Holding up the Wall

Vignettes

There is no getting around it--being a parent can be draining. It is easy to think sometimes that the sleeplessness, the stress, the strain and exhaustion of it all is somehow the fault of the parent--that if only one could plan better, or do less, simplify somehow, it would be easier. There is truth to that. I know mothers who are willing and able to back out of outside obligations and minimize outings in order to have more time for focusing on the kids and home responsibilities. I can only assume that this helps with the stress level. But there is no arguing that no matter what we do to simplify our lives, the fact that we are responsible for a little person or several who can't care for themselves is a load--sometimes a heavy one.

I love my load. And I love my non-simple life with the errands and Mother's Day Outs and my stay-at-home job and the house that never stays clean for more than a couple hours. I chose it after all. I signed up for these kids with my eyes wide open, knowing full well that there would be sleepless nights and way too much to do. I don't get bored, do I? I will never be bored again; count on it. But on mornings like this when my shoulders ache, and another load waits for the dishwasher, and my laundry day is going to have to wait for next week because I still need to vacuum crumbs off the sofas and enter receipts--well, on mornings like this I welcome the little vignettes that remind me just how much I love my load.

It's simple things that give me a private smile on my face and hope for the future. Those are the things that expand the day-to-day neverending RESPONSIBILITY into the bigger picture that reminds me of what my purpose is, after all. When my kids argue with each other, or whine to me, or ask for things like candy or negative attention, I wish I had a large apron like Suzanna Wesley had when her many children would overwhelm her. She would sit on a chair, throw the apron over her head, ignore the screams, and just pray. Eking out a quiet time in the midst of chaos is a skill I have yet to acquire. My first thought is usually Excedrin, chased down with caffiene, and followed by a forced bedtime for everyone because surely that's better than the complete loss of sanity that threatens.

I was on the phone with my parents the other day, and they told me that they weren't sure how John and I do it all. I confessed that we don't do any of it well. Between us, we work six jobs. Two of the jobs are mine, in addition to full-time parenting. Hearing the understanding in their voices was a balm; it was one of those moments of realization I was alluding to--every parent goes through this at some level, and remembers it always. There is true and sincere empathy on the part of every seasoned parent on behalf of every relatively new parent. Parenting is hard. When you add to it the stress of making a living and keeping up with life, it's downright difficult. Most parents would say that it's worth it in the end, and I would certainly raise my hand with them even at this beginning stage. It's going to be worth it. And some days, it's already worth it.

I sent the boys outside to play today. It rained in the night. The days that have been beautiful this spring have more often than not been the days we've been away from the house. I treasure the few days I get at home when the day is warm enough to play outside, and the grass is dry, and the children get along with each other and play happily while I frantically grab at moments of accomplishment in the house. More often than not, the day isn't quite warm enough, or the grass isn't quite dry, or the kids are sent outside wearing rain slickers and crocs in the drizzle and only last long enough to get wet, miserable, and muddy enough to need a bath. Today was somewhere in the middle--the sun shone, and the air was warm, but the ground proved the night's storm, and there was water in the empty sand table. They asked to go outside, though, and in the interest of getting a few things done, I let them. Knowing that it would end with a bath.

They played well. The play sand that over time has ended up on the ground around the sand table was dug up and added to the water in the table. They took their boats and cars and made a game of it. William came to the door once crying, and I came out onto the step. "Ste'en bite me!" Stephen used to bite a lot. Now, he waits until we're sure he's over it, and then sneaks one in just to keep us off balance. It's his compensation for his communicative siblings--if he can't talk, he can sure let them know how he feels. After hugs and reconciliation, I went back inside to work, with one eye on the window at the back door. A while later, Stephen came crying to the door. I went to the window to look down on them, and that's when I had my vignette. That tiny little moment in the day when I'm reminded why my job is better than any other career, and why sleepless nights are worth it. Stephen stood there with William at his side. They were wearing matching navy sweatpants and matching green hoodies, with feet sockless in waterproof crocs. Stephen was soaked to the bone. His hands were wrinkled with damp, and muddy, and he wailed in distress at his sodden sweats and saggy hoodie. William kept one eye on the door for me, and placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, patting it kindly. This, for the brother who had just bit him in the back and left a mark. He placed his arm around his brother.

I don't care what I have going on in my day; if I can just see one moment like that, it's like a shot of Excedrin and caffiene straight to the bloodstream. I'm going to get through this day, because my children love each other, and demonstrate it without promptings from their mother. When true misery hits, they can put aside their petty arguments and jealousies, and just love on each other. It's exactly what I need to see.

It's such a small thing, that to explain the significance of it requires seven paragraphs of introduction. Even with all that, it's possible that my heart is the only one that melts. It doesn't matter. I opened the door, and William immediately started explaining things with his stilted English. "Ste'en fall down! Ste'en fall ground!" Since there's wet earth but no mud on the ground to speak of, I can only assume that Stephen crawled into the sand table and wallowed in the rainwater until he was unspeakably cold and miserable. I soothed him and told him to wait, that I would get him a dry sweatshirt. "GET SWEATSHIRT!" William yelled the new word at the top of his lungs in reassurance to his brother. They both waited for the change of clothes, and then in one accord, they headed back to the wet table, Stephen with his dry too-small hoodie and soaked sweats, and William with an eye of solicitation for his brother.

Life isn't perfect by many standards right now. It's exhausting, demanding, frustrating, and overwhelming. But these moments in time are just what I need. They're hard to explain. But somehow I felt the need to try. I can't imagine my life any other way.

What you don't know can hurt you.

Strands of DNA

Stephen's just like his grandpa. The one he's named after, no less. I'm not talking about his blond curls, although I'm told his grandpa had them too. Nor am I talking about the classic Swedish features, or the big blue eyes, although every time I look at him I see my dad, my brothers, my uncles. No, I'm talking about the subtle quirks of personality that poke themselves out bit by bit as a baby becomes a toddler, and then a child, and then grows up and becomes his own person.

My dad is the natural, willing, and able product of order. Ordered parents, in an ordered house, surrounded by an ordered lawn in what at the time of his upbringing was a quiet, ordered neighborhood. Grandma had a washing day, and a cleaning day, and a day for everything in between, and stuck to her system until she was too old and unsteady to navigate the stairs to her wringer washer in the basement. If her sons hadn't insisted on Grandpa buying her a modern washing machine--which she never learned to master--she would probably have tried to keep to her well-ordered routine all the way to the end of her 90-odd years. As it was, she and Grandpa shook their heads in bewilderment when their live-in granddaughter would stay up all night studying in the tiny spare bedroom, clothing and belongings strewn and stuffed where they could fit, and who in sudden fits of realization that the job had to be done, would burst out of confinement to throw loads of sheets and clothing into the machine in the basement, then dash out to mow the weedless lawn with the mower Grandpa could no longer see to push. The timing was never right, never orderly. It just got done when it fit. That was how I worked. My brain and my schedule has become more orderly out of necessity ten years later, but my son, his Grandpa Steve's namesake, gets it naturally.

Every child has his interests. William loves to sing, and to learn words.  He currently loves to whine about nothing at all until his mother starts popping extra-strength tylenol like candy, but I'm told that's a two-year-old development and will pass. William is a six-year-old in a two-year-old's body. He was born sage, if not wise. The look behind his eyes when you talk to him makes you think he's dissecting you like a surgeon, learning what there is to learn. Before you have a chance to read him like he's reading you, he cuts his eyes to the side, back to his Lightening McQueen cars and his little-boy toys. He laughs like a child, then shuts his mouth with an embarrassed smirk when you laugh along with him. How dare you draw attention to the child? He's beyond such things, after all. Or would like to think he is. We all try to get him to respond with delight at childish things, and when he does it's like a gift that he quickly withdraws when he comes to his senses. He's a fascinating boy, and a frustrating one.

Anna Kathryn  loves to sit at the table and write letters and her name, and color pictures in bright, bold colors that often don't stay in the lines. She's very much like her daddy. A literalist, impulsive, eager for attention, interested in everything. She offers to help me with the jobs I'm doing around the house, and although she quickly loses interest, I love it that she offers. I wish I had the patience to take her up on it every time, and that she had the patience to follow through, but we have our moments of working together, and it's almost always fun while it lasts.

Stephen doesn't ask. He doesn't talk, so he can't ask. But he does help. In a willing, efficient, orderly way that is at odds with the rest of the household. I find myself watching him line up his blocks, and stack books on the shelf next to his toys, and I imagine the day when he's able to take over tasks that still belong to me. He's going to do things better than his mother does. I can hardly wait. I sorted laundry last week, and he came over to me with a twinkle in his eye, grabbing a soiled shirt and preparing to launch it across the room. In a flash of inspiration, I put him to work. "Here, Stephen," I handed him something for the darks pile, "put it there." He did, and then swinging his arms proudly to himself, he turned back for another. We went through the rest of the laundry like that together, with me quietly handing him something and pointing to a pile, and him dropping it on the pile, swinging his arms in satisfaction, and turning back for more. When it was done, he accepted that the job was over, picked his way past the six loads we'd just sorted, and dumped out his legos. It was a moment for me. I fell madly in love with him for about the millionth time.

It was like seeing a piece of Grandma. Or of my dad. I still remember standing on a chair at the kitchen sink at the age of six with my two older siblings, learning how to wash dishes, because Mom was just too busy with four kids to do everything herself. Dad was our teacher when it came to housework. Mom was the enforcer. Dad was the one who made daily to-do lists for every member of the household, breaking the entire day down into thirty-minute segments consisting of meal preparation, schoolwork, house work, and even personal breaks. My mom thrived on the scheduling as much as the rest of us did. I got pieces of her style in my DNA, and pieces of Dad. A personality study of me is a study in contradictions, as I nearly always test out right on the line between extrovert (Mom) and introvert (Dad), and between artistic and logical. Choosing which side of myself to indulge on a daily basis requires concentrated effort, since the personality bents on every side of the spectrum are all strong enough to war with one another. It works for me, but I recognize it as pieces of both my parents. Some days, when all I want to do is daydream and sketch or write or create, I mentally set aside that cap and put on the other, more organized, goal-oriented cap. The one that's my Dad. The one that's now my son.

Today, Stephen found my reading light. He loves flashlights. He'll sit for hours with John's heavy work light with the two-pound battery, flicking it off and on, and making spotlights on the walls and ceiling while he talks to himself. My light is small and breakable, and I use it daily at bedtime, reading a book in the rocker in their room while the boys learn to fall asleep in their new toddler beds. In hopes that I could prevent him from breaking my favorite reading light, I firmly asked him to give it to me. My silent boy ignored me completely and brushed past me. I narrowed my eyes and prepared for battle, then watched as he walked over to the high table where he'd found it, carefully bent it into the shape I'd left it, and shoved it back onto the table as far as he could reach. Oh, yes. My baby is going to be an asset to his overworked and frazzled dual-personality mother. I can feel it in my bones.

Growing Up