rolling stop
Being a mom means always being sick, or taking care of someone who is sick. It means forgetting to eat, forgetting to pee, and forgetting laundry in the drier for three days. It means a jungle of toys across the living room floor, and stepping on tiny explorers hiding in the doorway.
Being a mom means never again sleeping in.
It means trading a lifetime of being the smart one for a lifetime of second guessing myself.
It means coming up with on the fly answers to my three year olds most pressing questions...
"What if there was stairs but no rooms, just stairs?"
(Then you would go up the stairs and that would be it, there would be no rooms to go into.)
"What if I took my feet off?"
(If you had no feet you would just fall down when you tried to walk.)
"What if I had no bones?"
(Then you would just be all floppy.)
Being a mom means feeling like a failure when he is angry at me for not letting him wash his own hair. It means my heart breaking as he cries after every scary dream. And it means feigning excitement as he yells, "Mommy come look at the big poop I made!"
For me, being a mom means being more proud and amazed as I have ever been in my whole life as he reads me his new Elephant and Piggy Book, I Love My New Toy. All while wearing his Burger King crown and begging me to talk like a King.
Being a mom means recreating myself on a daily basis. It means learning to let go of the stages now past, of the baby, then the toddler, and loving who he is now. It means mourning things I never thought I'd mourn, and loving things I never thought I'd love.
It means piles of library books and trips to the zoo. It means going down the slide while pretending to be a giraffe. It means knowing that bug spray will erase sharpie marker.
It means making time, stealing time, and creating time. It means letting the laundry wait, leaving the beds unmade, and saving the vacuuming for later.
And it means watching him go off to his first gymnastics class. Smiling to myself as he sits nicely and listens to the teachers, talks to the other children, and takes the teachers hand, not mine, to walk across the beam.
For the past two years I have been a stay at home mom, something I never in a million years believed I would be. Before that I spent twelve years working with traumatized youth. I listened to, argued about, and voted on hundreds and hundreds of reported child abuse cases. I created a safe space for sexually assaulted children to find their inner voice and strength. I taught children from violent homes how to express their fears, doubts, and triumphs. I supported families in rebuilding their lives.
And as strange as this sounds, I loved every minute of it. No matter how hard or how stressful it could sometimes be, I loved my job. And I loved every one of those children. Every one of them.
I know that it is not always or even often a parents fault when their child suffers some kind of trauma. And I know that traumatized children are not broken.
But in this moment, watching my son in gymnastics class, watching him clap and yell for the big girls doing vault, I can't help but think, "I didn't break him."
He is kind, loving and gentle. He is happy and curious about the world. He is everything I wish him to be, and I didn't break him.
And tears fill my eyes, as I suddenly find myself saying, "I've seen enough broken children in my lifetime."
And for just a second, I wonder what I mean by that. But my mind rolls past it as I look up and see the bright smile on my son's face as he gets ready to do a forward roll.
And for me, right now, being a mother is doing this. I can stop and worry about my chosen career or my future anytime. But right now, I want to be spending my spare moments watching him grow and change, being proud of the little man he is becoming, and joining him on the slide for as long as he'll have me.
Being a mom means never again sleeping in.
It means trading a lifetime of being the smart one for a lifetime of second guessing myself.
It means coming up with on the fly answers to my three year olds most pressing questions...
"What if there was stairs but no rooms, just stairs?"
(Then you would go up the stairs and that would be it, there would be no rooms to go into.)
"What if I took my feet off?"
(If you had no feet you would just fall down when you tried to walk.)
"What if I had no bones?"
(Then you would just be all floppy.)
Being a mom means feeling like a failure when he is angry at me for not letting him wash his own hair. It means my heart breaking as he cries after every scary dream. And it means feigning excitement as he yells, "Mommy come look at the big poop I made!"
For me, being a mom means being more proud and amazed as I have ever been in my whole life as he reads me his new Elephant and Piggy Book, I Love My New Toy. All while wearing his Burger King crown and begging me to talk like a King.
Being a mom means recreating myself on a daily basis. It means learning to let go of the stages now past, of the baby, then the toddler, and loving who he is now. It means mourning things I never thought I'd mourn, and loving things I never thought I'd love.
It means piles of library books and trips to the zoo. It means going down the slide while pretending to be a giraffe. It means knowing that bug spray will erase sharpie marker.
It means making time, stealing time, and creating time. It means letting the laundry wait, leaving the beds unmade, and saving the vacuuming for later.
And it means watching him go off to his first gymnastics class. Smiling to myself as he sits nicely and listens to the teachers, talks to the other children, and takes the teachers hand, not mine, to walk across the beam.
For the past two years I have been a stay at home mom, something I never in a million years believed I would be. Before that I spent twelve years working with traumatized youth. I listened to, argued about, and voted on hundreds and hundreds of reported child abuse cases. I created a safe space for sexually assaulted children to find their inner voice and strength. I taught children from violent homes how to express their fears, doubts, and triumphs. I supported families in rebuilding their lives.
And as strange as this sounds, I loved every minute of it. No matter how hard or how stressful it could sometimes be, I loved my job. And I loved every one of those children. Every one of them.
I know that it is not always or even often a parents fault when their child suffers some kind of trauma. And I know that traumatized children are not broken.
But in this moment, watching my son in gymnastics class, watching him clap and yell for the big girls doing vault, I can't help but think, "I didn't break him."
He is kind, loving and gentle. He is happy and curious about the world. He is everything I wish him to be, and I didn't break him.
And tears fill my eyes, as I suddenly find myself saying, "I've seen enough broken children in my lifetime."
And for just a second, I wonder what I mean by that. But my mind rolls past it as I look up and see the bright smile on my son's face as he gets ready to do a forward roll.
And for me, right now, being a mother is doing this. I can stop and worry about my chosen career or my future anytime. But right now, I want to be spending my spare moments watching him grow and change, being proud of the little man he is becoming, and joining him on the slide for as long as he'll have me.