Flying too close to the heat
She says mommy for the 47th time in as many minutes and I’m losing it, slowly, an internal bleed. Mommy? I’m hungry. Mommy, did you see this? Mommy, my favorite color is orange now. Mommy, where’s my milk? Mommy, stupid is a bad word, right? My responses start escaping sharper, quicker; my eye rolls become uncontainable. I want to to scream, “I AM THE ONLY PERSON IN THE ROOM SO I REALIZE IT IS ME YOU ARE ADDRESSING!” but instead I say, “I’ll get you something, Emma. That’s neat, Emma! You don’t say, Emma. Over there, Emma. Yes it is, Emma!” I shuffle and float, dodge and duck, absorb her verbal blows because honestly, all I can think about is my friends who would give anything to hear their babies say mommy again just one more time and so I shut my mouth, clamp it tight, smile. I have no right to feel this. But I wonder, secretly, a whisper creeping like fog up my throat and evaporating before it hits my lips: Surely those mamas once felt this, too?
*
It’s Saturday night and we brave, for the first time, the bowling alley down the way. It’s packed with people and smoke, they’re lapping it up, soaking it in, like sauna inhabitants in some filthy backwards spa. We order a spread of various fried foods, slip into borrowed shoes, and I shudder; I can’t help myself, I’m feeling superior. I hate when that toxic feeling comes on and I’m trying to shove it out, trying to be like my kids (unseeing), trying not to notice as they run their hungry fingers along grimy video games and vending machines (seeing anyway), smiling at my fellow bowlers (see? We are one.)
We sit down to eat and the worst of them wanders up to our table. He shakes and slurs; I can’t decide if he is only drunk, or something more. He addresses my husband, tells him what a good looking family he has here; I can’t decide if he is leering. Emma is oblivious but Gretta, now nine, squirms. I hold as still as I can and smile brightly — one day she will learn to quash her instincts in the name of polite behavior, as all women do, unfortunately.
Then he says, “I had a beautiful family once, too” and, to my horror, he begins to cry.
*
Sometimes birds mistake our chimney for a tunnel to some sort of safe, dry haven and they come charging in, a crash and slide of feathers and squawks and claws screeching down the metal pipe. They land, and after a beat or two they blink stupidly at me through the glass, not thinking about where they are, just wondering why they can’t get to the light. Helping them escape is tricky; you can’t just open the door and let them fly loose into the house — they won’t head for the open front door, but rather beat themselves to death against the windows and wooden beams. Instead, you have to crack the woodstove door ever so slightly, slide one arm in and close a gentle fist around the creature, feel its heart smack against your palm impossibly fast as you walk outside, until you release it the heavens, a magic trick.
This time we aren’t here for her arrival, and we’re too late. Normally they can live for a while inside the stove but not if we’ve had a fire recently; the forgotten logs still breathe intense heat. Dave picks her up by one wing and carries her out, a pallbearer, my daughters and a cloud of soot her funeral procession. They keep on coming, though, into the darkness. I can’t figure it out. Is it the heat the draws them?
*
We can’t live so viscerally, so close to the heat of this love, can we? In the face of other mothers’ losses I pull my spared children into vice-grip embraces and every time I think of the pain my friends endure I feel a sweep of nausea. I think, Remember this. Love them hard. Appreciate this. Be here now. Do not ever take it for granted. Don’t you realize what could happen? Live like this, every day, every moment. DO. NOT. FORGET. It’s tight and it hurts and it makes me feel dizzy, but can I keep it up? Should I keep it up?
Tell me it’s okay to take it all for granted at times, to lose my cool over their white-hot needs, to pine for a book and a bottle of wine and a quiet back room. Tell me it’s alright to only pretend to like the bowling, the Littlest Petshops, the hide-and-seek. Tell me that everyone takes it all for granted sometimes, that living focused on the potential for loss is neither healthy nor sustainable. Tell me that shoving them all out the door with a picnic lunch and a to-do list is not one of those things I’ll dwell on should the unthinkable ever visit me here. Tell me that I won’t lose them just because I looked away for a minute, that rolling my eyes and forgetting my patience won’t draw the ire of fate. Who can keep seeking this heat without head-to-toe burns, without singeing her wings? Surely not me.
These are the things I tell myself, but I don’t know what I believe.
tysdaddy says:
Oh, Maggie.
These very things have been on my mind this morning as well. For the first time in years, I didn’t get up to send my son to the bus. Sure, he’s fifteen. Sure, he hardly seems to notice that I am there at all. But I’ve been feeling like shit about it all day. I let slide an opportunity to do the one thing I can do, tell him I love him, before he heads off to school.
I need this . . .
April 27th, 2009 at 9:03 am
Meg says:
I thought this as my husband and I orchestrated an overnight getaway for just us grown-ups, wondering why we feel compelled to leave the kids every once in a while. It’s restorative, sure, good to remember why we married each other and all that, but there are many people who would today count that night away as one they wish they hadn’t taken, in hindsight.
When my 4 year old says MOMMY I always say WHATTIE? and he now calls me on it. It annoys the crap out of him.
That bowling alley scene? I bet it was unbelievable. Wow.
April 27th, 2009 at 9:26 am
Eliza says:
Oh, my god…my dad was at the bowling alley?!
April 27th, 2009 at 9:41 am
fancy feet says:
It’s alright. Really and truly. I’m not saying this like I have it covered. I struggle with this too. It’s just that it’s not really living to live like someone’s dieing.
Have I told you lately that I love your blog? Well, I love it.
April 27th, 2009 at 11:00 am
Vicky says:
You have “mother’s eyes.” They see all the things they wouldn’t have focused on before kids, the hidden germs (have you thought about the holes of the actual bowling balls, like how do they clean those?), the hidden dangers, clientele that may or may not have been imbibing just a bit…
I’ll tell you its okay, if you’ll tell me too. Because I do all of those things you mentioned and more. Even though, I too have had the front row seat on the loss of a child.
April 27th, 2009 at 12:22 pm
anymommy says:
It’s alright. It really is. That’s what I tell myself at the end of every long, wonderful, horrible, exhausting day.
April 27th, 2009 at 1:07 pm
Trenches of Mommyhood says:
I get you. I hear this. I feel much the same at times.
April 27th, 2009 at 1:34 pm
KayO says:
How awful to cling to the “this might end” aspect. People you love will annoy you. You don’t have to swallow it. I remember telling my four-year-old that she was NOT to say “Mommy” ONE MORE TIME today. Without missing a beat, she changed to, “Kay, what time is it? Kay, where is my book?” (I laughed – what else can you do?)
Not healthy to cling and imagine the darkness. You have normal, healthy kids; treat them like it. If you start treating them like they’re fragile, they’ll act like it; and the world doesn’t need more neuroses.
Eeek, on the drunken bowler. But remember, drunks do cry.
Unpopular but true: I am now a widowed empty nester, living alone, daughter grown up (but still needy) and gone, and I LOVE LIVING ALONE. The book, the stereo, the silence, and everything right where I put it. Time to focus on MY needs. Grab your oases where you can, or you will resent every demand on you and corrupt your own definition of love.
April 27th, 2009 at 3:31 pm
Nicole says:
Taking the little things for granted is being human. And those the closest to us, are the ones that can annoy us the fastest and the most.
April 27th, 2009 at 6:33 pm
Kat says:
Oh, Maggie…this hit home for me.
I’ve spent all weekend worrying about the stupid swine flu and my little one, who has a bad cough and may have slight asthma and so everything respiratory is scary for me now. We had to take him to the ER a couple of weeks ago for a bad case of croup. Now there’s this flu an hour south by plane from here, it is causing me a lot of anxiety to keep sending him to school right now but he isn’t really sick.
But tonight I didn’t get home from a very long day at work until after 7pm, hungry as hell, wolfed down dinner while he danced around me, and let my husband put him to bed even though I spent all day thinking “what if?”…because I’m tired. And I get up with him by myself every day and get us both off to school and work, and I drove home through a driving, crackling, booming rainstorm for almost an hour tonight and I just. didn’t. want. to be the mommy. I wanted, NEEDED, a little peace.
It’s ok to take it for granted sometimes. It’s only human. We’re moms, which makes us only human, too.
April 27th, 2009 at 7:32 pm
pamela says:
Then he says, “I had a beautiful family once, too” and, to my horror, he begins to cry.
You killed me right there. And my mama’s heart just bled out for the rest of the post.
My short people have been sick and annoying and I have been living those exact feelings for weeks now.
April 27th, 2009 at 8:21 pm
Natalie says:
My gosh you manage to reach right in and pull my heart out with the way you write what we all feel.
I don’t know what else to say, except I don’t know if it’s okay to take it for granted, I just know it happens, and we are human and goodness knows I’ve yelled at my son a time or two and then wanted to take that moment back with all of my heart because I know I am so blessed to have him.
April 27th, 2009 at 8:23 pm
LPC says:
I know a few things. I have two children, one 21, the other 19 today. Time puts no damper on the heat. Only over time we older mothers are no longer birds to the chimney. We might lay claim to some part of the myth of the phoenix, at least for the disappointment and annoyance and times we failed them.
April 27th, 2009 at 8:30 pm
Lynn (Walking With Scissors) says:
The commenters above have already hit the nail on the head and so I’ll just echo their sentiments. Sometimes when I read your entries, I feel like I’m reading the chapter of a book and I have to take a moment to remember that it’s really a chapter of your life. You write beautifully and, in this case for sure, you write what most mothers think. (I always knew there was a reason I keep coming back here!)
April 27th, 2009 at 8:42 pm
krista says:
walking a tightrope in stilettos and fishnets. feigning innocence in a bustier. liz taylor dressed up like doris day.
this is how i feel sometimes just being a mother.
juxtaposed, faking it, incongrous.
i love my daughter too much. yet i need my time to be me.
we all take them for granted, our children. because it’s not possible to relish every moment of them. they aren’t perfect. they are tiny little human beings. just as full of annoyance and whining and repitition as they are of love and light and truth.
it’s balance.
(on a tightrope wearing stilettos and fishnets, feigning innocence in a bustier.)
April 27th, 2009 at 10:36 pm
flutter says:
bearing witness to your beautiful heart
April 27th, 2009 at 10:44 pm
Rachael says:
What a beautiful, beautiful post. You capture the feeling in a mother’s heart so well.
April 27th, 2009 at 10:49 pm
Kelley @ Magnetoboldtoo says:
and sometimes, that intense white hot love for your children will cause you to sacrifice all.
Everything.
They don’t understand, but they thank you and then ask ‘are you OK’ and you say ‘if you are OK I am OK, you will understand when you are a mother’
Knowing that you can give up everything for their happiness allows us momentary lapses.
April 28th, 2009 at 1:42 am
Mrs C says:
Lovely lovely lovely post. It all ties together so beautifully.
You hold them close, their hearts thumping against your palm and then you free them to the skies and watch them fly.
April 28th, 2009 at 2:24 am
qt says:
I don’t know what is ok and what is not, maggie. I don’t even have kids. But when I look back at my own childhood, it is the sum of all these actions, all these days – the sunday morning waffles, the kiss on the cheek before school, the comforting hand when I was sick, the pride in my report cards, the drives through the mountains, baking & cooking together – that stand out in the mountain of days between then & now.
I think that is the best you can hope for with our humanness that continually fails us.
Love this post.
April 28th, 2009 at 4:38 am
deb says:
well, i am only one person, and a pretty awful one, at that, but here’s what i can tell you…
i have one foot in your life and one foot in the “other moms’ lives”. my child is healthy…today. but he has a fatal, genetic disease and, barring a miracle, will not outlive me. i try to see this as a gift. delayed suffering, but open eyes. i should be automatically, instinctually breathing in every laugh and smile and eye roll and bad attitude and hug and accomplishment.
but i don’t. i get pulled into the mundane. i fly off the handle. i drown in the constant conflict that is teen-dom. i take it all for granted.
until i read posts like yours. then i stop and remember and regroup.
thanks.
April 28th, 2009 at 5:51 am
arizaphale says:
So hard to know what to say here Maggie. I think you actually said it all. No use treating everything as transient, I mean it is, but if all you do is worry about losing it you never have time to enjoy it. I’m sure I’m preaching to the converted.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:10 am
Ann's Rants says:
First of all, I’m so guilty of that patronizing “we are one” crap. You called it–trying to forge that connection with someone…see, I’m human too!
You’re awareness of your gifts in important, as is admitting how hard an individual moment can feel. You’re passing along a gift to all of us in this post–validation for the Survivors who’ve lost a loved one and validation for the everyone about the hardship of plain ole’ life.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:22 am
Small Town. Small Times. says:
I read this and I feel relief and envy. It’s like you crawled inside me, gathered all my thoughts and feelings, and said them so much better.
I love your writing and I confess, I hate it too. Much as I try and try and try, I could never write a post as beautifully lyrical as this. And so, I am grateful and jealous.
That said, you just made me realize there is a difference between the gratiude that bubbles up unexpectedly, and the gratiude we will ourselves to feel because if we don’t, everything we should have appreciated will be taken away. Do you think that fate/God/the higher power knows the difference? I hope not.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:30 am
janet says:
I think it’s alright.
It has to be alright.
Because so many of us are doing the exact same thing.
It all comes down to unconditional love, in my opinion. I ALWAYS love my kids, fiercely, protectively, deeply. But sometimes they bug the crap out of me and I just want to sit by myself for half an hour and be aware of my own breathing. Nothing else.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:30 am
Mad says:
You’ve captured the Janus-like nature of parenting so very eloquently. We cannot help but look forwards and backwards all in one go.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:39 am
Justme says:
Yeah, what they all said…
(((hugs))) Maggie, you so rock.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:44 am
Tricia says:
I’ll tell you, if you’ll please tell me.
April 28th, 2009 at 7:03 am
magpie says:
You wouldn’t be human without that need to hole up with that book and a glass of wine and take it for granted. It’s what recharges your batteries for the next venture into saving the world.
April 28th, 2009 at 7:03 am
sweetsalty kate says:
“Tell me that everyone takes it all for granted sometimes, that living focused on the potential for loss is neither healthy nor sustainable.”
Piping up from the other side to say yes, unequivocally, four out of five dentists agree.
My child died, yet I scowl and snap at his brothers when I’m spread too thinly. I lust for time to myself some days. Those parents who have experienced loss are not somehow more enlightened or more gracious. Only more guilt-ridden because we live with the burden that we Should Know Better.
This isn’t going to come out right but I’m going to give it a shot anyway.
All the “hug your children tighter” sentiment in the blogosphere as of late makes me squirm. Holding up the misfortune and loss of others as evidence that the majority must learn from loss, that our children must benefit from the absence of other children, that we as parents should be ‘better’ at being with our kids in the face of another parents’ loss.
It’s all just too damn much. We’re all equal-parts selfish and selfless and joyful and cranky and patient and antsy no matter what hand we’ve been dealt.
All of us, as parents, live with enough guilt and fear as it is. Let’s not exacerbate it by expecting ourselves to suddenly be saints. If I can’t be – except in temporary flashes of grace or thankfulness – neither can you. And that’s okay.
April 28th, 2009 at 7:12 am
sweetsalty kate says:
Just to add – not saying that you, sweet maggie, are ‘holding up’ loss in any particular way. Just speaking generally about what everybody does.. because nobody really knows what to say or do when a child dies, or how to make gratefulness stick.
Beautiful and thought-provoking post as always.
xo
April 28th, 2009 at 7:15 am
Madge says:
i just posted about yelling at my kid over a stupid school project. so mad at myself, so sick of myself being this way. it’s like i love them and hold them tight and appreciate them and yet, sometimes, ahhh, i’m empty, i’ve got nothing left for them….. so hard.
April 28th, 2009 at 8:03 am
ms. changes pants while driving says:
your writing is like listening to a piano piece. dancing lightly at times, building into a crescendo, then back to dancing lightly on the keys.
you toy with my emotions, dammit. and i love it.
April 28th, 2009 at 9:49 am
ms. changes pants while driving says:
i love sweetsalty kate’s comment.
April 28th, 2009 at 9:51 am
maggie, dammit says:
Ms. changes pants: So do I.
April 28th, 2009 at 9:51 am
Ashleigh says:
I don’t have kids and yet…I think I can relate. It’s ok.
April 28th, 2009 at 10:04 am
Kelly says:
I am a wife, I am a mother. I am also more than this. As much as I love and adore and at times worship my family, there are times when I’m vulgar and angry and sad and wishing I had the balls to do something, anything, outside the ordinary.
Sometimes the ordinary is beautiful. Sometimes it bothers me greatly. And mostly, I have accepted that this is okay.
April 28th, 2009 at 10:14 am
we_be_toys says:
It’s so very okay to feel a bit crazed from the incessant “Mommy –” attacks, but see? You didn’t lose your shit, you smiled and nodded, and that’s all they really want. Nobody is the perfect parent 100% of the time, but it’s the trying that counts.
Sounds like one of my bowling alley forays – people seem to like to tell me their life stories – I haven’t decided if it’s a gift or a curse – probably both.
Crazy damn birds – any way to put a bit of screen over the chimney hole, to keep the suicidals at bay?
PS – is it Friday yet?
April 28th, 2009 at 10:19 am
Amy @ The Bitchin' Wives Club says:
Ugh. My post today is all about being frustrated as a parent and then I read this! *~* Certainly, no matter how terrible my day may be…. it could never compare with the pain of not having any more days with my rugrats. Even so, that doesn’t make me not want to run away some nights!
I hope you pull out of this thought process! It is too hard to live like that. It is one of the great ‘givens’ of parenthood: Everyone is in on the inherent fact that parents love their children and no matter how frustrating parenthood can be, everyone knows that parents would be devastated to lose their children.
April 28th, 2009 at 11:32 am
Kay says:
We are ALL human. If someone insists that they’ve never had those type of “Please, can I just not be the mom for FIVE SECONDS?” thoughts? They’re lying.
None of us are perfect Little Miss Sunshines… we all have shitty moments/days/weeks. Try to realize that the mothers who HAVE lost… are not focusing on those moments – they’re focusing on the majority of the time where they DID find joy and love in being the mommy. Don’t beat yourself up.
My lil guy has a terminal condition. As of right now, he has a 25% chance of making it to 11 years old (which will be August 2009) and each year decreases by half. There has never been a documented case of a child with his diagnosis living past 17. But you know what? There are days where he fights me changing his diaper, or we’re giving meds and breathing treatments every hour around the clock, or his nurse is out sick for nights on end… days where I beg for just some time where it doesn’t have to be ME. Nights where at 4am I get pissed that I have to get up because his oxygen levels have dropped once again. I usually hate myself for it… but it’s normal. And beating ourselves up isn’t going to make it go away.
So yes, we’re blessed to still have our children. But sometimes those blessings can be a bit overwhelming
April 28th, 2009 at 11:58 am
Andrea says:
Oh Maggie…
I have been in the middle of writing a post with the same message when I saw someone twitter a link to yours. Mine would never have been as eloquent and beautiful as yours, (nobody writes the way you do!) but it was the same question.
I’m glad to hear I wasn’t the only one having the same guilty feelings lately. I’ve never felt so selfish in all my life then I have over the last few days of just wanting a few peaceful moments to myself!
Thank you for your post which made me cry all over again. You are very good at that by the way!
April 28th, 2009 at 12:27 pm
Anna says:
Wow. This is terrific writing. Your post and everyone’s comments.
April 28th, 2009 at 1:39 pm
sizzle says:
I just get so carried away with the way you use words. Beautiful.
April 28th, 2009 at 1:54 pm
Melissa says:
Another killer piece of your writing, friend.
This made my brain buzz:
“living focused on the potential for loss is neither healthy nor sustainable”
It so isn’t. I know, I know, kids are different. But grief is grief. Sudden loss makes everyone try to live that way. Let me tell you, I still think about it every day. Every day when I drop Steve off at work, I make sure that the way we said goodbye and I love you is right and good, you know, “just in case.” But overall, you have to ease up and find a balance because you will drive yourself mad with panic and pain.
Of course it is more than okay to lose your patience once in a while or want your own space. You’re a mother, not a machine, not a saint. Instead of thinking of it as taking it for granted, just think of it as being human! You’re still your own person. You aren’t perfect and you know what? Neither were those parents. My heart still most certainly goes out to them.
Sure do adore you Maggie.
April 28th, 2009 at 2:41 pm
fancy feet says:
Okay, I was reading through people’s comments….the comments here are so thoughtful when I noticed I had a spelling error in mine and I know this is ridiculous, but I have a thing about spelling….so, it should say dying, not dieing. There. My obsessiveness put to rest.
April 28th, 2009 at 4:29 pm
Indigo says:
I swore I would never be my mother, so what kind of mother was I suppose to be. Without a role model…I think I was scared all the time but she would only grow up once, so I needed to get it right.
Now she’s going on 21. Did I get it right, did I make mistakes. Oh, so very many, but I got a lot more right than wrong with her. She’s a wonderful adult and I couldn’t be more proud.
On the topic of being afraid you might lose them if they’re out of your sight or short with them, or even wishing for some time to yourself. All I can say is with my life…I’ve only had an echo of peace over the last 6 years. I now have a home of my own, I’m loved and surrounded by wonderful things…yet deep down there was that fear of losing it all and finding myself back in that place again. Then one day I realized I was so afraid of everything I might lose, I was forgetting to enjoy the time and things I did have. (Hugs)Indigo
April 28th, 2009 at 6:25 pm
A Free Man says:
That opening paragraph struck me. Mine isn’t at the age of asking questions yet. In some ways it would be better if he was. What he is at the age of is calling me and demanding that I read his mind. He call’s me ‘Ba Ba’, or as I prefer to think, ‘Bubba’. And he’s realized that if I don’t come immediately, he can just yell louder. So he BELLOWS ‘Buuuubbbbbbaaaaaaaaaaa!”.
But I can’t imagine the deafening silence, the void that would be left without those bellows.
I’m off track, but there you go.
April 28th, 2009 at 6:48 pm
Heather says:
Maggie. There is a poem by Pablo Neruda…I will look for it.
April 28th, 2009 at 9:13 pm
LaskiGal says:
Wine–yes. Quiet room–yes. Book–absolutely.
You’re human, right?
Of course.
A person? A woman? A mother? Yes. Yes. Yes.
If you had none of these conflicting emotions, these thick feelings–you wouldn’t be human. And just think what that would mean.
April 28th, 2009 at 9:31 pm
jen says:
tell you what? that you are just like the rest of us?
we all struggle with it. and in the end the only advice is to be.
just be.
be. where you are. doing what you are doing. thinking your thoughts. at that exact moment. there is nothing that can quench the fears and stop the rain. it just is.
and that’s ok.
i left for 3 days and came back home expecting to be in love with my kids and my husband all over again. and realized that i just came back to where i was. before. and i had to realize that this feeling … too … is ok.
April 29th, 2009 at 8:40 am
Lisa says:
Terrific writing Maggie. I like your style, both as a writer and personally.
I’ve recently become a stepmom and I can’t help but notice that there is a real tendency to want to always be behind your child, arms outstretched to hug them or catch them or snatch them back to safety, especially as stepmoms have that added need to create love where often none exists from the get go. It’s always a struggle until I remember that my husband and I are trying to create responsible, independent adults who feel great about themselves because they can care about themselves. They’re proud to do something alone, proud to stand on their own two feet, to see that they can get through the night without us, unafraid.
Sometimes we wish they needed us all the time, but that’s just our sickness and one we try not to pass on to them.
Fear is sometimes a great signal to tell us that this is where we have to go to find real healing. Good luck!
April 29th, 2009 at 1:34 pm
David Levine says:
Marvelous post and fine commentary. I lost a child in 1993. You really focused in well on the ‘vortex’ of love and grief.
We are all that poor bird, flying into the dark tunnel unsure of what we’ll find. It’s OK to not know what you believe, for it could mean that you’ve noticed how arbitrary beliefs can be. But love cannot be arbitrary, even if a giant hand doesn’t come from behind the glass door to pluck us out of the fire. It is what it is, no matter what we believe. Even if it burns us to cinders.
I’m guessing your chimney is a straight shot up to the sky from the stove?
April 29th, 2009 at 6:41 pm
Zoeyjane says:
Well, of course it’s perfectly right for your annoyance to build and your skin to crawl. You’re human.
It’s not one and the same to take it for granted that she can say your name and want her to stop repeating it, as to wish that she never could again.
Not loving every moment doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve it.
April 29th, 2009 at 9:04 pm
bluestreak says:
No, not good to live like you´re walking on eggshells. But can a person with a heart like yours really walk any other way? It is much, much sadder to be oblivious to what you have around you and to get to the end of your life and THEN realize.
April 30th, 2009 at 10:01 am
conversemomma says:
I’ve started having panic attacks again. My husband tells me back away from the computer screen, turn off the news, close the books, just be quiet and still. I want to. I need to. But, it is hard. I can not help but throw language at it. It is the only way I know how to cope.
You. Beautiful, ya know.
April 30th, 2009 at 12:05 pm
Live More Now says:
Oh, goose bumps.
You so accurately describe the tight rope of life. The sway, to and fro, the here then there, the peaks and valleys – the BALANCE. To have the joy, we also have the pain. There is no other way.
Lovely post.
April 30th, 2009 at 2:29 pm
Postmarc says:
You know, it always seems that there are about 56 posts before I get here. The cool thing is that so many of them are well written, many more eloquent that I make my way slowly through them instead of scrolling right to the bottom to add to the pile. The balance of life comes at the price of opposing forces helping us to find our center. Sometimes fear of instant loss is winning, sometimes dreams and faith push back, but eventually, that center is our destination…until the forces start again.
That said, instead of dittoing myself all over the place about 30 of the comments above, I’ll do the guy thing and offer practical advice. After the first and last time a bird disregarded its GPS and veered down my chimney making a real mess of things because it didn’t realize it was a two-way street, I went out and bought a chimney cap with the cover and screening to keep out the rain and misdirected critters. Works great.
April 30th, 2009 at 4:02 pm
Jennifer H says:
I’ll defer to Kate’s comment and to Postmarc’s. They’ve got a handle on this one.
It’s a long road, with lots of long days. And in the end, they add up something that tells the real story.
Hugs, you.
April 30th, 2009 at 8:57 pm
jen says:
oh honey. oh no. we are all right on this ledge, aren’t we. every single moment. we all sit on the heads of dandelions.
May 1st, 2009 at 10:00 am
Fran says:
We have to be willing to let go and know that bad things may happen. It is no better to raise our children in a bubble than to willfully push them toward danger. Both extremes are a disservice to them, our precious charges. The tough part is walking the middle ground.
Three of my children are grown and gone. One after the other, they shot me the finger and left home. After much soul-searching all I can offer myself as consolation is “I know we did our best”. Now we’re down to one, our youngest (15YO). We are different than we were but it’s still far from easy.
The greatest thing that has come from all of my failures is my deeper faith, knowing that I cannot do this parenting-thing alone.
May 2nd, 2009 at 10:38 am
Woman in a window says:
Love ‘em hard
and then release ‘em on the wind
then love ‘em hard
and …
(gorgeously crafted here! oh god, that poor old man in the bowling alley. for some reason, he’s staying with me.)
May 2nd, 2009 at 7:16 pm
Mojo says:
Maggie, dearest Maggie… if there has ever been a more tuned in, more grateful-to-be-the-mom, more love-them-like-it’s-the-last-chance-you’ll-ever-have mom I cannot for the life of me imagine how she has any kind of life. I’m pretty sure that I have never in all my long life known anyone who appreciates the gift her children are more than you do. I marvel at it in fact.
You, my dear, dear friend need never worry that you’ve taken anything for granted. Your love, your gratitude, your appreciation for what you have positively drips from every word you write. Even the shit-spattered, vomit-soaked, middle-of-the-night post you wrote a while back radiates with your love for those three who share living space with you.
So if a private moment of “can I not be the mommy for just five minutes?” is as close as you come, you’re never going to be accused of taking your gifts lightly.
You’re probably the best mom I know. Mag-nificent. Pun intended.
And I can’t believe I missed this post when it published! Must have been a really crazy day. For realz.
May 3rd, 2009 at 4:24 pm
Kathy U says:
One of the greatest gifts you can give your kids is self confidence. Giving them everything, doing everything for them, telling them (either by word or actions) that they are better and/or more important than everyone else, especially you, does them no favors in the adult world.
I believe that kids, like most everything else in this world, are part of an order – they have their place, their place in the family, their place when in public, their place in the pecking order of growing up. Their place is not a bad place nor are they forever destine to remain in the same place. They earn by age and deed a new place as they grow up.
Kids who learn that they are a part of something larger, their family, school, community, world, and that for the rest of their lives they wil have a “place” that comes with them sharing responsibilities, and work, and fun, and love, restraint, rules, consequences, trust, respect, hope, life, death,,, become adults that can handle life on their own with confidence.
Little story. Many years ago there was a car accident in our area where a mother and daughter were killed when their car drove into the back of a truck carrying logs. My husband was the investigating officer on the scene and it was one of those times he came home from work upset as he always did when the was needless death on the freeway. The story of the accident was on the news and our daughter saw him at the scene. She asked him what happened.
This is the story the second daughter who was in the car and unhurt told him. They were going to drop her off at gymnastics and then take her sister to horse riding lessons. They were late. The sister wanted her mom to look at a paper she did in school and even though her mom said no several times, she finally looked back at the paper when her sister got upset and started crying. And then they hit the truck. Then she said, “My sister always got her way.”
From that day on and I say to anyone who asks me to look at something when I am driving “Just a minute while I crash the car and then I will look.”
May 4th, 2009 at 8:49 am
Jay Schryer says:
Hi,
I stumbleupon’d your blog today, and I just had to send you a quick note to tell you that I am absolutely head-over-heels in love with your writing! You have a truly amazing gift. I have read through your “best of” posts, and it’s just like I was magically transported to the times and situations you describe.
It’s rare that a writer can affect me the way that you have, and I am so happy to have found you!
May 5th, 2009 at 4:40 pm
Jennifer says:
Wow Maggie– that was so beautifully written and expresses exactly how I feel but way more eloquently than I ever could. Thanks for that!!
May 6th, 2009 at 8:22 pm
Missives From Suburbia says:
Happy Mother’s Day, Maggie.
I’ve been feeling particularly desperate to spend time with my boy these past weeks. It has dawned on me that he starts preschool in the autumn, and the only true freedom we will have from now until he leaves my home as an adult is summer vacation. He’s not even three, and I already feel him slipping away, to his dorm, to his job, to his wife, to his own family. It makes it easier to tell my to-do list to go to hell and leave my house a mess. Because, really, these days — these days that we continue to breathe and see and hear — this is all we have, right? We can’t be perfect during all of them. It’s okay.
May 9th, 2009 at 7:59 pm
terri says:
You are SO normal. We all do this. I remember those days, wondering when my life would ever be my own again. Mine are 20, 18 and 16 now. Every day, I still feel the pangs of impatience. Every day I feel frustration. It’s intertwined among the feelings of pride, admiration, love and adoration for them. It’s normal. As much as we strive for it, none of us will ever attain parental perfection. No matter how well you do as a parent, you’re still going to reach that point down the road and wonder, “Where did the time go?” It’s inevitable. And it’s ok.
May 10th, 2009 at 1:01 pm
Amanda says:
Funny that I can find empathy for you, forgiveness, and yet when I think these things myself I assign a thousand lashes. A failure. Self-hate. Oh, you (and me), it’s ok. And even while it seems impossible to believe, these things are what make our magic rise to the surface of their memories.
Wishing you a season of forgiveness and renewal. And wine, lots of wine and solitude.
xxxooo
May 11th, 2009 at 6:59 pm
Gypsy says:
I have to believe they do. They’re still human, after all.
Beautifully written.
May 12th, 2009 at 11:28 am
Aubrey says:
Yes, it is alright to want those things.
You can’t ride a perfectly balanced bicycle..
me
June 1st, 2009 at 6:05 pm