Seeing Yourself

This afternoon, worn out from too many warnings, I raised my voice and instructed, firmly, and for the 10th time, that it was unacceptable to throw action figures down the stairs. I really laid into her in my matter of fact, truthful, and logical parenting style. I was eloquent, loud, and clear. I felt that I had been the previous 9 times as well, but that didn't really matter at the moment.

As she always does when I'm scolding her, Willow puffed out her lower lip in a classic pout and stared angrily at the floor. To be sure I'd made my point, I gripped her little chin and turned it up so she was looking in my eyes. Then I said, "Do you understand me, Willow? What did I say about throwing toys down the stairs?"

And then she shattered my illusions.

She mimicked me. Not only did she attempt to repeat back what I'd said, she affected her voice, changed her posture, and gestured wildly. According to her, I was no bit the collected centurion I thought I was. I was a fingering-wagging monster that growled a lot. There were lots of shouts! And declarations! And between each of them, she'd squint her eyes and give me her best death stare (Awww, baby's first death stare).

Thrown a bit, I looked up and quickly to the mirror. There. I caught my still hunched shoulders, my furrowed brow. Damn it all, but I still had my pointer finger out and ready to go a-wagging!

She was right. She saw me in that moment more completely than I saw myself. And it was unnerving.

I tend to pride myself on my healthy grasp on self-awareness. In my opinion, it is acceptance of self and others that is the key to happiness. So, I spend a lot of time thinking about how to open my mind and show myself truth. I employ logic, and look hard in all physical and metaphysical mirrors. But today I'd failed, and I didn't even realize it.  As that truth hit home and I saw my self-assessment was wrong or perhaps just plain absent,  it felt extra tough because it was both a failure within the structure of how I hope to parent and within my evolution to become fully aware of who, what and how I am. It kind of sucked.

I'll tell you a secret, though. Tinged with hindsight, these moments are actually the very best part of endeavoring toward knowing yourself fully. They force your hand - demand that you look - LOOK! - at yourself, and that you  recognize that you are not your best. That you gave less than you could, were less than you could be. It is in those spaces that progress is made.

More power to you if you spot each low moment on your own. Me? I'm thankful that there are extra eyes watching me - reminding me who I really am. Holding up mirrors when I'm caught hiding behind something. Helping me fight illusion.

Find humility in your bad moments. Be thankful for the watchers who help you to grow. Become a watcher yourself. And for crying out loud, stop wagging your finger so much - nobody likes that.

Earth-Shatterer

When I'm running, I imagine there is black smoke venting from the top of my skull. Each step builds a bigger fire. I push all my dark emotions, all of my fear, all of the things that plague me towards the flame, transforming them into the acrid cloud moving up and out. I wash the sudden internal emptiness with gladness, relief. Light pours into places once dark and I am reborn. Running is the tool. I use it to create a clean reality. Gain sanity. Find zen.

I wasn't always like this. I used to hate to run. But that was because I didn't have the guts to push or the tools to build a demolition fire.

Before, when I would attempt to break my own barriers I would inevitably give up. Face them, and turn away. Run away. It could be something as simple as the physical discomfort I felt during distance running, or something more complex. It didn't matter - whenever I had doubt in my abilities I would inevitably think that failing was worse than not trying. Backing down showed smarts. Knowing your limits was a sign of maturity. Yes, yes - it is truly shocking what information we can cognitively align ourselves with sometimes. And I'm not sure it would have changed, if it wasn't for Willow.

It was motherhood that shattered the first wall.

I never thought I could live without sleep. During those excruciating first weeks of parenthood, if someone had given me the option to quit, I would have. Gladly. But there is no option to give up at 3 AM when a little baby is depending on you, so I learned to adapt. I learned to take command of my ego just a little bit more. Pull back on thoughts of myself, give more than I thought possible. Not always in the most beautiful or graceful manner, but I learned how to push beyond. It was just the beginning.

Doors tumbled open in streaks. Sometimes I felt like I was crashing through them - pulverizing so many mental blocks like steel doors I could kick off the hinges. Shattering my own conventions. It felt amazing.

I learned how to cook, I brought art back into my life. I ran - and I ran farther than I ever had.

I re-learned how to learn. Then, I learned how to unlearn. In fact, I felt like I was figuring it all out for the very first time. I felt the concrete reality of mastering the learning process, but what I was really feeling was evolution. I was feeling it happen - to me.

It made me think suddenly how people always say that having kids changes you. I had always taken that to mean that it changed just your heart or your schedule. But, no. That's not it. Those things are involved, sure. But the real change is more than emotional - it's a warping of your physical fabric. It is an opportunity for reformatting the brain, completely rewiring yourself - should you so desire. There are certainly varying degrees to which people take advantage of this, but I believe when the birth of your child is an earth-shattering experience for you, you get the chance to build the world back up again. And it can look however you want it to.

It didn't happen overnight, but I did rebuild my world. I built it around my little earth-shatterer and my husband and me. And I built it into something much better. Stronger. Even more adaptable. I not only look for challenges these days, I invite them in for tea. It's something I really never saw happening. I would look foreign to an old me, should one come hopping out of a time machine.

So I adapt through a pinch in my side and drive my legs harder. I think about that smoke coursing out from the top of my head, thick with the burning of all my doubt, all my old selves. In doing so, I am evolving, unlearning, re-learning. Venting black smoke. Becoming.

All the Winged Horses

As a child I used to daydream that there were pegasi flying through the sky outside the school bus window. Flitting in and out of the clouds, only I could see them. One would fly down and I'd climb out of the bus window and onto its steady back. From there we'd go anywhere. Everywhere.

My daughter takes a baby doll and propels it across the living room shouting, "WE CAN FLY! WE CAN FLY!" and I feel like I'll just die from the intensity of emotion hurling itself at my ribcage.

Such a sweet gift, the imaginings of childhood. The realness that dreams have. The magic inherent in everything - in a baby doll, in the clouds outside of a school bus. I love that parenthood allows me the privilege of reliving this part of life, albeit from a vicarious place. It fills me with happiness for Willow and with wonder. Curiosity and pride. All of those things.

But, sometimes the emotions springing forth from me are born from a place of pain, of a certain sadness. I have this longing to feel those things again, to believe them possible the way she does - it creates a feeling akin to jealousy. Not really jealousy of any serious variety, but it's there nonetheless. I find myself wishing I was her for a moment so I could see wonders, too.

But I just can't do it. I don't see winged horses in the sky any more. I know they are not there.

I also know this will not be the only time I feel this way - I mean, isn't it sort of a built-in part of parenting? I definitely heard the line "don't wish away your childhood" many a time growing up, and blew it off as old people being dumb. But now, I see it for what it probably was - a tiny twinge of impractical jealousy that gets redirected into a responsible statement of truth. Not that it will do your kid any good - they'll most likely blow it off just like you did.

She throws down her doll in favor of her blocks, and begins building a tower - a home to a princess or an ogre or maybe a vampire. I join in - saving leaning towers and building up places that are lacking stability. Redirecting. Doing the adult things - the responsible things.

I sigh and keep stacking. Trying desperately to dream up a pegasus or two.

Crying to the Music

One of my Dad's favorite memories of me as a kid happens to also be one of my very first legitimate memories - it happened when I was 3 or 4 years old. Back in 1982, an awesome movie was released called "The Secret of Nimh." Practically as soon as they released it on VHS a copy found its way into my hands - and I watched it as often as my Mom would let me. One day as the movie was finishing and the credits began to roll my Dad walked into the living room and found me sitting there sobbing. Just gutted. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Wait a minute. That movie has a happy ending. Doesn't it?" You're right. It DOES end happily. The story had nothing to do with the reason I was crying. I was crying because of the music.

This is the song: Flying Dreams by Jerry Goldsmith and Paul Williams

I remember it, crying to the music because it made me feel like I had to. I was internalizing it, making it part of me and being moved to show it. It was really the first time I had ever showed that I was able to connect that way  - and since music has been one of the great loves of my life, I hold this moment near and dear to my heart.

Fast forward about 30 years (yikes) - my lovely little girl is playing nicely with our electric keyboard in the guest room while I put away some laundry in other parts of the upper level. She likes to play the demo song and press all the keys and buttons and kick her feet to the music - it's pretty cute. Anyway, on this particular day she managed to press the keys in just such a manner that the demo song switched to something new. (I'm not kidding you guys, I had NO CLUE that thing could even do that). Then she switched the song again - this time to a little harpsichord ditty. A fourth song popped up and then a fifth! Finally a big, soaring number (using the "strings" setting) that sounded like it could have been the theme for a Jane Austen film. This one made her stop. The strings kept flying, but I realized I wasn't hearing the usual cacophony of kicks and clicks that had accompanied the other demo songs. 

I was immediately suspicious - a kid that is quiet AND out of your sight is never a good thing. So, I dropped what I was doing and stepped into the hall where if I leaned a bit to the right I could just catch a glimpse of the piano bench. As she came into view I immediately noticed her shoulders - they were stooped just slightly. Her head was bent forward so a swath of blond hair covered her face. Her hands sat still in her lap. By all accounts, she appeared to be simply sitting quietly and listening. Very unlike her.

My fears for her safety now squashed by seeing her, I crept slowly closer to satisfy my growing curiosity instead. As I closed the distance between us my ears picked up some sniffling noises, and the truth came crashing in: she was crying to the music - just like me. Slow tears rolled heavy down her cheeks and fell with audible drips to the bench below. Her shoulders shook slightly as she pulled in catching breaths. I had to clutch my chest to ensure my heart wouldn't explode from loving her so much in that moment.

She noticed me finally, turning up her miserable little face - and that's when she really lost it. She sobbed for several minutes and clung to me and kept repeating the word "SAD." It was a strange mix of sympathy, wonder and pride that filled up my chest as I consoled her. I knew just how she felt - I knew just how the music had made her feel. I mean, "Flying Dreams" is by no means the only song to ever knock me off my feet emotionally - I have cried to countless tunes in my day so my understanding was palpable. I also felt an overarching sense of gratitude - I won't beat around the bush, the fact that my kid can emotionally connect to music already is a dream come true for me. I would love to nurture her love of music and to encourage her to explore it. So I felt jubilant, too - standing there holding my wretchedly sad daughter, sublimely happy. Grateful. 

I'll remember it forever - and I'll certainly bring it up when they interview me for Behind the Music someday.

Lollipop, Lollipop!

Back about 100 years ago, or at least it feels that long ago, I bought a giant bag of Dum Dum lollipops. You know the bag - it's so massive that its contents end up occupying some part of your pantry for far longer than they should? Five years later you're still trying to pawn off the root beer flavor on some kids at Halloween? Yeah, the big one.

Anyway, Willow recently discovered that we had this treasure in our possession, and since lollipops are already her favorite, she has taken to asking for one at least ten times a day. Typically, she is easily dissuaded by a simple redirect. But recently she has become quite difficult to say no to.

Since I say no to her question of, "Wolpop?!" at least 95% of the time, she has gotten the hint that this question usually results in negative responses. So, she tried an experiment - she changed something about the question she asked in the hope that the type of answer she got would change too - smart, no? :)

Now had she opted to change the content of the question by asking for an apple instead I would have been supremely pleased (and probably patting myself on the back for totally acing parenting). But, no. That is not exactly what she decided to go with. To her, the obvious choice was to change her volume as she asked - so she started whispering it to me.

I can't begin to tell you how precious this is - hence the whole difficulty in saying no. I love the whole conclusion she made - that somehow asking more quietly would be less offensive to me, and I might say yes more often. In truth, she was right. I have said yes more often. Because of the cuteness, guys.

But, I knew I needed to put my foot down. So recently I decided to put on my mean mommy hat and be firm. A whole day without lollipops. Zero. I was steadfast. No longer would I be the willing pawn of cuteness. My resolve would not waver. Famous last words, right?

It started out totally fine. The first few inquiries were deflected easily enough but as the afternoon wore on and I continued to decline I began to sense her growing desperation.

The whispers grew quieter, but screechier at the same time, too. She practically wheezed it at me once.

I started to feel bad for the kid - also, I was having a hard time holding back laughter. And it's tough to have your kid take you seriously when you break into a grin while doling out a no.

One such laughing fit forced me to turn my back on her quickly to gain composure. As I turned around a minute later my heart just burst because there she was, my lollipop loving little girl, pleading with her eyes while she emphatically mouthed the word "WOLPOP!" on an endless loop. Even a whisper was too much now. The only choice was no sound. Silence. And every ounce of determination she had.

So what did I do?

I gave her a lollipop, of course.

How to Name an Elf

This year we decided to institute the 'Elf on the Shelf' Christmas tradition. I'm actually pretty picky when it comes to this type of thing. I firmly believe that imagination is what drives Christmas spirit so I regularly shy away from Christmas stories that over-explain the phenomenon that is Santa Claus. Too intricate a tale will kill any interpretation or possibilities in the lore, and fences like that don't get taken down easily. So I did a lot of thinking about whether or not this Shelf Elf was for us.

After considering the concept, I decided to make an exception for this because I happen to find it clever. It adds a branch to the story that actually encourages differences in experience and (I think) answers some of the valid, logical questions that I began to have at a young age that eventually forced me to question the validity of the story altogether. Not to mention, I know I would have loved having an elf to seek out and confide in when I was a little girl. The magic factor in this one is pretty high if you ask me. 

My mother-in-law gave us this elf last year and I hadn't thought to open it until our decorations were up and I suddenly remembered we even had one. So, I pulled our little elf out of his box and started flipping through the included story book - for those of you unfamiliar with the lore you can catch up over the next couple of bulletin points:

1. Santa has special helper elves that are assigned to families either by request (you write a letter to the big guy and ask for one) or you can also pick up one of the many elves that are sent to stores around the world (because Santa also cares about convenience, apparently).

2. Your elf will arrive, and once he or she has done so, you must quickly give it a name. Only when it has been named will its magic become active.

3. The elf's sole purpose is to check on you and to make sure you are being good. Then each night he or she flies back to the North Pole to give their report to Santa.

4. The next morning when you wake up, guess what? He or she is back! And you'll be able to tell that they left because now they will be sitting in a new place in your house. (I may or may not be failing miserably in the whole remembering to move the elf endeavor).

5. This isn't 'Nam people, there are rules. Do not touch the elf! Or else his magic will go away and he won't be able to fly back to Santa. But, you can feel free to talk to him as much as you want. Tell him what you're hoping to get from Santa. Tell him whatever you want - he is an excellent listener (probably mostly due to the fact that he is made of plastic and therefore, has no choice).

So, our little elf came out of his box, and we started trying to think up a name. Willow had better things to do, so it was up to the adults. I started throwing out every boy name I've ever loved that I knew Ryan would never let me name a hypothetical son someday. Turns out he hated them as much for an elf as he does for a real person...LAME. But, I'm a compromising sort, so I moved on and kept thinking.

Ryan tried out a few gibberish names (for which he is perfectly adept at creating) and they all just felt too silly. Not right for our happy little elf. This was turning into a small problem. This guy needed a name, and we were failing utterly.

Then, it came to me! I suddenly remembered a car trip to Michigan that Ryan and I took when I was pregnant with Willow. We were still trying to pick names and had brought along our name book to read through as we travelled. Convinced that we needed to be open minded, we started at the beginning and read through each girl name (well almost all of them) marking down the ones we liked and leaving the losers on the blacktop behind us. We were blown away by what qualifies as a real name on many occasions, but none so much as when we entered into the T's and found our joke baby name, Trilby. 

"Oh my God - it HAS to be Trilby!" I yelled out of nowhere. We agreed it was perfect. And Trilby was magic-icized!

Ok, yes. He's a he. And Trilby is technically a girl's name. But I think I caught him throwing me some shade earlier and his eyelashes are quite lovely, so I think we're on the right track here, people.

The Naming of Things

When naming this blog, I did quite a bit of thinking. No wait, I barely thought at all. The name just came to me - the thinking part happened afterward when I started to wonder if I had aptly or incorrectly titled this thing.

I mean, a blog is basically just an expression of self, and I was suddenly acutely insecure. I was a new Mom, sure. But was I the "maternal type?" Misrepresentation of self is a sure sign of cognitive dissonance - and I thought I might be cracked here. I moved quickly from worrying about just the title and thick into worrying about the actual consequences of this discovery. Did it mean I wasn't cut out to be a Mom?

You have to remember that I first started writing here (albeit briefly) when Willow was 10 weeks old, and at that point I was still feeling a bit, well, lost. The word maternal always suggested a natural quality to me, like it should be something simply and inherently felt - I mean its most common phrase pairing is "maternal instinct." That's sounds like it should be pretty darn natural, right? But at the beginning, I didn't feel natural at all. In fact, I felt quite foreign to myself.  What made it worse was that I worried I looked as awkward and fumbling as I felt. It made me uneasy - was I doing this right? If I was, why did I still feel so insecure? Why wasn't this coming naturally? Suddenly the word itself felt like a great weight. I was buckling under the pressure to find something within that I thought was surely lacking.

Adding insult to injury is the fact that there are those women that just seem like they were born to do this job. You know the type - they've been gushing over babies since they were little girls, playing house and daydreaming of the day they will get to be a real Mommy.  And then they go off and have tons of babies that they never seem to get tired of breastfeeding, and it leaves Moms like me feeling even more alien. I mean, unless they are all really good liars, it seems that some people are just naturally better suited for such things. Did it matter that I wasn't one of them? Was Willow getting the short end of the stick because I couldn't get the hang of this as quickly as other people do?

Amble on down the road a bit and things are much different. I do feel maternal, I know I'm a good Mom. I have confidence. Where did it change? I'm not really sure. There are days I'd swear I was right back at the beginning, and then an instant later I can snap back into self-assured mode with ease. I believe part of the comfort in maternal feelings came for me simply by learning. I am maternal because that is what I have become. It is what I've grown into. I am the skill sets I have acquired. I am the instinct now that alluded me so thoroughly at first.

Which brings me to my point: In my haste to find a snappy name for my blog that intimated my personal and vast feelings about life and parenthood (while simultaneously making me sound clever) I had inadvertently stumbled upon a perfect name for very different reasons. Because let's be honest folks, parenting is largely a game of paradoxes just like this one. The road is full of stumbling blocks and concepts that begin to look hazy the longer you stare. There's so much advice and information out there that beginner parents can feel suffocated by all the options. Even in the idea of maternal nature I could see alternatives I didn't even know were there initially. Yes, it could be instinct. Yes, it can also be learned. So what does it matter which way it happens?

Just like with everything in the parenting world - there's more than one right way to do things folks.


Am I maternal? Yes and No.

I am. And I am not. And I think that's ok.