Thoughts on being a cliche (old, from when Indy was 4)
Mother.
Has that one word become the definition of me?
I watch as the rolls I once held in people's lives are taken over by other people. The places I carved out, the definitions I created for myself, the territory I staked as my own. I watch as marauders move in and claim it as their own.
I am left behind as the lives of others pass right through me. Grasping at their lives, at stray words and phrases, ideas with which to forge a new definition of myself.
At home I teach the boy the colors in Spanish, make homemade yogurt fruit pops, and plan a whole week's worth of activities that revolve around the letter T. It is work and it isn't work. But it takes up all my time, covets every waking moment, and drowns out whatever spark there once was inside me.
Maybe it's because I don't value what I am doing as a mother. I don't value my worth as a home maker. I have watched others live this same life and thought they were crazy, thought they were squandering their potential, as I now squander mine.
My life is a cliche. Cooking, cleaning, shopping. Taking the boy to the park, to gymnastics, on playdates. Sitting with the other moms, and playing the roll of one of them. Discussing how to choose the right elementary school, what to feed picky eaters, and whether or not to have another child.
Every week, several times a week, the same women, the same conversations.
Is this all I am?
There is a little black cat that keeps coming in my yard. Timid, cautious. I feed him and I feed him and I feed him. And I can save him. I will save him. I will lure him in with food and love. It will take time. Well, I have time.
And I start getting invited to mom's night out.
I start pouring booze in my soda at night when I am alone. I don't even know why. Maybe there is no why. It is just something to do. It is just another cliche.
I ask the school if they ever use parent volunteers. They tell me all about the room they set up for the group of volunteer moms. The moms get together at Starbucks, go to Barnes and Noble, and then hang out stuffing envelopes for the school.
Sitting around with strangers, stuffing envelopes, drinking coffee, could I want anything less?
So I start drinking coffee. Never liked it before, but an Iced White Chocolate Mocha changes my mind. It is the most incredible drink I have ever had. It is delicious and mouth watering. As soon as I am done my body demands another. Every day I wake up and crave more. I become someone who drinks coffee.
I was something once. I was beautiful and smart and talented and loved. People wanted to know me. The real me. Or the other me. Whatever. I watched boys fall all over themselves for me and I kissed all the pretty girls. I was sexy and fun and respected in my field. I felt powerful.
I grab a brownie and an English Toffee Cappuccino and I gain another five pounds, as I move farther and farther away from who I once was. And closer and closer to this new life that everyone around me seems to enjoy. I can learn to enjoy it too.
And the days slip away. Funny how that happens, how you can blink your eyes and not even notice three days have passed.
But then I feel anxious. Anxious and crazy and fast. But not racing thoughts fast. I have to go go go go go, you can't go fast if you go too slow, fast. Like I'm already running. Like something is chasing me. Like my mind is gone, and it can hold no thoughts inside of it. And I realize after the fifth time, this isn't stress. This is caffeine. After a lifetime without, my body can not tolerate this new drug in my system.
And I realize that drinking alone at night just makes me feel more like a failure.
And moms night out means having to sit through movies I don't want to see. And it means listening to the now 25 year old girl who use to hit on me. She's now a wife and a mother, a personal trainer and yoga instructor. Her beautiful svelte body mocking me. It means listening to her talk about breastfeeding, and babysitters, and grandmothers who interfere. And suddenly I am defined as a mother even to people who knew me before.
And I look out my window and see the little black cat coming in to the yard, and I smile. But he is not alone. He has brought two of his little cat friends with him. And my heart sinks as I realize he is a pack cat. He is feral and wild and I can't risk bringing an untamed cat into the house. And I can't have a pack of wild cats hanging out in my yard.
And the next day he is in the yard, sitting in the grass, staring through my kitchen window, asking for me, waiting for food. Our eyes meet just for a moment, before I turn my back and walk away.
And I go back to my world. I take the boy and his neighborhood friends for a picnic at the park. We walk around the lake and talk about how teeth decay. We talk about bullies and the silliness of "a, e, i, o, u, and sometimes y". We meet a park ranger who tells us more than I really wanted to know about the life cycles of ducks and turtles and fish.
We sit down for a lunch of sandwiches and drinks and healthy snacks.
And a ten year old boy comes up behind me and just stands there staring at us. I turn back and look, his face, so very sad. I ask if he's okay. He shakes his head no. I ask if I can help him. He shakes his head no. I ask him if he's hungry, and he smiles and I give him my sandwich and he runs away with it. And I never see him again.
And I talk to the kids about hunger. About asking for something when they need it. About who the safe people in their lives are. About strangers. And about me. I explain that if they ever need anything, if they ever have a problem, or a question, that I will do my very best to help them. That I will always be honest with them.
This is the life I now live. This is the life I have chosen. I don't have to try to be something else. I don't have to try to be someone else. I don't have to be someone else's vision of what it means to be a mother. Or what it means to be me.
I just have to, as strange and cliche as it sounds, I just have to be.
I just have to be the mother I am. The woman I am. The person I am.
And that's enough.
At least I'm pretty sure that's enough.
I'm just going to hope that's enough.
Has that one word become the definition of me?
I watch as the rolls I once held in people's lives are taken over by other people. The places I carved out, the definitions I created for myself, the territory I staked as my own. I watch as marauders move in and claim it as their own.
I am left behind as the lives of others pass right through me. Grasping at their lives, at stray words and phrases, ideas with which to forge a new definition of myself.
At home I teach the boy the colors in Spanish, make homemade yogurt fruit pops, and plan a whole week's worth of activities that revolve around the letter T. It is work and it isn't work. But it takes up all my time, covets every waking moment, and drowns out whatever spark there once was inside me.
Maybe it's because I don't value what I am doing as a mother. I don't value my worth as a home maker. I have watched others live this same life and thought they were crazy, thought they were squandering their potential, as I now squander mine.
My life is a cliche. Cooking, cleaning, shopping. Taking the boy to the park, to gymnastics, on playdates. Sitting with the other moms, and playing the roll of one of them. Discussing how to choose the right elementary school, what to feed picky eaters, and whether or not to have another child.
Every week, several times a week, the same women, the same conversations.
Is this all I am?
There is a little black cat that keeps coming in my yard. Timid, cautious. I feed him and I feed him and I feed him. And I can save him. I will save him. I will lure him in with food and love. It will take time. Well, I have time.
And I start getting invited to mom's night out.
I start pouring booze in my soda at night when I am alone. I don't even know why. Maybe there is no why. It is just something to do. It is just another cliche.
I ask the school if they ever use parent volunteers. They tell me all about the room they set up for the group of volunteer moms. The moms get together at Starbucks, go to Barnes and Noble, and then hang out stuffing envelopes for the school.
Sitting around with strangers, stuffing envelopes, drinking coffee, could I want anything less?
So I start drinking coffee. Never liked it before, but an Iced White Chocolate Mocha changes my mind. It is the most incredible drink I have ever had. It is delicious and mouth watering. As soon as I am done my body demands another. Every day I wake up and crave more. I become someone who drinks coffee.
I was something once. I was beautiful and smart and talented and loved. People wanted to know me. The real me. Or the other me. Whatever. I watched boys fall all over themselves for me and I kissed all the pretty girls. I was sexy and fun and respected in my field. I felt powerful.
I grab a brownie and an English Toffee Cappuccino and I gain another five pounds, as I move farther and farther away from who I once was. And closer and closer to this new life that everyone around me seems to enjoy. I can learn to enjoy it too.
And the days slip away. Funny how that happens, how you can blink your eyes and not even notice three days have passed.
But then I feel anxious. Anxious and crazy and fast. But not racing thoughts fast. I have to go go go go go, you can't go fast if you go too slow, fast. Like I'm already running. Like something is chasing me. Like my mind is gone, and it can hold no thoughts inside of it. And I realize after the fifth time, this isn't stress. This is caffeine. After a lifetime without, my body can not tolerate this new drug in my system.
And I realize that drinking alone at night just makes me feel more like a failure.
And moms night out means having to sit through movies I don't want to see. And it means listening to the now 25 year old girl who use to hit on me. She's now a wife and a mother, a personal trainer and yoga instructor. Her beautiful svelte body mocking me. It means listening to her talk about breastfeeding, and babysitters, and grandmothers who interfere. And suddenly I am defined as a mother even to people who knew me before.
And I look out my window and see the little black cat coming in to the yard, and I smile. But he is not alone. He has brought two of his little cat friends with him. And my heart sinks as I realize he is a pack cat. He is feral and wild and I can't risk bringing an untamed cat into the house. And I can't have a pack of wild cats hanging out in my yard.
And the next day he is in the yard, sitting in the grass, staring through my kitchen window, asking for me, waiting for food. Our eyes meet just for a moment, before I turn my back and walk away.
And I go back to my world. I take the boy and his neighborhood friends for a picnic at the park. We walk around the lake and talk about how teeth decay. We talk about bullies and the silliness of "a, e, i, o, u, and sometimes y". We meet a park ranger who tells us more than I really wanted to know about the life cycles of ducks and turtles and fish.
We sit down for a lunch of sandwiches and drinks and healthy snacks.
And a ten year old boy comes up behind me and just stands there staring at us. I turn back and look, his face, so very sad. I ask if he's okay. He shakes his head no. I ask if I can help him. He shakes his head no. I ask him if he's hungry, and he smiles and I give him my sandwich and he runs away with it. And I never see him again.
And I talk to the kids about hunger. About asking for something when they need it. About who the safe people in their lives are. About strangers. And about me. I explain that if they ever need anything, if they ever have a problem, or a question, that I will do my very best to help them. That I will always be honest with them.
This is the life I now live. This is the life I have chosen. I don't have to try to be something else. I don't have to try to be someone else. I don't have to be someone else's vision of what it means to be a mother. Or what it means to be me.
I just have to, as strange and cliche as it sounds, I just have to be.
I just have to be the mother I am. The woman I am. The person I am.
And that's enough.
At least I'm pretty sure that's enough.
I'm just going to hope that's enough.