If I wake up when the first rays of the sun sneak in through the blinds and kiss me lightly on my eyelids, then I am most definitely still dreaming. If I wake up in my own bed, snuggled next to P, to the "opening" sound of the iphone alarm (snoozed thrice), then I'd call it a great morning.
Because, I am a mom. Most mornings my alarm sound finds me wedged uncomfortably between two kid beds, with feet on my face. Otherwise, it finds me waking up on the couch, neck twisted awkwardly on the armrest, book open in one hand, half cup of yuck cold tea, luckily on the side table and not all over me and the couch. A pose indicating the sheer exhaustion that overtook me when I was hoping to squeeze in some tranquil reading time after the storms settled. And yet, these are my better mornings. The bad to worse ones include waking up to a wailing three year old, Kid #1 screaming that Kid #2 sneaked in to her bed at night and then peed on it, or the sound of ceramic crashing and shattering in the kitchen below as they "helpfully" try to get their own breakfast.
And thus begins each morning, setting the tone for the rest of the day in this mad, wild, crazy, bumpy, completely unpredictable parenting phase of our lives. Days filled with mealtime wars, easily spouting threats, blackmails and bribes, ear drum shattering decibel level screaming (sometimes my own), constant quest for objects lost, and settling disputes of sibling rivalry (just to name the top few in a long long list). And I'm not even getting in to the never ending to-do lists, mountains of laundry, ignored calls and texts.. ugh!
If you are one of those that meet us Saturday evenings for a pre-planned dinner event, then you see a sham, a well-put together lie. A well dressed family of four that seems to have it all under control. Sweet little girls that stand together, hand in hand, full of smiles and respect for all around. Parents laughing and carefree. "How do you manage so easily ?" ask other frazzled moms, falling for the falsity I've presented. They see the blow dried hair, the 4 inch heels, the manicured nails and are curious about it though they are definitely not naive enough to assume my life is always that put together. "I don't manage well at all" I try to reply honestly but unconvincingly. But I'm definitely not going to tell them about the five minutes I spent trying to wash dried booger marks from my dress, or the war we engaged in to decide on clothes for two little fashionistas with a very questionable sense of fashion, or the zillion negotiations between P and me to divide the parenting tasks. Those are my struggles and I rest easy knowing that most other families (if not all) are having an equally crazy time.
But in the middle of all this madness, we find some pockets of joy and calm. Little domestic scenes that I treasure. Weekend morning cuddles when both kids end up on my king sized bed - love. Weekday nights when we settle in the kids bedroom to read for a few minutes - love. P and I cuddled up on the couch watching a show undisturbed with the kids playing happily in the playroom - love. Mealtimes with all four around the table, sharing a simple meal - love.
I hate myself when I lose my calm. When I resort to screaming to get them to listen to what I have to say. Order is restored easily when I lose my calm. My angry self is not one to be messed with. But it leaves me with so much shame and guilt and frustration. I sometimes go to my bed and cry it out. This is not what I envisioned motherhood to be like, I'd weep. And then slowly, three figures will creep in to the darkened room. Two, with long sorry faces and scraps of paper with pictures for me and hurriedly scribbled "sorry" and "i love you" and the third, with a hug big enough to make me take solace in. This group consoles me. This is the trio that sees my worst side and accepts me despite it. They care about me as fiercely as I care about them.
I don't throw about the word "love" easily. It is am emotion that I am definitely not comfortable with. To me, it stands for a dependence and a vulnerability that I'm terrified of. I like to turn my back on situations, relationships and people that demand too much out of me. You can call it escapism. I'll call it independence. I take pride in being detached, being cold hearted, being the heart breaker, being a master of my own emotions. But this family of mine makes me throw caution to the wind. They shower me with love and affection and demand equal amounts in return, if not more.
I've asked myself multiple times if this arrangement works for me. It demands more out of me than any other commitment I've had in life. And I've realized that my easy solution is to run. Like I've done with all other relationships (with friends, family, anyone). But I'm beginning to see that I like sticking around here, moving through the ups and the downs, the sky highs and the rock bottoms. All for a few more Sunday mornings where I can wake up to the sound of girlish giggles and a strong protective hand pulling me in towards warmth.
Because, I am a mom. Most mornings my alarm sound finds me wedged uncomfortably between two kid beds, with feet on my face. Otherwise, it finds me waking up on the couch, neck twisted awkwardly on the armrest, book open in one hand, half cup of yuck cold tea, luckily on the side table and not all over me and the couch. A pose indicating the sheer exhaustion that overtook me when I was hoping to squeeze in some tranquil reading time after the storms settled. And yet, these are my better mornings. The bad to worse ones include waking up to a wailing three year old, Kid #1 screaming that Kid #2 sneaked in to her bed at night and then peed on it, or the sound of ceramic crashing and shattering in the kitchen below as they "helpfully" try to get their own breakfast.
And thus begins each morning, setting the tone for the rest of the day in this mad, wild, crazy, bumpy, completely unpredictable parenting phase of our lives. Days filled with mealtime wars, easily spouting threats, blackmails and bribes, ear drum shattering decibel level screaming (sometimes my own), constant quest for objects lost, and settling disputes of sibling rivalry (just to name the top few in a long long list). And I'm not even getting in to the never ending to-do lists, mountains of laundry, ignored calls and texts.. ugh!
If you are one of those that meet us Saturday evenings for a pre-planned dinner event, then you see a sham, a well-put together lie. A well dressed family of four that seems to have it all under control. Sweet little girls that stand together, hand in hand, full of smiles and respect for all around. Parents laughing and carefree. "How do you manage so easily ?" ask other frazzled moms, falling for the falsity I've presented. They see the blow dried hair, the 4 inch heels, the manicured nails and are curious about it though they are definitely not naive enough to assume my life is always that put together. "I don't manage well at all" I try to reply honestly but unconvincingly. But I'm definitely not going to tell them about the five minutes I spent trying to wash dried booger marks from my dress, or the war we engaged in to decide on clothes for two little fashionistas with a very questionable sense of fashion, or the zillion negotiations between P and me to divide the parenting tasks. Those are my struggles and I rest easy knowing that most other families (if not all) are having an equally crazy time.
But in the middle of all this madness, we find some pockets of joy and calm. Little domestic scenes that I treasure. Weekend morning cuddles when both kids end up on my king sized bed - love. Weekday nights when we settle in the kids bedroom to read for a few minutes - love. P and I cuddled up on the couch watching a show undisturbed with the kids playing happily in the playroom - love. Mealtimes with all four around the table, sharing a simple meal - love.
I hate myself when I lose my calm. When I resort to screaming to get them to listen to what I have to say. Order is restored easily when I lose my calm. My angry self is not one to be messed with. But it leaves me with so much shame and guilt and frustration. I sometimes go to my bed and cry it out. This is not what I envisioned motherhood to be like, I'd weep. And then slowly, three figures will creep in to the darkened room. Two, with long sorry faces and scraps of paper with pictures for me and hurriedly scribbled "sorry" and "i love you" and the third, with a hug big enough to make me take solace in. This group consoles me. This is the trio that sees my worst side and accepts me despite it. They care about me as fiercely as I care about them.
I don't throw about the word "love" easily. It is am emotion that I am definitely not comfortable with. To me, it stands for a dependence and a vulnerability that I'm terrified of. I like to turn my back on situations, relationships and people that demand too much out of me. You can call it escapism. I'll call it independence. I take pride in being detached, being cold hearted, being the heart breaker, being a master of my own emotions. But this family of mine makes me throw caution to the wind. They shower me with love and affection and demand equal amounts in return, if not more.
I've asked myself multiple times if this arrangement works for me. It demands more out of me than any other commitment I've had in life. And I've realized that my easy solution is to run. Like I've done with all other relationships (with friends, family, anyone). But I'm beginning to see that I like sticking around here, moving through the ups and the downs, the sky highs and the rock bottoms. All for a few more Sunday mornings where I can wake up to the sound of girlish giggles and a strong protective hand pulling me in towards warmth.