Archives for June 2011

Today I Couldn’t Do It

June 30, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

You spring from bed in the morning, awake, bright-eyed and ready to go. My eyelids feel like sandpaper. A glance between half-open eyes reveals the clock: 6:12 a.m. I roll over and wonder how long I can put you off, but I know it’s coming.

“Let’s go downstairs!”

As I stand I feel the effects of the night. We never planned to co-sleep but you don’t sleep without one of us there, so I’ve slept in your bed – balancing on the edge, muscles tensed so I don’t fall off on one side and don’t elbow you in the head on the other. I cherish your sleeping form on these nights – your quiet, soft breathing and your smallness – but I wake with the ache of not enough sleep in a bed you like to hog.

You get downstairs and are overwhelmed with the abundance of choices – breakfast? TV? Toys? What to do first? My first instinct is to get the kettle going so I can have a cup of tea.

“Do you want to play with me?” Asked over and over, this question leaves scars in my heart. The honest answer is sometimes no. I wish I wanted to play with you, but I’m tired. My brain is not awake. I want to drink my tea and read my email and enjoy the morning while you play next to me, but you’re not at the stage where playing alone is what you want.

The backyard beckons. I see you heading toward the sliding door and my heart sinks. Outside, to you, is an extension of your ecstasy – the sandbox, diggers, weeds to poke at and caterpillars to search for. I’m in my pajamas and it’s chilly and I’m not prepared to deal with sand before 7 a.m.

I love you, hard, with the fierceness of a mother who has created life. I love you, softly, with my heart full of the child you are and the person you are becoming.

When I’m not tired – when I’m in my mama zone – I can do it. I rejoice in the experience, seeing the world from your perspective. From down low as you search for leaves or sticks or crabs or shells, and from up high in that place of wonder as you discover something new.

But lately I’ve been tired and that makes all those good things elusive.

I don’t love you any less. In fact, I might love you more because I can’t give you what you need. It’s just that today I couldn’t do it.

Filed Under: Letters to Connor, Motherhood · Tagged With: admissions, depression, telling the truth

For Want of a Quarter

June 29, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

She stood outside the gates to the fairground, her calm demeanor masking the excitement inside. Clutched tightly in her hand was a single quarter – the precious fee for a ride, a game or whatever treat seemed most worth the investment of her only coin.

When she got to the front of the line, she discovered it cost a quarter to get inside. She handed it over and, with it, her dream of an experience different from that of her everyday life as a young girl who worked on her family’s farm in the early 1900s.

***

I can assume she wandered the grounds taking in the sights and sounds, probably gazing wistfully at those who had the fare for something beyond the price of admission, but I don’t know. I don’t even know how the above scene played out – I’m just taking writer’s license – but I remember the day my grandmother told me this story.

It was a short conversation – simply recalling a memory. “I was so excited,” she said, “but it cost a quarter to get in and that was all I had so I didn’t get to do anything else.” She didn’t say any more – no complaints about the unfairness of it, no expression of disappointment. But to me, the mere fact of her sharing this story suggested all that and more.

I can’t remember what I said to her – some expression of comfort or sympathy, I’m sure – but I remember how I felt. Later that day I cried and cried over the thought of my Grandma as a young girl missing out on something she wanted so desperately. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I remember her as a strong, independent woman, but for some reason this one is always a part of my thoughts of her, and it always, always brings me to tears.

I didn’t grow up in an abundance of wealth, but my sadness was not because I related to her story. I went to private school – an average kid from an average family – and many of my classmates were like me, whose parents saved or sacrificed to send them there. My parents managed this and other things like sports and travel opportunities during very tough times, and to this day I still don’t know how they did it.

There were others who had more, of course, and I was aware of that. But never once have I felt like I missed out on anything. I have nothing that stands out to me as something I wish I could have done, if only we could have afforded it. So when I listened to my Grandma’s story it was with the heart of someone who had never felt that sadness.

That event, which had happened nearly 90 years before, affected her. It stuck with her. Perhaps in some way it changed who she was. It influenced her values and her sense of how a certain experience can make – or not make – a memory.

It has changed who I am as well, I think. It’s made me more aware of how precious childhood experiences are. It’s not about the money, it’s about the memories. And I know this because of the story of my Grandma missing one of hers for want of a quarter.

My Grandma and her horse, Chubby

***

This post is in response to an Indie Ink Writer’s Challenge prompt from Katri: “A story from the point of view of someone who’s never been sad.” This could probably be a really great fiction piece, but this is the story that came to mind, and the one I wanted to tell.

I challenged Flaming Nyx with “You have the power to change ONE person’s life for the better. Who do you choose and how would you do it?” Her response is here.

And speaking of Indie Ink, I’m so excited that one of my posts is featured there today. Please come and visit!

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: family, love

In Order to be Complete

June 28, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Birthday party. Families. Kids. Laughter. Crafts and cooperation.

I look at the three-year-olds and think how great they are. Fun. Much more independent.

I can talk with him now, not just to him.

I can see his imagination work, like images projected on an invisible screen.

He can help now, and he loves to. “We’re workers!” Said often, with joy and confidence.

Three is tough, but it’s also easier.

I look across the backyard at the two little ones.

One, just learning to walk and still so far from independent, to whom any vehicle of any kind is a “va-va.”

The other still a baby. A world filled with nursing, purees and the importance and inconvenience of naps.

They are both beautiful. I scoop each one up, amazed at his lightness. I breathe in the baby smell and remember what it’s like when they’re that squishy. I hold them and remember what it’s like to hold a child on my hip and know that I am his world.

I could do this again.

I want to do this again. So badly.

The second one is easier, people say.

Chances are your second wouldn’t be the same, they assure me.

Maybe.

I could hope so, but I don’t, knowing it could be the same. Or harder.

But I know more now.

And the wanting is a physical sensation that’s not going away.

It might be hard.

But I’m willing to do it again.

In order to be complete.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: family, hope

Reclaiming Me

June 27, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

In addition to leaving hope notes for strangers, I’m over at C. Mom’s site today sharing my story as part of her Reclaiming Me series.

Big or small, every one of us has gone through something that led us to change our outlook or our circumstances or our sense of who we are. My story is about all three, though I feel once I did the first two I was able to do – and embrace – the third.

There are lots of other great stories in the series, so please c’mon over and read what I’ve shared and then browse around. A dose of inspiration!