Mama One to Three

I don’t write about my family being perfect very often.  Ever.

I am often overwhelmed by my three children.  They whine, cry, scream, throw things, pee on the floor.   In response, I whine, cry, scream, throw things. (It ends there, I promise.)  I argue with my husband over things.  I wonder if he “gets” me. Our life is a constant state of change and I am easily rattled.

At the moment–at this moment–every one of them is asleep.  Husband on couch.  Three kids in the room they share.  H and E in their toddler beds, M in her still-newish twin-size big girl bed.

There was something on the news that made me want to check on them.  That happens a lot.  You know. A sad horrible tragic unbelievable story airs on the news and you must see your children asleep in their beds.  At that moment.

So I go in to their room, quietly, fix the blankets that cover them.  E had taken off her pajamas before bed.  They “hurt.” Whatever that means.  She peed 20 times on the potty–or tried to, pretended to–before finally settling in.  She has figured that out, smart girl.  She demanded her “baby” be brought to her before she would sleep.  Her head is lying next to the doll’s and it is about the same size.

Her brother, H, has his three bears close to him. His long hair covers his eyes.  He is grabbing each side of his bed, the same way he used to grab his crib rails.  I lean in and smell his breath.  He doesn’t let me brush his teeth ever.  He fights me every night, wails, pulls away.  I always give up, having polished his lips with strawberry toothpaste.  His breath is sweet and sour and tells me his cold is still bad.

M is wearing butterfly pajamas that I bribed her to wear after a long argument.  She doesn’t like “long sleeves.” This morning I got into her bed with her when it was time–or past time–to get up. She is always quick to snake herself into my shape.  She hugs me ferociously.  I know her intensity well.  She snores now, the way her father does.

My husband is sleeping on the sofa.  He has finished dinner at about 11:00.  The television was on and I was asking if I told him how M is convinced someone at school doesn’t like her…  And I realized he was asleep.  This happens.  I am telling a story when I realize my husband has drifted off.  His days are long.  He pretends he is not tired, but he is often asleep shortly after he arrives home.

I have my laptop, one open window on a chilly night, the moon, the electric fireplace, toys on the floor, a sauvignon blanc opened earlier in the week.  I am the only witness to this perfection.

I started reading the link ups as soon as we returned from Boston today.  Waited until the kids were fed.  Then fed chocolate, watching television with daddy, dancing around the living room and demanding band aids be placed on them, everywhere.

I could finally comment on some great posts.  Finally, I could start writing my own.

And there is the blank page.  Surely, something fuels me.  I had just written a post about inspiration, the women and moms that amaze and humble me.  Hmm.  Is that all I got?

I imagine that feeling–that burning, tingling impulse to create, to tell a story, to make sense of emotion and madness, to get a laugh.  Where does that come from?  What makes me run past my kids to get the laptop, furiously type notes into my phone in line at Starbucks, scrawl random words into a notebook in the middle of the night?  Why do I sit at the computer late into the early morning knowing I will up with the kids in a few hours?  Insanity?  More than that.  All the beautiful, heartbreaking, hilarious, poetic, human stories I read every day?  The blogs, the poems, short fiction, essays–all that suddenly and thoroughly take my breath away?  Yes. And the writers behind them? Indeed.

And it occurs to me that something else, something darker, primitive, ignoble is there as well.  Something I don’t want to share.  (So I will.)  Something drives us to succeed as writers, to bare our souls to as many people as will see them; to face rejection and worse–to be ignored–so many times.  I recognize that fuel as fear.  Ugly, darling, familiar, pointy fear.

I have some experience in this area.  I know fear of what other people think of me.  I know fear of not being noticed, of not being good enough, of being alone.  I know fear of not having my say, of my story staying silent.  I don’t think I have ever read something fabulous and not thought, “Oh my God, I have to write something that good or better. Right now!”

I told you I didn’t want to share that.  But you should know this about me.  I envy and I wish I could be every writer I admire.  I fear the world of beautiful phrases will be plucked bare like the prettiest flowers.

I love the shadows on a sunny day; I am quick to notice them.  If you read my posts, you know I gravitate toward the broken parts.  I am fueled to write by my fascination with that which, on this divinely created earth, is raw and bruised.  Certainly, I will never work for Hallmark.  But this quiet terror also moves me.  I write to face the ugliest of what I know about myself and my world.

I cannot separate from or deny the fear that drives me.  It fuels my imagination, my admiration for writing, my need to be better.  I was once (always) afraid of writing; I didn’t want my truths to face me on a page.  Surely no one would like me knowing that.  Now my fear keeps me going back to the words, to the dim corners, and to my green affection for the writers whose glorious stories I know and love.

What fuels you?

I always had trouble with essays like this.  I could never really grasp the idea of having a “hero,” nor did I feel particularly inspired through school.

Having been an uncomfortable child, I had a lot of growing up to do in my twenties and thirties.  The world felt demanding and hostile to me for a long time. When I moved to New York City, almost 30 years old, I met my friend Anita.  She taught me to trust and love God.  It’s kind of that simple so I won’t go on about that here.  But now, having learned from her–having been inspired to look at things differently and wholly–I see the world as a connected, good place that needs healing.

I am inspired by people every day–many of them, women; some of them, moms.  I am moved by all the moms I know that work so hard to make life good for their families. They are similar and different in every way.  I call upon their stories when I need encouragement.  I call some of them daily.  I send them tweets and texts and I read their stories.  I am blessed to be part of their club: the moms that work at home, that work in offices, that homeschool their kids, that stay at home with toddlers every day; the moms that have choices and the moms that don’t.  I think of the moms that work two jobs, are single parents, are trying to keep their kids from the dangers of their neighborhoods and schools.  The moms at home while their husbands are at war. The moms at war.

I am awed and profoundly humbled.  I say this sincerely: I couldn’t do a harder job than I do now.  I don’t know how the moms with more challenges than I keep doing it, keep fighting, keep hoping and keep inspiring.

I have three mothers.  My father’s wife is a world traveler, even with painful physical difficulties.  She never stops.  She takes every ounce of happy available in a given day and shares it with her friends and family.  My mother-in-law laughs at life with love and defiance.  She cooks fabulous Italian food and amazes me with her ability to roll with what is given.

I talk about my own mom often.  Her intelligence is surpassed only by her ability to befriend and comfort people.  We look alike.  She is stronger than she knows and more admired than I could ever share with her.

This wasn’t where I thought I was going.  I guess the essay was here all along.

This post is for a link up with Lauren Nicole Gifts.  Check it out.