Marisa, Motherhood and Rain Rain Rain

So, today was an unexpectedly, dreadfully, downpouringly (it's a word) day. Gray and overcast with big heavy rain, from the time I woke up in the middle of the night when a small boy and his bunny crawled into bed with me and through now, as I sit here and type. A day tailor-made for staying in bed and eating pancakes and chocolates and warm apple pie. Instead, I went to work. Fought the crazy traffic, slogged through the rain, felt overwhelmed at the discovery of this week's workload, and tried to remember it was my birthday.

Another year. This one has been a whirlwind (shocking, I know, as that never seems to change for me). Working part-time (thank you, universe!), having more time, over-filling said time. Such is the way. Because for as much as I got everything I asked for, it turned out to be really tough. No piece of cake getting your dreams handed to you on a silver platter. Not as easy once I had it all. Specifically, when talking about the whole "mother of a three-year-old" part.

I think some people are born mothers. They're the women who babysat nonstop as teens, and who even today fawn over any and every baby, toddler or child in their view. I was never, and am still not, one of those kinds of women. I'm not that mom at the playground that gasps loudly every time my child stumbles. I let Grif fall -- trusting (sometimes too much) that he'll be alright, trusting that a kiss from mommy will be enough to heal all things gone wrong, trusting that things won't go that wrong in the first place. I'm still not overly touchy-feely when it comes to (other) kids in general. But I have a new respect for the magic of children -- one I never could've experienced without one of my own. Perhaps that's why Grif is blessed with gorgeous brown skin and amazing blue grey eyes -- he's simply too beautiful not to love with all your heart. He can melt you with a laugh or a look from under his eyelashes. He can imitate my expressions and tone with perfect (often hilarious) exactness. He takes my breath away. He wakes me instantly from a dead sleep with the quietest cry of "mommy" in the night. But he also makes me crazy. Maddeningly, totally, sometimes out-of-control crazy.

I'm a big believer in asking -- and thus receiving -- your heart's desire from the universe. In many ways, I'm proof positive. And (always) grateful to be so. But what I found myself doing this year, as I spent more and more time with a growing, maturing, willful, independent, high-high-high-energy child, was doubting my abilities as a mom. Getting mad at my failures to control him, or understand him, or even want to play with him when I had so much to do around the house. I'd lose patience with him. Yell at him. Spank him. Lose my temper. Wash my hands of him. Walk away from him. Deny him, in so many ways. And then I would be contrite, in tears, painfully distraught and wrung out, guilt-ridden at my lack of control, my lack of ability, wondering why I couldn't just be better at this. Thinking, over and over and over again, that I was a bad mother. Telling myself so. Again and again. Practically flogging myself (self-pity and all) for my impatience and temper and angry reactions. And in the universe's perverse but oh-so-consistent manner, thinking and talking about my subpar mothering skills started to become truth. Thought transcends matter, after all.

So I had a spiritual healing done. Which helped with my broken heart and blame and guilt. I came away feeling lighter, more determined, with a mantra to Shiva to break the cycle of temper and anger and impatience. I attended a restorative yoga class. Which added to the light, re-teaching me how to breathe, to let the anger and hurt go, to renounce that behavior with "that's not me." I bought books on how to deal with my willful child. All of it helped. Temporarily. For a day. Or a week. Or a month. But I still felt that ache of doubt -- will I fly off the handle here? Am I reacting (or over-reacting) the right way here? Why can't I stay calm? Why can't I just redirect? Why can't I think of some new way to react instead of losing my temper and yelling?

And then I came back to Marisa. For a few years now, Marisa de los Santos has been among my top three writers. Which is saying something, as until last month, she'd only written two books. Her new one came out, and it was as lovely and poetic and compelling and wonderful as the last two. I loved it. I love her. She's lyrical about love. In all its forms. And it wasn't until this week that I truly understood that.

When I read her first book, Love Walked In, I was bowled over by her description, her discovery of real, true, soul-deep love. How it surprises you in its fullness, how even more surprising is its reciprocation by the same being you love with all your heart. She was so right on the money -- describing everything I'd held out for all these years until I found my pilot. She made love come to life and reveal its true meaning inside this simple paperback. I was moved by her. I felt in sync with her, as a newly made wife having found and married the love of my life. But what I failed to realize, what I never could have seen even though it was right in front of me the entire time (often spelled out in blatant yet lyrical language) was that her book was really all about motherhood. About a mother's love. A mother's undeniable, all-encompassing, fiercely protective, unselfish, wonderful kind crazy love. And even more crazy, all three of her books have that all-important theme at their core. Somehow, I missed that.

This all has a point. What the healing and yoga and daily prayers started, Marisa's books finished. Or rather, reminded. Enlightened. Like a key that finally turns the lock. No more pity -- no more doubt, no more anger at myself. No more blame. The universe has heard these fears of mine and manifested them all too often at my very request. And above all, both Griffin and I deserve better. In Marisa's words, it's "time to get back to the business of loving this child who needs me -- my life's work."

Tonight, for the first time, Grif and I read The Polar Express. My boy, who loves all things trains and mountains and really gets Santa this year. It was the best birthday present ever, to share this book (that my lovely sister Jeannine had gotten for me so many years ago) with this child of mine. This small boy who fills my heart so full with love and wonder and joy. I am overwhelmed by him, the gift of his life, the gift of this life Jim and I have made together with him, for him, for each other.

So this year, today, on my rainy and dark birthday, I made the boy and myself and my husband and the universe a promise. Not a resolution, but a bone-deep re-belief, if you will. On this day that marks the celebration of my own birth, I have become more patient. More kind. More loving. More imaginative. More competent. More calm. More thankful. More forgiving. More peaceful. More joyful. More accepting. More understanding. More gentle. More generous. More fun. More lighthearted. More supportive. More attentive. More responsive. More happy. More joyous. More present. More rooted. More committed than ever to mothering and nurturing and embracing my sweet child with love and light and goodness. More and more and more... better. And yeah, it's a word.