You know that cartoon of Stewie Griffin from Family Guy; he’s trying to get his mother’s attention as she’s laying down, pretty much comatose from parenthood, “Mom, Mom, Mama, Mum, Mommy…” and when she finally responds, Stewie says, ….wait for it…. “Hi.”
It’s funny because it’s true.
One of my friends is traveling on business a lot lately, and her day job is not completely ideal. “As long as you get to go back to the hotel, turn the tv to whatever channel you want and eat food from a take-out container balanced on your stomach, completely alone,” I said. “Well, that’s pretty much my every day, anyway,” she replied. Well… huh. While she is, in fact, both younger than me and living my fantasy, I still really like her.
I’m not saying I don’t have a pretty great life. Because I do. I’m not wishing it away. And I’m not projecting that everyone who gets to control their own remote control must love it (or hate it, or even anything in between). Clearly, that’s a gross simplification of my own fantasy. Let’s say daydream. Occasional daydream.
But… Sunday morning. I’m meal planning for the week, recipe hunting and pantry assessing, still in my pajamas. “I don’t want to leave the house today,” I say. “I don’t want to get dressed.” “By the time your list is done, you will,” my husband predicts. I pull my warm coffee mug closer, and wish I remembered, ever, to actually put on the cozy bathrobe that hangs in my closet. Winter weekend mornings really bring out the hermit in me.
My youngest is talking. Talking. Talking. She’s drawing characters that she’s pulling out of her head, and then drawing their corresponding houses. It’s cute. Creative. My husband turns on a Sunday morning news magazine. I visit the recipe sections of reliable food bloggers. Healthy Kung Pao Chicken, only 8 ingredients. Sold. Chicken burrito bowl casserole. Cheaper than Qdoba, for sure. Oooh. Chai hot chocolate. Not exactly dinner, but … cardamon, allspice, ginger… Did I use the last of the ground cloves for gingerbread at Christmas? Speaking of spices, I think I definitely used the last of the sage for Thanksgiving stuffing. I should put that on the grocery list. I only use it once a year, so it’s rarely top of mind.
“Mommy, how do you spell Mimi? Do you like how I’m drawing her feathers? Mommy, do you want to draw something?” My husband is putting away dishes and re-loading the dishwasher. To be clear, I’m appreciative of this. It’s just so loud. Clatter. Clink. Porcelain against porcelain. Silverware against glass. “Can I paint my nails? I want to paint them blue like the sky and then draw grass. If I have room I’ll put a sun.” A screech of a fork across a plate and the whirl and hum of the garbage disposal. “Mama, do you think my nails are dry enough to paint the grass? Can you touch this one to see if it’s dry?” I’m moving canned goods around in the cupboard. Black beans, garbanzo beans, Great Northern beans, kidney beans, lentils… no pinto beans? Really? Aren’t kidney beans and pinto beans the same, anyway? Like garbanzo beans and chickpeas? “Mom, the yellow spilled!”
In my heart, I know that these are days, moments that will never come again. I know that in the – hopefully – 60-ish years I share with my children, these first 18 will be a blink of an eye. For my oldest, we’re already at the half-way point of that first sprint. And because things happen that we don’t anticipate, I can’t count on the final 40 years to make up for time lost in the first 18. I know that so many people – Erma Bombeck to Dolly Parton, John Lennon to Sheryl Sandberg – are attributed brilliant quotes about getting the balance of our lives properly adjusted. Love more. Work less. Be present. And yet … I just need a little quiet. I just need a little peace. A little time alone.
Over the weekend, the night was growing late. We do a really poor job of policing bedtimes during long weekends and vacations. Oh, you don’t have school for four days? Well, then… let’s do whatever we can to make sure your circadian rhythms match those of a native Icelander during the days of midnight sun. What could go wrong?
I retreated to my bedroom with a book about navigating our messy, beautiful lives. Four minutes went by. “Mommy, there you are. I’ll sit with you.” And my youngest settled in with me, writing a journal entry on her Chrome book. “Mommy, if I say, tomorrow, too, is that ‘to’ or ‘too’?” (I appreciate that she knows there’s a difference.) “How do I spell painting?” Gritted smile. P-a-i-n-t… Navigating. Messy. Beautiful. Life. Deep breath. And then… “Do you want to read my journal?”
(journal excerpt, edited for spelling)
“Me and my family painted the wall well my daddy did most of the work in the painting project and it was so much fun to do with my family. I had a great day with everyone and I am starting to feel it was the best day in the world or even in the galaxy so I am hoping tomorrow will be too and I hope that’s the same for all of you around the world.”
Heart, full. Guilt, rising. Oh, right… Not just noise. Not just buzzing inside my crowded brain that, lately, more than occasionally can’t think of simple words or what I meant to do next. “That’s beautiful,” I told my daughter, sincerely, as she scooted off the bed.
“Will you be okay now?” she asked. “I just didn’t want you to have to be alone,” she said. Her default decibel is loud and constant, but her heart is incredibly sweet.
My reality is pretty wonderful. I recognize it, and I’m mostly very grateful. Alone is still my daydream. Deafening silence still sounds beautiful in the hypothetical. We’re in a constant state of doing it seems. Weekends come and go before we really settle into them, and then the week is off and running and we never had a chance to truly shake off the week before. I could try getting up 20 minutes early, try meditating. I could finally go to yoga like I keep saying I will. But mostly, I’ll probably walk around with my jaw slightly clenched until I realize that I have a headache almost all the time. I keep searching for a magic island of peace and quiet and I forget that the noisy, rambunctious love surrounding me is also pretty amazing. Sometimes overwhelming, often stressful, but amazing.
I may spend more time than I used to staring blankly into space, trying to remember the word that was on the tip of my tongue a minute ago. This is normal, I’ve read. And not (necessarily) a sign of early onset Alzheimer’s or a tumor. It may take me exponentially more time to read any book, pausing three times per page to spell things, locate lost toys, and sharpen pencils. And sometimes I may spend double the time necessary in our bathroom, getting ready, dawdling, trusting in the only closed door in our house that is given a margin of respect.
But from what often seems like chaos, two remarkable, miraculous children are growing up, and I’m – still, constantly – growing up with them. I may never quite have it together. In the new year, I meant to start planning work outfits the night before. Save time. Look professional. Get to school and work before the buzzer. I wore a dress one day and everyone, from my family to my coworkers, commented. So, okay. Pulled together is still an anomaly. But… at some point along the way, I became adult enough to own all five spices required for homemade chai hot chocolate. So, even if quiet is hard to come by, bedtimes are missed and I never make it to yoga, I’m giving myself a little credit.
