and appreciate it, or get inspired by it long enough to have the words to communicate my experiences in a blog post. I don’t mean to say there haven’t been real genuine treasurable moments, because there have been many. But they’re fleeting. They pass, and we move on.  It has been many moons since I’ve been inspired to write like I am now. I woke up this morning and I just had to get this on paper. More than I had to feed the kids, or feed myself, or start the dishwasher. I had to get this on paper because it’s beautiful, and raw, and real, and terribly stoic.

I’m not sure where to even begin, so I’ll start by saying there’s all this business on whether or not one is a “crier.” People say things like, “I cried, and I am not a crier.” This statement is meant to give the receiver the impression that the moment was so intense that it made someone cry who ordinarily wouldn’t.  Or they’ll say something such as, “For the first time in a long time my first response was not to cry.” I don’t know what this one means exactly, but I’m pretty sure I’ve said it myself, and meant it.

Nowadays I don’t know whether or not I’m a “crier,” but I do cry. Sometimes when I cry it freaks people out. They’ve said things to me such as, “It’s so weird to see you cry.” Or, “I don’t know what to do when you cry because it’s so uncommon.” My son asked me why I don’t cry when people die. The response is complicated, and could easily take up an entire post on its own, but in short I go numb. But that’s not entirely true either. Sometimes I just see the beauty in the beast of death.

So in a way these people are right, I don’t cry a lot. It makes me feel like a pussy. I used to though. Oh god, I used to cry over everything. Then one day I just stopped. Instead of crying today I take a deep breath and say something like, “well this shit sucks,” and then just handle business.

I don’t think I did it on my own though, and by that I mean I don’t think I made the decision to just stop being a crier. I’ll get to more on how that happened later.

Anyway, I woke up thinking about crying today because well, I woke up crying, which is rare. And that doesn’t make me tough or strong, or anything like that. I think it’s safe to say I’m part of the majority of people who do not wake up crying.

But here’s the thing.

I’ve been communicating with this man, and odds are, he is dying. Maybe sooner, maybe later, but he’s ill, and unless he gets a miracle he will die of this disease. This man is special to me. He came into my life by way of the “trickledown effect,” and he helped set me free.

You see, he gave all this spiritual wisdom to this gal and she passed it on to me. It was just in the nick of time too. I was a real Debbie Downer. I cried all the time, stared at the wall, and contemplated suicide. It was a really tricky situation too, because I thought I was a part of a spiritual community that was supposed to be saving my life. Despite doing everything they did, and everything they told me to do, I still went home and cried and stared at my wall, and thought about who would care for my babies if I killed myself. I wondered how I could make it look like an accident. I’d go home from those spiritual meetings wondering why it wasn’t working for me and why I hated it so much. But I kept pretending things were okay, hoping that if I could just fake it long enough, I’d surely make it. I smiled when I didn’t want to. I talked to people I didn’t like. I acted better than I felt, and I got further and further from who I really was at my core. This in turn, made me more and more miserable with each passing day. The rules of this community, which were laid out for me to live and abide by, made me feel like a wild caged lion. I was angry and wanted to bite someone’s head off. I felt so trapped because I thought if I wanted to live I’d have to keep doing this, and that thought made me want to vomit. Now- I’ve always been a little bit of a hellion, a little rebellious, way too curious, and quite frankly pretty stubborn. The conformed life was not one for me, but damn I tried like hell.

Then something really cool happened though. I started talking to this gal (the one that was bestowed with all this, what I call wisdom) and she was like, “Well maybe you don’t have to do any of that stuff. You should read the material again and decide for yourself…”

So I did. I started to see that I could live my life based on spiritual principals, rather than rules, and I started applying them. To make a long story short, I was set free, and I started to feel happy. I started to build real solid connections with people that mattered to me. I started being a part of the community I lived in. I started really participating (by choice) in this adulthood thing- and liking it. This was the result of one man taking the time to talk to a woman about spiritual principals and how to apply them to one’s own life. She then talked to me about those same things. I’ve yet to be restored to my old life (thank god), but I have been able to create a pretty cool new one with the help of that woman, God, and the experience that was passed down from this man. Finding God can be a complex thing in itself. Different people have different ways of going about it- and it just so happened their way worked for me.

So, fast-forward some. Him and I were communicating last night, and I told him I want to write his story down. The whole thing, not the one that everyone else gets but I want to write down all the nitty gritty shit in between. He doesn’t think he’s book-worthy, and maybe he’s not. Not by the standards of the #1 Best Seller community anyway. But, I feel like I need to do it. Maybe for me, and maybe for everyone else who may not have had the luxury of meeting this man in all his authenticity, sincerity, humor and dignity.

I asked him if he considered himself a Christian, and he told me he does, but that he ain’t a very good one (I disagree). Christians amaze me. In the face of a painful, brutal, unfair death they await salvation from Jesus. That to me is beautiful.

Life is fragile. My communication with him makes that abundantly clear. There is no rhyme or reason as to who goes and who stays. This is glaring as well. And as many times as I’ve found beauty in death, I feel like there is more beauty in this man’s breath. There is something great about this man. The way he always treated me like an equal, the way he’s reminded me before that he’s safe. He’s never treated me like he knew more or better than me. He’s unpretentious, and oblivious to his gift, and he allows others the freedom to live their lives without interrupting the process. He’s filled with the type of experience that not only inspires, but can actually save lives when shared. He does this often. He is in essence, an open book.

So, as we continue to talk about his health and how things will play out, he says to me, “Steph… I don’t have many if any regrets. I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done, but there are some things that I wish I had done that I didn’t do. Not many, but there are a few… and I had the chance to do them and passed them up. Nothing monumental. Silly stuff really. I wish I had kept playing in bands, and had a threesome, and had one really fast car. I wish I would have spooned with more girls too, and ate more cake.”

I tell him matter of fact that threesomes are overrated and I’m going to make it a point to eat more cake in his honor.

Afterwards I went to the bathroom and balled like a baby for a man that I’ve only been in the company of maybe 5 whole times, but who helped save the wretched little mess that I was. A man that lived a really simple life and at the end of his 55 years only wishes he ate more cake.

 So at the end of the day maybe I cry for good reason. Maybe my tears have a mind of their own, and shed as they see fit. I guess I don’t know for sure, but what I do know is that if I’m lucky he’ll keep sharing his stories with me, and I’ll know a little bit more about the man who helped save my life and has been rooting for me ever since.

The Secret Truth to Love that Nobody Tells You

 

What is all this love business about anyway?                                  

This past summer I visited my aunt. While I was there I was a part of a conversation that shook me a little bit. It challenged some of my ideas about what love actually is. I really spent a lot of time wondering if I had this love business wrong all along.

Let me say- visiting my aunt at her place always feels a bit like “coming home.” And- I don’t think that feeling is unique to myself, nor do I think that happens by accident. I can see there is a lot of hard work and preparation that goes into being a (frequent) hostess, and it is truly a labor of love. Whenever I’m there I do my best to show my gratitude for the gift of hospitality she gives by helping out as much as I can- with whatever I can. I don’t think it helped my cause much that my dog (rest in peace Ruka, sweet girl) pissed on her carpet every chance she got. But I digress.

We were sitting around, and as the dusk turned into night the topic of love came up.

“It’s not a feeling, it’s a verb!” I claimed.

Not a single person agreed with me. They were pretty much all in agreeance that love is- well- a feeling. And by definition they’re right. I googled it. On the definition of love, Webster says this:

NOUN 1. an intense feeling of deep affection 2. a person or thing that one loves 3. (in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil:

VERB 1. feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone

I do not accept that. And yes- I’m stubborn, and yes- I dislike being wrong, and yes- I frequently am, but this really has nothing to do with that. A feeling? No. That’s so minimal. Its bare bones, and no depth. It feels empty and shallow and reduced- reduced like the browning, and bruised bananas at the supermarket that nobody wants.

If that’s all love is; a feeling- by all means you can keep it. I don’t want it. I’ve had that kind of love, and the damage myself, and my lover were able to conjure up in love’s name was beyond a nightmare. I’m over it. I need more. I demand more. I must see, hear, and feel more. I need to stand in loves brutal grind prevailing in triumph; tired and all at once feeling exhausted and accomplished and inspired.

Love is a skill. For some that skill is fine-tuned, and expansive. For others it’s limited and fleeting. Then there’s a spot smack dab between the two, which sometimes looks really good, and like you’re all peace love and joy, yet other times it just looks sad and icky and messy and depressive. This is my spot, my space- I’m all up in this category. I’m both. I’m the grey area. The middle. The stretched out distance between the two extremes. And. I happen to like it here (most days). Love can be intense, and consuming. Reaching inside I rip everything out, and hand it over, and then there’s the constantly showing up as someone better than I feel like. It is tiring. Love will wear you thin.

In my mind the definition that has best described love comes from Corinthians 13:4-8: - and I’m not one who normally quotes the bible- but this is pretty brilliant.

 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

How I interpret that is that love is a way of being. These are skills. It is work. It is effort. It is not easy. It looks a lot like me having patience with you on the days that you’re working my last damn nerve. Rising to the task of showing you kindness when you piss me off takes an energy that I don’t always have. It is a practice; an exercise, and as some of the people who know me can attest- is not my strong suit. But- it is a suit that’s being worked on constantly. I am endlessly altering, and tailoring, and adding fabrics that enrich that suit. Because- my god- the people I love are worth it. I am worth it. I am worth exercising and strengthening my love; the way I give it- and the way I receive it.

The Corinthians passage also makes this claim in regards to love: it is not self-seeking. I’ve seen my aunt demonstrate this time and time again. She wakes at the crack of dawn after a long night of entertaining, she steps over the bodies of her sleeping houseguests to fix my grandfather a hot cup of coffee, and breakfast. That is love’s work people. There is no reward at the end of that for her. No pot of gold. No accolades. Just her, and the love she performs. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, and as someone who spends a lot of time taking care of other people myself, I know it’s not easy.

So, in matters of love, let me be that. Let me feel that. Let me be the deliverer (or receiver) of hot coffee and bacon in the early morning hours after a sleepless night. Let me not forget that love is a way of being. When I am in love, I am softer, gentler, and more open. When you minimize what love is by calling it a feeling, you take away everything magnificent, and magical, and special about it. When you say it’s simply a feeling- well that’s great, but only you can feel your feelings so it really doesn’t do much good- unless you’re willing to put that to work. If you say you love me- yet have no patience for my neurosis then thanks, but no thanks.

And so- at the end of the day- I want to do more than feel love; I want to perform love. I love writing- so I do it often. I’ve put about five hours into this piece alone. It started out as one thing, but turned into something else. What good is me saying that I love writing if I never create anything with it? If I don’t put time and energy into it, do I really love it? If that’s the case maybe I would be considered an admirer of writing, rather than a lover. No?

I love parenting. I didn’t always. I was a young, and selfish mother. But the love I have for my children transcended that, and so I practiced it daily. I took classes, I read books, and I made mistakes. I learned, and I sought guidance. I prayed like hell for God to make me better, or give my kids someone better than I was. Little by little I got better at this parenting thing. I worked hard on my parenting until I began to evolve as a parent. I grew, and we all got better as a direct result of me loving them. One day I woke up and we all kind of liked one another. We’ve been in-love ever since. Which really just looks a lot like me doing a bunch of stuff, I don’t always want to do; or responding appropriately to situations that I’m not always sure I’m mature enough for- and after I’ve said goodnight to my kids, after a really long, hard day- being really super-duper grateful that I am their mom, and I get to do it all.

So- the secret is simple- Love is a verb, it is an action, it is a skill. And unless you are performing, creating, nourishing, cultivating, practicing, sweating, working, or being your love… Well then sadly, you are in like- or in lust- or in some other thing that is not love. And maybe- just maybe I'm wrong- but if I am- I don't want to be right.

 

Much Peace.

The difference between me and you is the Incredible Hulk (& I think he had Asperger Syndrome too)

               The difference between me and you is The Incredible Hulk (& I think he had Asperger Syndrome too)

           My experience raising a young man with special needs

If I’m lucky enough to look back on my life in 60 years (I’m 34 now) no matter the trials that lay before me, I’m certain I will say parenting a child with special needs is the single most challenging task I ever undertook - and yet the most rewarding. Most parents in general, I think, would agree though. Raising our kids is the most beautiful, painful, awesome, insightful, thankless, inspiring, tiresome, fear-filled, excruciatingly annoying, agony rich, tedious, tender loving job on earth. It is the thing - most of us will say at the ends of our lives, that we were the most privileged to have had a hand in.

Nevertheless my sisters and misters that have had the task of raising children with special needs will know, our paths as parents are paved with a different kind of stone from that of parents with typical functioning children. And some days it feels like God chose the wrong person to give care for, and advocate for this wonderfully messy, and complicated little human. “It’s not me!” You’ll scream in despair at the top of your lungs, “I am not the one you intended to raise this child.” You’ll sob from bitter exhaustion. “It couldn’t possibly be me.” You’ll question. “Why did you choose me? I have no idea how to raise this young person, or how to guide him.” Momentarily you’ll give up. “I can’t help him. I can’t do it.” Then you’ll pick yourself up off the floor, or the sofa (in my case) of your best friends’ living-room, you’ll go to your child, you’ll wrap your arms around him, and hold him as long as he’ll allow. He’ll say in his awkward little way, “I love you.” – And for an instant, it will feel like the very end of a fairy tale, when they say, “And the two of them lived happily ever after.” – Only the process just starts all over again.

So when other parents are talking about the challenges of raising their “normal children” and comparing those tasks to yours, you’ll tilt your head and smile a bit, knowing deep down how very different your journeys are. Some folks might recognize this, and say to you, “I couldn’t do it if I were you, I don’t know how you do it” (as if that’s somehow comforting). You’ll think to yourself “how in the hell do you know what you would do? Because what other choice would you have but to do it?

A few years ago on Mother’s Day, I took my kids out to see the new Avengers movie. When I left there I made a post that said something along the lines of “I’m in love with the Hulk, he’s a beautiful hot-mess of a man.” I fell in love with Bruce Banner that day. Why did I fall in love with him you ask? Well because figuratively speaking, The Hulk is my son. And you don’t want to get him angry. You don’t want to disrupt his world. Trust me, you don’t. But, being his mom I must integrate him with the very large, and real world in which he resides. A world that as he grows he’s supposed to take his place in. As a parent, that is my duty. How do I integrate The Green Giant into a society where he can function? We know from the comics and movies that what The Hulk really needs is seclusion. But the longer he is secluded the more alone and real his differences become to him, the sadder and empty he becomes. He needs nourishment. One can’t be nourished properly in seclusion. Can he? At least not forever.

Recently I attended the funeral of my daughter’s friend who committed suicide weeks before her 16^th birthday. What do you say to that mother? What do you say to yet another mother, who tells you in confidence they found her son hanging in the bathroom - another minute more and he would have been dead? This is what mental illness looks like people. Suicide becomes the very last attempt one can make to quiet the mind. These are cries for help, or a release from feeling strong armed and caged in their minds. Are you with me?

So what do you say? If you don’t know what to say, you say nothing, lest you say something stupid. Close your eyes for a moment, and imagine it happening to you. It’s frightening isn’t it? The difference between me and some of you, is that I get it. I don’t always know what to say, but I’ve learned what not say to those parents. I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to have The Hulk come home from school in a rage, wanting to hurt himself because he’s tired of no one understanding him, and appreciating his differences. The world is not equipped to deal with his differences. So they seclude him, because- well what else do you do? He’s tired of not having friends, and of finishing his classwork in the time it takes the teacher to explain it to the others. He’s tired of not being able to do the things he wants while he sits there waiting for his “peers” to catch up. He’s tired of not being included to the birthday parties and sleep-overs. He’s tires of the misunderstandings, the missed connections, and miscommunications. He’s angry because he’s different and he knows it, and the world just wants him to stand in line, and follow suit, but standing still makes him queasy, and his body sometimes moves without his own permission. I’m convinced The Hulk was “on the spectrum.”

Feeling like a good parent isn’t always easy. Feeling like a good parent while monitoring, evaluating, and assessing a child with special needs, well as my friend puts it, “makes you feel like his case-worker rather than his mother.” We don’t always get the luxury of just being mom. Especially when I think my boy isn’t being treated fairly. Then I turn into super-hero, bad-ass, robo-cop, defense attorney mom, weaving in and out of the roles, of mother, advocate, and social worker, as I tie your words into knots, and push them ever so gently back down your throat to a place where you wish you never spoke them.

Parenting a child with special needs takes a vast amount of courage that is filled with miniscule triumphs. The road is laborious; it is unstable, crumbling, and unreliable in many places. People who should have the answers, don’t always have them. And sure anyone could say, "Whose road isn’t uncertain? Life is hard! Buck up!” But those of us that have traveled both roads know the roads are built much differently. One is tattooed with the footprints of common folk doing common things, as they coast through to their common destinations. All of the places they need, neatly marked on maps. The other was put together hastily, and never quite finished so we end up building our own roads so we can get where we need to go, only to find that the places we need don’t always exist, and so we end up pioneering landmarks on our own maps as we “blood, sweat, and tear” our way to equality for our children. We fight for their basic rights, policing new situations they are reluctantly integrated into. Because if we don’t, well who else will-? They’ll be swept into a system that knows no middle ground, one that knows no grace, nor has the time or wherewithal to help extract their potential.

 And so at the end of the day, we are different. We want the same things, yes. But what separates me from you, is that I am the girl who in the tireless hours of the night searches for a cure to the gamma that poisoned The Incredible Hulk. Waking up with sleep crusted eyes each morning just to catch a glimpse of the remarkable young scientist that he strives to someday be, hoping, wishing, and praying like hell that nothing happens that day to make him angry.

Anyone who knows him can see the progress he’s made, the incredible strides, and you know under all that green, Bruce Banner is waiting patiently for me to help him change for good into the great man he’s always been intended to be- green free.

 

 

Who are you?

 

Caterpillar: Who… are... you?

Alice: I-I hardly know, sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then. – Lewis Carroll

This resonates with me.

Alice's visit to Wonderland is the best analogy for my own life I ever found.

In my favorite version of it (Tim Burton’s), she falls down the rabbit hole as she’s trying to clear her head after being faced with a major life decision. The rabbit hole takes her to "Underland". It’s there she comes across all these peculiar circumstances that force her to face herself; preparing her for who she is to become. She gets big, she gets small, and she gets to try herself in all these different ways until she fits. She finds companionship. She discovers her own courage, her bravado, her muchness. She finds herself. Amongst all the chaos and madness of Underland, Alice finds herself. She comes into who she was always intended to be.

When I woke up in my own Wonderland several years ago, I was a mother to three young children (more on that later). Today two of those children are teenagers, and one is well on her way with a 13th birthday coming up. Some days it's like- how did I get here? And how do I balance it all? Some days I feel big, others I feel small, and like a lot of other mothers I have many roles, and I never know which one life will throw at me next. I find myself in situations that force me to become the type of woman I never dreamed I'd be; a better, more grown up, responsible, conscious, assertive, compassionate version of the girl who fell down the rabbit hole contemplating frivolous things.

I’m parenting my children solo, in the sense that I’m the sole breadwinner, provider, and caretaker for them. There is no weekend “me” time, or money coming in to help pay for healthcare, sports, or bubblegum. But damn I used to envy those moms. Sometimes I suppose I still do. I don’t put a lot of my energy there though. I’ve learned that there are upsides and downsides to being those moms. As well as there are both pros and cons to solo parenting. Some of the pros to doing this thing alone are that my kids and I do what we want, or more accurately put, we do what I want. Not sharing finances, and custody means that I also don’t share decision making. There is no going back and forth with another adult about what my kids will or won’t do. What I say goes. I don’t waste any time or energy debating morals, culture, schools, haircuts, clothing, and etcetera with someone who has opposing views.

Also. No sharing, splitting, or rotating holidays! Sure it would be nice to have every other weekend off from “momming” it but it wouldn’t be worth it if I had to forgo Christmas every other year. Something else I noticed recently is that I get to be greedy with their love. I know this probably makes me a horrible person, but I can’t help but revel that every time they succeed or get some type of victory they come to me first. I get to share all of the wonderful things that happen to them before anyone else. Further, I and I alone get to brag about it all. And brag I do.

But here I go again- you’ll get to see this is a theme with me. I start out in what seems to be a dialogue about me, and it very quickly shifts to my children. Being a parent, a single parent at that, leaves little time for yourself- guilt free anyway (that’s another topic for another day).

 

My work weeks have been slowly draining the life from me, my schoolwork never really feels finished, and my home never really seems to be in order. Much less, there being any time or space made for the things that I love.

Blogging is my attempt to find some balance. I’ve always had a passion for writing. I think it’s an insanely beautiful thing to see words consume a blank page- one meaningless letter at a time until they’ve filled pages telling heroic stories, or ugly truths. It’s while putting my thoughts on paper that my own truth makes its way out of my clouded, busy brain.

This blog is my place to share ideas and thoughts; to contemplate, reflect and connect with like-minded people. That’s about all I have for now. Check back soon to read more from See Mom Do.