Where’s My Band-Aid? (What They Didn’t Tell You During The Welcome To Motherhood Seminar)

We, as mothers, are a special group of creatures. We are no longer fully human, and we (in most cases) are no longer ever alone. Even when we are not in the physical presence of our children, they are always with us. ALWAYS. Don’t believe me? Ask a mother who has lost a child. Regardless of whether the loss was a first trimester miscarriage, full term still birth, infant death, or death at any age due to terminal illness or tragic accident, that mother will tell you that she will forever carry her child in her heart, and on her soul.

The ability to find a balance between all parts of life is something every Mum struggles with and usually never achieves. Mums are often their own harshest critics, and while others may think a Mum is doing a great job, she will find a fault or flaw in her performance every time. She can (and will) try to be all things to all people, but in the end she is shorting everyone, including herself. Before long everyone starts feeling the effects of an overworked mother and that’s when the Mum Guilt really kicks in.

The guilt, ahh the sweet, sweet guilt. That may actually be the hardest thing to deal with as a Mum. Do you know there are actually shits out there that think that working Mums are selfish, and that every Mum should stay home with her children? That if someone can't afford to stay home with their offspring, they shouldn't have them, and what's worse is that these idiots take it one step farther and actually tell working Mums this rubbish. Talk about guilt. As if a Mum doesn't have enough guilt of her own in the first place, now she has some wanker telling her that her decision to bear children was selfish and her choice to go back to work to help pay the bills was selfish as well. Then there are the people who tell stay home Mums that they should go out and get a real job because they need to buy everything under the sun for their child, and they are a bad parent if they tell their child "No". Mums are bombarded on a daily basis with guilt from outside forces, from their children, and whether they realize it or not, from their spouses as well, and it often seems that you can’t win for losing. You're damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

We are conditioned to think that to be a good Mum; we HAVE to be everything to everyone. That we have to do it all perfectly, without complaint, and damnit you better have a big happy smile on your face the whole time. Well, it’s time to wake up and realize that the reason Donna Reed and June Cleaver were so complacent all the time is because they were self medicating with a bottle of red, a bottle of white, and a few gin and tonics in the kitchen while they were fixing dinner.

Mums have to be the caretaker for the whole family. They have to be there to pick everyone up when they fall, Band-Aid in hand, arms ready for the soothing hug and pat on the back. But who's there to pick Mum up when she stumbles? In most cases, no one. Some women are lucky to have a very supportive husband, or a Mum of their own who is there for them, but a lot of women don't have that.

That's when your friends show who they really are. Every Mum needs a strong circle of women to support her. To pick her up, put the Band-Aid on the injury, and tell her she’s going to be ok. To tell her it’s alright to call the nanny, and go off on a shopping trip or to the library or the movies by herself. That yes, it’s ok to not love every bloody minute of being a Mum, and that no matter how much you love your children, they are still people with personalities of their own, and that as such, there is no way you could possibly be happy with them at all times.

My daughter and I clash on a regular basis. She may only be five, but she has a definite personality, and it does not mesh well with mine. I came to terms with the shouted accusation that I’m a “mean Mum” a long time ago. That doesn't make it hurt any less, but I know that someday she will be the mean Mum, and she’ll look back on her childhood and realize that I really wasn’t that mean after all. That someday, in the future, her daughter will be reflecting on her childhood and thinking the same thing. At least that’s what I tell myself, so I have the strength to get through her third meltdown of the day because I wouldn’t buy her the shiny/sparkly/pretty/though ultimately useless piece of plastic that she suddenly can’t live without.

So, for all you struggling Mums, hang in there. I’d like to say it will get better, but I honestly don't know if it will. I've only been doing this for five years, so the jury is still out at my house. I think it changes as they age. It becomes a different dance. Not really better or worse, easier or harder, just different. All I can do is hope I can learn the steps fast enough so I don’t stumble and fall, because I'm fresh out of Band-Aids.

Never Happy?

Back in August, my daughter started Kindergarten. Not half day two or three times a week, but all day 8:15 AM to 3:00 PM Monday through Friday Kindergarten. I was torn between being happy that she was getting to be such a big girl, and had dreams of all the time I would have for writing during the day while she was at school, but then there were other days where I was sad. Sad to realize that she was no longer my baby, she was a big girl who would soon make lots of new friends, and have lots of new adventures without me.

My husband and I took her to school the first day, and I was so proud of myself for not crying in front of her. I managed to keep it together until we were walking back down the stairs to leave. My vision was suddenly blurry, and I had to stop on the stairs to collect myself so I wouldn’t go top over teakettle down the rest. I got myself under control, and once home, had the most productive morning of my life. Ever.

It was strange to be in the house alone, knowing that R was at work, as always, but still listening for the rustling movement of my angry midget, a peel of laughter at the cat’s antics, the sound of her voice as she tried to train the dog, but all that answered my ears was silence. A few times, I started to go look for her, to see what she was getting into, because she had to be getting into something, she had been quiet for too long, only to realize that she wasn’t home, she was in some else’s care for the day.

Here I had spent the majority of the summer looking forward to the first day of school so I could get really serious about my writing, and when the first day arrived, I did everything but write. I did every household chore I could think of to surround myself with M’s things. I did laundry and put her clothes away. I cleaned her room. I sorted out her too small clothes. And I missed her more than I ever thought I possibly could. That is, until I was ready to leave for an appointment with the insurance agent.

There was no one else to coordinate with, so I was ready to go in less than 5 minutes. In the car, I turned to see if she was buckled in her car seat yet, and had a moment of panic when she wasn’t there, but all of that was cake compared to the punch to the solar plexus that I received when I started the car and her favorite song was on the radio. I lost it. Right there in my driveway, I just fell apart. I missed her so much, and I felt so silly because she was just at school. I would be picking her up in just a few hours, but in that moment, it felt like the world was finding every opportunity to point out that she had moved on to the next stage in her life, and left me behind with her board books and sippy cups.

I eventually got used to her being away all day, and fell into a rhythm. Then Christmas break came knocking…

I was dreading it. Twenty-one days of cold and snow, and the first seven were before Christmas so there wouldn’t even be any new toys to keep her busy.

Somehow I managed, but the whole time I was counting the days until school started back up and I was able to get back to my routine. Now, here I am sitting in bed, un willing to get up and go to the gym, because I miss her, and wish I had just one more day of Christmas vacation with her because there is still so much I want to do with her. I was up when she left this morning with her dad (I was able to save her from a dad induced hair emergency) and actually felt a tear roll down my cheek when I closed the door behind them.

This leads me to ask the question: Are we as mothers, fathers, people in general, society as a whole, ever really happy? Do we even know how to be happy? Or are we doomed to always want that which we cannot have, or which we have just given up? Is there a way to just be happy with what we have, who we are, and where we are in life, or is it just not in the human DNA to just accept and survive without longing for something else, something different, something past, or something just out of reach?

Mom’s are supposed to have all the answers, but this is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever have the answer to no matter how long I live, or how many years I am a mother.

Ages

It has been so long since I last posted on either of my blogs, that I feel compelled to do a simultaneous post to let you all know that I have not forgotten about you. My life has taken a few turns since August, and I have been preoccupied with my immediate surroundings, and have neglected to make the time for my loyal followers (all three of you) out in the cyber world.

Makaya has started school (more on her first day of school in another post), and with that comes more work and responsibility than I had first imagined. I am still unemployed, but have taken advantage of that to work more on my writing, and after some very favorable feedback on one of my children’s stories, feel I am ready to tackle that query letter and really put myself out there. I have joined a new writers group that meets twice a month, which helps keep my motivation and courage up since I don’t have to go so long between meetings. Through this group, I have met several wonderful people who are excellent writers, and I'm hoping some of their talent will rub off on me. I haven’t been to the gym as often as I would like, and have to find the time and motivation to get back in there and make my goal of a slimmer, healthier me a reality.

That is all I have time for at this moment, but I will hopefully have more very soon.Until next time...
C'est la vie...

The Speech

The following is my speech from Calvin’s funeral. A few things to keep in mind, I do not do public speaking because I tend to get nose bleeds then throw up. My Mum told me I could not cry because she could not handle it. I managed to make it through the entire thing without as much as a single tear, drop of blood, or even so much as a gag and I did not once loose consciousness (that I know of).

This past week, I’ve thought a lot about my brother. I’ve remembered wild stunts, crazy stories, long lost friends and enemies, and I’ve finally gotten the back story on so many jokes. But I sadly realized just how little I really knew about my own brother. We had our rough patches growing up. It’s inevitable when you are as close as we were. But as we got older, the petty childhood bickering faded into the past, and we would talk more. Never about anything serious or deep, just about day to day life and our kids. We would talk for hours about nothing at all, but somehow the conversation would always get back to his girls.

Cal loved children, especially his girls. They are his pride and joy. The true loves of his life, and he would do anything for them. The last time I went to see him, he showed me a playhouse he had built for Gabby. It was wonderful! It had real windows, a light inside, and a little covered porch. It was a masterpiece and a perfect example of his talent. He had built it from scraps of this and leftovers of that. Gabby was so proud of the little house that her daddy had built, she couldn’t wait to show it off. That was one thing she definitely got from her daddy, Pride.

Cal was always so proud of his family and friends. He loved everyone, and it was almost impossible not to love him back. Don’t get me wrong. There were times when you really weren’t happy with him, but you always loved him, and you knew that he always loved you too. He was always ready with a good strong hug. A “Love ya, Sis.” Mum says he always gave the best hugs, and it’s true. He could have taught a class on it. They were always just right.

Though we talked now and then on the phone, it was always in the back of my mind, “I should call Cal and see what he’s up to,” but it would get put off. There were errands to run, chores to do. My regret is that I didn’t make the time to call my little brother more often, just to say “Hi”. I let life get in the way.

Last week things changed. Priorities were shifted. Despite the prayers of thousands, God felt it was time for Calvin to come home. Friday morning he slipped peacefully through the gates into the arms of loved ones who had gone before him. They will be catching up on all those wonderful hugs that I'm sure they missed.

I know the full reality of this has not hit me yet. It may not for a while. But I also know that someday I too will pass through those gates, as we all will, and Cal will be there, arms open, ready to give me one of his wonderful hugs.

Calvin William Allen Skinner
August 11, 1980-April 17, 2009

Priorities

It has been several weeks since I’ve posted on either of my blogs. A lot has gone down in that time. Easter weekend, my little brother was in a car accident. He suffered a traumatic brain injury that resulted in his death, but his passing was not in vain. His wish was organ donation, and through his gift, others will have a better life.

I’ve had a hard time dealing with this, and have never wished more to be closer to my family. You see, they live in Pennsylvania, and I'm way out here in Iowa. That’s three states. Nineteen hours by train. Twelve hours by car. Five hours by plane. An eternity if someone is hurt.

I haven’t posted about this for “so many reasons”.
Jeopardy is on.
I'm too busy.
It’s too late at night.
Letterman’s on.
Craig has Eric Idle tonight.
Makaya has her dance recital tonight.
Mum’s in town, have to spend as much time with her as I can.

All the while, I was unwilling to face the main reason.
If I don’t talk about it, it never happened. I can push it to the back of my mind, and pretend it was a dream.

Denial.

Pure as fresh snow.

There have been dreams. Nightmares really.

Doubts. Did we make the right choice? Did we act too soon? Should we have given him more time?

Unanswered questions. Did he know what was going on? Did he know we were there? Did he know how much we all love him? Did he suffer at all? Was he scared? Who will care for him? Is there a heaven or hell? Why did it happen to him? Was there someone else involved? Why now when he was so young? What do we say to his girls? Did he know I love him? Did he know how sorry I am?

There are ok days where I only think of him in passing and the loss doesn’t fully register.

There are not so good days where I cry without realizing it, and have to answer my daughter’s concerned questions with vague assurances that “No, Mama’s not hurt sweetie.”

Then there are the bad days. The days where I have to hold my self together, wrapping my arms around my body. I have to squeeze tightly because I'm afraid I will shatter into a thousand tiny shards if I don’t. The days where I sit in bed and rock myself in an effort to soothe an injury that refuses to heal. The days where my heart quite literally aches, each beat a painful reminder of the one that is now forever still.


Those are the reasons why I haven’t posted.

Feedback Is A Writers Best Friend

On the first Monday of the month, I go to a writers workshop at the downtown library. Some of the other attendees bring something to share, and some come just to hear the stories. After each reading, there is a short discussion where the author explains where they are trying to go with the work, or sometimes they just sit back and listen to the comments and suggestions offered by the other members of the group.

Tonight, I read (actually, I had one of the other ladies read the story because I become too emotional when I read it) a story that I wrote with the thought that it would be a children's picture book. Everyone really seemed to enjoy the story. There were several parents, grandparents, and even a great grand mother in the group tonight, and they all thought it would be a great story to read to their kids/grand kids/great grand kids.

One dad said that while Mary was reading the story, he could see himself reading it to his children, and that even without pictures I did a good job with the descriptions. He also said that he liked the alliteration at the end, and the creative answers for the little girl's strange questions.

It was great to get all that feed back from those folks. This is the story that I'm trying to get to an agent or a publisher, and almost everyone in the group said it was one I should get published (I had not mentioned yet that this was the one I was trying to get out there). It's one thing to have family or friends read a story and tell you it's good, but to have a room full of strangers tell you it's good, then you know they're not just humoring you.

Now that I have so much time on my hands, I think I'm finally ready to get serious about this and really push to get a story published. This will be the year.

So it is with determination, joy and hope that I say...C'est la vie.