A full heart.

Tonight was one of those nights that reminded me what sweet little souls I am raising. 

After dinner, Aubrey asked me (again) if she could have her Blankey back. (You can read about the recent Blankey drama here.) Telling her no was heartbreaking, and she was so angry at me. Aubrey has yet to learn how to deal with her anger without lashing out, and with her vocabulary and gift of sass, her being angry means I get a tongue-lashing of words meant to hurt my heart. I tried to explain to her that as a mom, I didn't delight in keeping Blankey away, that it was a hard decision for me, too. "Really, Mom? You don't know what it's like to have something special taken away. Not like you've EVER lost a stuffy! You have no idea how this feels!" (Yup--only 8 and already pulls this level of sass. I'm DOOMED.)

So, I told her about my own Raggedy Ann doll, a doll I treasured when I was a child, and how one day, after my dad had been telling me for days to clean my room, he swept up all the toys littering my floor into a big trash bag and carried them out to our burn barrel (I grew up in the sticks) and lit them all on fire. My Raggedy Ann doll was in the mess of toys in that barrel, and I was simply devastated. "So, I do understand how difficult this is for you. And that makes it even harder for me to take Blankey away, but sweetie, we have to do this right now. I'm so sorry."

During the story, I watched my daughter's face go from contempt and anger, to shock, to disbelief, and finally, back to anger again. "MOM! HOW COULD YOU TELL ME THAT STORY!!!"  And off she stomped, up the stairs, to her room, furious at me for telling her an upsetting story about a stuffed animal. 

When I reached her room to tuck her into bed, she broke down crying, her anger spent. She clung to me, sobbing, sad for her beloved Blankey, sad for my own lost Raggedy Ann. Suddenly, she broke away and ran to her toy box, and rummaging inside, she grabbed a teddy bear and handed it to me. "I want you to keep it. To take the place of your Raggedy Ann doll. So you won't be sad anymore."  

Be still my heart.

No matter how many ways I tried to explain to her that I was OK, that I'd long gotten over my lost lovey, she wouldn't take back the bear. Then I told her the story of how she'd come to own that bear (it was a gift from her Gramps at Disney World on her first trip to the park, when she was just a baby). I saw her face change, and I asked her, "Would you like it back?" She ran back to the toy box, rummaged around to pull out her stuffed horse, Midnight, and offered me a trade. Then she made me promise that I would sleep with Midnight tonight. Looks like I'll have a little extra company in the bed. 

After these dramatic events, I was in Aiden's room, tucking him into bed. He had heard the entire exchange, and we chatted about how sad she was about the Blanket. Suddenly he jumped up, and dragging a chair into his closet, he reached up onto the top shelf and pulled out a plastic linen bag from the corner of the closet. Inside, Aiden's own baby blankets were neatly folded and tucked away. A few months ago, Aiden decided it was time to pack away those sweet baby blankets that he'd treasured as a toddler, and we decided on a linen bag in his closet (put away, but still close--just in case). He plopped the bag on the floor, unzipped a corner, and laid out the three blankets. Running his hand over each one, he settled on one, grabbed it, and ran into his sister's room and tucked it over her, offering his own blanket--the softest of the three--for her to snuggle. 

And darn it, if my heart didn't break again. 

In the span of this one evening, there have been pre-teen meltdowns, stomped feet, angry words, slammed doors and endless complaints. Brad and I have doled out lectures, handed down a grounding, and threatened more consequences. We've laughed, tickled, hugged and kissed. I've wiped away tears--a tiny girl's and my own. And in the course of the day, these kids have exasperated me, driven me to drink, and filled my heart in a way that nothing or no one else has ever been able to. This motherhood gig has to be the hardest, most intensely-frustrating-yet-amazing job I have ever had. And I am so incredibly grateful for it. 

Metamorphosis: A letter to my son

For 2017, I've joined a blog circle of women who will each write a monthly letter to their child(ren). Read mine, then click here to read Evangeline's letter, then follow the links on around--you'll eventually land back here. And if you'd like to receive my letters and blog posts directly to your email inbox, click here to join my mailing list. (I promise, I'm not going to spam you or share your info). 

Dear Aiden,

My sweet boy, as 2016 comes to a close and the promise of an unspoiled year shines before us, I can't help but reflect on how much you have changed in the past year. At 11, with 12 just a few days away, you have spent the year straddling the divide between childhood and adolescence. Some days, you are still the effervescent child you have always been, bubbling with enthusiasm about your latest topic of fascination. You will still sweetly request cuddles at bedtime, begging me to play with your hair or scratch your back while I sing old jazz classics or broadway songs. You don't sigh or pull away when I embrace you, and for a moment, I can still smell the sweet scent of the skin at the nape of your neck and remember the countless nights that I have repeated this ritual. 

Other days, adolescence dominates, and you turn mercurial and moody. You swing from bravado to anger to tears in a moment, and your father and I are breathless trying to keep up with your moves. Your wit and sarcasm have not yet been tempered by time and wisdom, so often you disrespect when you only meant to disarm with laughter. You shrug away my embrace, you deliberately sabotage my attempts at tender moment, and I am frustrated at feeling as if my little boy is slipping farther away. 

These shifts that accompany the raging hormones (and your rapidly growing frame) have left your father and I off-balance. There are days when we feel as if a stranger has moved into our home, and yet in a moments' notice, the sweet boy we recognize can come bounding back again. Dad and I are trying our best to keep up. We are breathing deeply and stretching our patience as far as we can, and yet so often, we find ourselves speaking harshly or reacting with anger. It is incredibly unsettling, to have reached this point in our parenting journey--having accumulated quite a bit of wisdom along the way--and yet to suddenly find yourself as lost and clueless as a new parent again. 

But despite all of the changes that have swept through our home in the past year (a trans-Pacific move, new home, new schools, new friends, new routines, and new phases of life), one thing has never wavered. Not once. My love for you is constant. Despite the angry words we sometimes exchange, the exasperation with which I may speak, I have never once wavered in my love for you and my faith in your potential. I love you so much, Aiden, and no matter how large you may grow or how angry or moody you may act, my love will stretch and grow and shift to accommodate you. And although some days I may fail, I will try my best to give you the space you need to grow. To not suffocate you with my memories and expectations, but allow you to stretch into your full God-given potential. 

This time in your life is so incredibly difficult for all of us--but so very important. And I feel so privileged to stand witness to your transformation. 

Love, always,

Mom

Now click here to visit Evangeline's blog to read her letter for January. 

Composed

I was at the bus stop this morning, chatting with the other moms while we waited for the big yellow bus to arrive, scoop up our children, and buy us a few hours of freedom. Standing there, I mentioned during our conversation that my husband, Brad, was still away on TDY. The other mom looked surprised, "He's still gone? All this time? But you've looked so composed!" 

My people-pleasing ego really liked that praise, and I think I muttered something like, "Well, this is only 3 weeks. It's doable. Much better than the 6 months or year apart we are used to." 

I said it for two reasons: one, it is the optimism I've trained myself to see my life through: it can always be worse. Two, if I'm being totally honest, it makes me seem a little badass: I've done a year. I'm hardcore. This is NOTHING. 

Yup. I'm really that petty and prideful on the inside. Ugly, isn't it? But give me a little grace--I am working on it. 

But here's what I should have said to that sweet mama, the one who also has a husband that travels, plus three kids under 7:

I'm not composed. At all. I'm struggling. Every single day is a struggle. What you see as 'composure' is a well-rehearsed performance, born out of years of experience at being a 'work widow.'

My home is a mess. There's a week's worth of shoes and dirty socks by the front door that I keep stepping over.  Every day, the kids drop their shoes and school stuff by the door, I nag them to put it away, and the third or fourth time they actually do it but only half-way, and I'm too tired to keep at them, so the pile grows. I know I should punish them, but honestly, I'm exhausted from spending all of my energy trying to enforce the chores and rules and routines while still keeping them alive and fed, so I just walk past it and ignore it. Really awesome parenting, I know.

 I'm so behind in laundry, there is a basket of folded clothes at the base of the stairs that I've been nagging the kids to put away for a week. Another basket of unfolded clean clothes in the laundry room, and full hampers in their rooms. Just looking at the mountain is overwhelming at this point, so I'm ignoring it. 

I'm really good at ignoring things that overwhelm me.

This level of avoidance is a new development for me. I've always been the Martha Stewart wanna-be, the woman who crafts and bakes homemade sourdough and who takes pride in a neat, well-designed home. I look at the state of my home now and how it used to be and I just scoff, "What happened to you?"

When their dad leaves, my kids act as if the entire daily routine has gone out the window. With every deployment, I've learned it always requires two solid weeks of retraining, with a lot of chore charts and positive reinforcement to get them back on track. I've even lugged out the chore charts and jars of poker chips and have put the phrase, "Check your chore chart!" on repeat this TDY, yet I'm half-assing it. I know it and they know it. Honestly, it's only a three week separation and I'm pretty much just waiting it out at this point. I'll retrain them when I have backup. 

I'm taking some small measure of comfort in the fact that so far, I've yet to have a total meltdown and completely lose my shit in front of my kids. On every TDY or deployment in the past, I've had a moment when all of the constant running, pulling, doing, cooking, cleaning, and demands on my time and energy and sanity, without the relief of another set of hands and the mental stimulation of adult conversation, become just too much.  I end up screaming at someone, "I CAN'T DO THIS!! I AM ONE PERSON!" and scaring the crap out of the receiving child before I dissolve into tears. So far, we've avoided the drama this TDY. Perhaps this is a sign of growth? Of course, there's still a week left in this TDY; I probably shouldn't be so confident. 

I wake up tired. I go to bed exhausted. I'm cranky and snappy by the kids' bedtimes and then spend the hours after bedtime feeling like a crappy mom. I'm perpetually behind. As much as possible, I've cut all the frills out of our lives, operating in "survival mode." It's also why I limit my kids' activities and refuse to sign them up for every sport or club, because although it all sounds fine while daddy is home, I know I can't keep up with it while he's gone.  I've embraced a simple childhood and practiced the word "No" again and again. 

So, sweet mama, what you're seeing? It's not composure. It's a strange combination of hard-earned wisdom about my limits and a bunch of apathy and a dash of avoidance. Please don't look at me in the 5-10 minutes we spend together in the mornings and fool yourself into believing that I've got it all put together. In all honestly, I probably haven't showered in two days, and once my oldest is on the bus 45 minutes after my youngest, I'll either down a pot of coffee and push through or just crumple into a defeated pile on the couch and take a nap for an hour. 

I suspect the source of your comment was probably a comparison of how I appeared somewhat sane in the mornings and you comparing it to your own experience of being harried and exhausted and tired when your husband travels. (Or else, you are just a really kind, sweet soul who was taking pity on my crazy and offering me a kind word. Which is quite possible.)  But if you are in any way comparing my five minutes with your reality, just stop. Please. Anyone can appear sane and composed for five minutes.

As a photographer, I know this so well. With the right lighting and styling and artful angles, you can make the darkest, most horrible things look beautiful for just a moment. But the reality is often far more complicated than what falls within the boundaries of the frame.

I promise, to you or any other mom out there struggling and comparing yourself to another mom: the reality is, we're all struggling. Composure is just a myth. Every second spent in motherhood is fraught with doubt and guessing and uncertainty and frustration. Parenting is insane--it really is. We bring these helpless beings into the world, we love them with a fierceness that is just unexplainable, yet they make our lives crazy. They're unpredictable and demanding and completely dependent upon us and sometimes, really bratty. They can also break our hearts with a smile or a giggle. We would tear apart another who would criticize them, yet at times, we mutter what little assholes they can be under our breath. We want the very best for them, yet our best never seems to be enough: they are forever demanding more and we are forever seeing someone else that appears to be doing it better. Then, take this two-person job and suddenly shift it all onto the shoulders of one person, it becomes monumentally hard. And so, so isolating. (There's a reason God designed this parenting scheme to work best as a partnership between two people).

I honestly have no idea how full-time single parents do it, but I suspect that if asked, they give the same answer that I give when non-military parents ask how I manage a year-long deployment: you figure it out, because you don't have the option to fail. Someone is depending on you, so you figure it the eff out. Quitting, failing, giving up aren't options, so you just do it. I'm not made of special stuff. There isn't anything particularly unique about me. Just like any other mom, I love my children enough to do my best to raise them into successful adults, and no matter how my surroundings or circumstances my change along the way, I'll find my way. No mom out there possesses a secret gene or trait that makes her better able to do this. Each of us is unique, with our own talents and skills and varying strengths, sure--but we all contain the ONE thing we need to do this job well: a sacrificial love for our children that pushes us beyond our boundaries to meet their needs. 

I may not have composure, and my house my not be clean and my hair may be dirty--but I love my kids. So do you. We'll give them what they need to grow into independent adults--it may not always be pretty or Pinterest-worthy. But at the end of the day, that's enough.