Mom is Just a Nickname

<btw, this is a real post, not part of the story.    >

Thirteen years ago today, I became a mom.

This phrase keeps running through my mind.  Like a broken record, it keeps replaying, reminding me of just how long it’s been since my first-born made her appearance into the world.

At church yesterday, I listened to some folks describe their parents, their families of origin, and I wondered how my children would describe me when they were all grown up and I was a mere memory in their life.  Would my first-born daughter always feel that I preferred her brothers, because she felt that they got more time and attention from me?  Would she feel that I was aloof with her, simply because I never know what to say to her?  Would she know that I love her?

But as I sit here with that sentence running through my head, “Thirteen years ago today, I became a mom,” I know that she is the reason I am a mom.  When I found out that I was pregnant, I became a mom.  I became anxious to do everything right for her.  And as my belly grew the slightest bit round, I was so eager to show it off.  I loved being pregnant, I loved the fact I was going to be a mom, I loved the fact I was going to have a baby.  As my belly grew big and heavy with her, I happily (and somewhat painfully) waddled about, ready to meet the tiny creature that kept poking me in the ribs.

And on the day she was born, when the pictures show that she was red and wrinkled and I looked exhausted, all I remember thinking is that she was the most beautiful thing ever and how amazing it was that she’d come from inside me.

Thirteen years on, I still think she’s most amazingly beautiful.  I think she’s incredibly intelligent and talented, that she has a smart mouth (I wonder where she got that from?) and that she’s got wonderful things ahead of her.  And I still marvel that once upon a time, she was a tiny creature inside my belly, shoving her toes into my ribs.  She’s nearly as tall as I am now, and her feet are bigger than mine.

Thirteen years ago, I became a mother.

Being a mom is sucking all of my time up.  One of the kidlets has lice, so every waking moment, it seems, is dedicated to picking lice and nits and doing laundry.  I’m also really trying to get up that oomph I talked about to get the house clean and keep it clean.

For some reason, the baking bug bit me the last couple of days.  Homemade cornbread to go with the homemade white chicken chili; homemade pear-blueberry cobbler; homemade whole wheat banana bread.  I wonder what will come over me next? I wonder why that energy isn’t being more appropriately directed to cleaning the house?

For reasons which shall remain nameless here, we’re getting rid of a Sauder-style bookcase (ok, a watermelon went bad and sent its watery juiciness beneath it – I swear my house isn’t THAT bad).  My husband and I spent part of the day sorting through the books on the shelf and found a bunch to get rid of.  Sometime this week I’ll take a trip to the used book store and see what kind of store credit I can get for them.  It may not be much, but it will help pay for books for the kids and such.  Hey, I wanted to get a move on decluttering…just not sure I wanted to be pushed to it by a rotting watermelon!

Anyhow, this mom has got to get back to picking “nits and fleas” (as my youngest kidlet put it)….so, back to being ‘Just a Mom’ for awhile.

Make me courageous in action, able to step into the world and act my beliefs even when they differ from the mainstream. Give me the courage to act as my conscience dictates without regard to how the crowd around me is acting.

Too often I act in ways that are meant to protect myself or my family but which end up denying my true self.  Sometimes, these actions are truly necessary; more often, I think, they are not. They are simply actions of a fearful spirit.  So I ask for the courage to step out and speak my truth to the world through my actions.

Give me courage to wear my rainbow bracelet; to keep shaving my hair; to walk hand in hand with whoever I so choose; to go to pagan festivals or perform public rituals; to rip out the grass in my front yard and replace it with a perennial garden; to put Unitarian Universalist and pagan and rainbow bumper stickers on my car.

Why should anyone else have the ability to scare me out of announcing to the world who I really am if that’s what I want to do? If I feel like speaking my truth, then it’s my right to do it.  In the United States, I have the Freedom of Expression and it’s my right to exercise it.

Make me strong in spirit,

Make me courageous in action, that my children will learn that each of us has our own truth and we are each of us allowed to speak that truth, even if it is different from another’s.

Make me courageous in action, that my children can learn that it is possible to speak our own truths while being respectful of others’ truths.

Make me courageous in action, that I can free myself from this self imposed prison of silence and fear in which I live.

Make me courageous in action.

When I was twelve, if anyone had told me that I’d be pregnant in 8 more years, I might have laughed at them. Although I did have great aspirations to be a mother some day (there’s a reason friends called me ‘Momma Beth’) I really did not think it would happen in 8 years. Although 8 years then seemed an eternity away, still it seemed like 20 years old was too young for me to consider becoming a parent.

12+8=20 and there I was pregnant with my first child. Luckily, also happily married to a great guy with lots of love and support from both of our families.

At the age of 20, if anyone had told me that in 8 more years, I would have had two more children but also have lost one, I would not have believed anything that person had told me. Well, maybe having two more children in 8 years was realistic, but not losing one. The thought of losing a child was inconceivable to me then. I lived in a happy world, with a good life spreading out before me. It was not a life tinged with sadness or tragedy. I had such a blessed life, that I could only think “That can’t happen to me.”

At the age of 23, I had my second child. And five weeks later, he stopped breathing. And still the thought that tragedy could strike my family was not one that I felt applied to me. I still had hope that my second child would recover fully from his brush with death and go on to lead a long and fulfilling life. The doctors tried their hardest to put his future into realistic terms for us. The walls of my safe castle were crumbling, my world was no longer full of the bright colors of optimism and joy. Instead, a strong hand had brushed every thing I saw with gray, black and brown. I quickly came to realize my easy, blessed life was changing in horrifying ways. Thinking 8 years ahead then was not an option. It was all I could do to survive, day by day, hour by hour. The future was not mine to dream about.

At the age of 25, the question of Sullivan’s future was answered. He died. He had no future in this life, beyond that of our memories. I became intimately aware that “IT” could happen to anyone, anywhere, without rhyme or reason. As the days and months passed after his death, I began to see a future ahead again. Each day that passed painted a new kaleidoscope of colors in front of me. The world still held grays, blacks and browns, but they became balanced by the endless shades of other possibilities. At the age of 25, I had no idea what my future held. But I wanted another child. Eight years ahead seemed far distant still.

I’m 31 now. I’m still looking forward into the murky future, trying to resolve the whirling mix of colors into some order that makes sense. I’m still trying to find my own path to the future, while realizing that every day lays a new stone on the path to that future. I don’t know what the next 8 years hold for me or for my family. I hope, I pray, that my two children will continue growing and maturing into the next 8 years. In 8 years, J will be 18 and moving out into the great world beyond, hopefully filled with all the hope and optimism an 18 year old should have. In 8 years, X will be 12 and my hope is that he will still have that boundless energy and curiousity that he was now.

But now, looking back 8 years, I see so many twists and turns in the path. It’s hard to believe that almost 8 years ago, I gave birth to my second child…thinking I was giving him into the world to love and nurture to adulthood. It’s hard to believe that six years ago, I said goodbye to that boy. Instead of raising him to adulthood, I watched him soar to the heavens.

Sometimes, when I see a picture of my family now, there’s a shadow figure standing there beside us. A boy with curly light brown hair and bright blue eyes lit with the mischief most 8 year old boys seem to share. He’s tall for his age, and strong. He’s there with us, always, even if only in my head. I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had never stopped breathing that cold December day. And then I wonder what he’d be like now, if he had stopped breathing…but then hadn’t died two years later.

8 years…it’s amazing what a difference 8 years can make.

I keep getting subtle and not so subtle hints from far flung family and friends that they’d appreciate seeing pictures of the family, especially the kids.  So, here are a few we took this weekend.  These were taken out at one of our favorite parks, near the duck pond there.  The kids spent some time playing on the playground, we strolled a bit and then it was time to head home.

Notice that I’m the only one not wearing red! They do this to me all the time. It’s a conspiracy. They all decide to wear red on the same day and forget to send the memo to me! So then, I wear black and look all out of place when I’m walking with them! lol