Plus and minus

The beauty of vowing to both capture an image of Grif every day AND post about it here has its pluses and minuses. The beauty and the tragedy of sticking to one part of it and not the other. The good side is that I have pictures, great ones, silly ones, truly Grif ones from nearly every day this year (minus a few days from our vacation). The not-so-great side is that I do not have a corresponding post -- I was trying to catch up, then I was sick, then I was just lazy. Not excuses really, just reasons.

But again, the beauty of capturing shots every day is that when I don't have a post to go with it, it seems like a wasted image. A wasted opportunity. A chance missed. Extra incentive, I guess. So, because I was catching up, sick and then lazy, here are a few posts (images) in one. And a few thoughts as well...

He's growing up so fast. He talks clearer. Says new words and phrases every day that I've never heard him say before. He's taller. Faster. More agile. Smarter. More dexterous, more receptive, more open. More loving, more caring, more affectionate. He's changing so quickly, and I love to see how he grows to become more of the person he will (hopefully always) be. It's interesting, this motherhood thing. Barbed with trials and sorrows, blessed with all-encompassing love and joy. It's something I didn't expect. Couldn't expect. But is so very true, every minute. Its own brand of beauty and tragedy, I guess.

We've all been taking it easy this week -- I think we all needed it. Getting back to being a family. Getting back to "we three." Back to our schedules and routines. Back to normal, with just the right amount of naptime, TV-time, and playtime indulgence. It's been good. It is good. And that's worth celebrating here as well.

Now off to be lazy for just a bit longer. We've (I've)(you've) earned it.

Taking a journey

So I missed yesterday's post in the craziness of our friend's giant 40th birthday party (the reason that prompted this trip in the first place). But both this pic and the top are from yesterday, so in my mind, that counts.

Where do I begin? Let's keep it simple, else I could wax poetic and ponder the thoughts and words swirling in my head for much too long, and probably still never get them all out properly or fully. I've long considered Grif's godmother my spiritual advisor, but I've always known that one of Jim's friends exuded that same quality of peace and spirituality and coolness and wholeness and sheer giving. It's why I've always been so attracted to her. It's one of the many reasons why I love her. And it's why I opened up to her so easily, why I trust her, and in a not-so-round-about way, asked her for help.

Last night, we talked. Really talked -- talked about her former job, and one that she is very active in as a part of her lifestyle and being. And for as much as I feel I am in control of my own breathing, my own life, my own role as a mother, if you've been following along (or if you're a mom yourself), you'll know how often and how easy it is for me to spin out of control. Lose my temper. Yell. And for as much as I know exactly what Grif will do in a certain situation, for as much as I don't like the way I've reacted to it in the past, I find myself over and over again powerless to change my reactions to him and it. Yoga and spiritual healings and my daily gratitude and work on this blog go very far in maintaining my health, both physically and mentally (and spiritually!). But that's all they do -- maintain. I needed something to break out of the maintenance phase and finally get on the path to fixing what ever anger/guilt/sadness/despair/grief/impatience issues I have, the ones I let surface much too often, the ones I can't keep from coming out.

And well, suffice it to say, thanks to Val, I think last night I started that journey. That journey of discovery and acknowledgement, of acceptance and forgiveness, to heal and change. I don't know where it will take me, or how I'll get there, but now that I have a direction, I know it's coming. It reminds me of that Shawshank quote, "It's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain."

Oddly enough (or not), I got a note from the universe yesterday that said "What do you fear now? How will you use it? You're welcome, the universe." I think that sums it up.

So much, turned around

Today was uneventful, no big crazy editing project to complete, no mountains of laundry to do, not quite time to start packing and organizing for our Colorado trip, although I've shopped and prepped for our return already. I made a small mess in the kitchen, but Grif helped too - we made pancakes for breakfast and chili for the super bowl, and then decided to skip out to lunch (at, in Grif-speak, Pa-ner-ro) instead of staying inside, and where Grif was truly an angel. Ate all his lunch, stayed right by me, was simply a good, well-behaved, adorable child. High marks for a three-year-old boy.

Which says something for his adaptability -- poor guy, he's born the brunt of my quicker-to-explode-that-time-of-the-month-temper all by himself the last day and a half, but in the true magical nature of children, they both remember too much yet are sooo quick to forgive. Remember when you yelled at me? Yes, Grif, I'm sorry, I shouldn't yell like that when I'm mad. It's not nice. I'm sorry, honey. It's ok, mommy.... total forgiveness, complete and unencumbered.

So tonight, as we lay in his bed, and he was doing his usual toss around fidgety thing -- the thing that keeps him awake when he so obviously is exhausted -- I started to lose my temper again (on this, the last and worst day of those headachy, volatile, emotional days of the month), and from out of nowhere, this child of mine did something different. For the first time ever, he asked me, mommy, do you love me so much? He's told me that, stated his love (so much) already a thousand times, even though that "I love you so much, mommy" is something relatively new... but this, this questioning, as if he didn't know, or else just wanted to hear it, was a first. And it, as expected, floored me. Checked my anger like ice water on a fire. Gone, out, suddenly, completely. As if he knew, somehow in his little heart and soul, knew exactly that this was what I needed to hear to bring me down off that (silly) stormy mountain I was mentally ascending, as if he knew it would cut right to my heart and bring back only what was important -- my love for him, his for me, and deep, deep, deep thanks for this life that has brought both.

Mommy, do you love me so much? Oh honey, yes I do. With all my heart.

Chronos, Kairos

Once again, I find myself exhausted -- after a truly long, hard day of copywriting at work, still a bit exhausted and tired-out from yesterday's first training -- and it was tempting once again to skip tonight's endeavor. But I had something to share, something I read today, about motherhood and time. Right up our alley, no? So here I am.

The full article is here, and I highly (highly!) recommend reading it, as more of this will make sense. But the gist of her article centered around, as a mother, getting through the chronos times -- when the kids are screaming, or throwing fits, or when we are just watching the clock thinking two more hours until bedtime. The times that we get through, that are difficult to make it through -- but somehow we do -- during these days and weeks of motherhood and mothering.

But then there are the kairos times, when everything slows down, and we look, really see our children, and are overwhelmed by their beauty, their humor, their gloriousness, their childhood. We're overwhelmed with gratitude and love and hope. These are the times we live for. Chronos is the time we live through, and it's ok that chronos is so much more of our regular days.

Chronos -- driving home late in traffic and almost getting hit head-on by a truck not paying attention and crossing the line (on the phone?). Kairos -- tonight as we brush teeth and with his mouth full of brush, Grif looks right up at me, in my eyes and says Mommy, I love you so much (it's the "so" that always gets me). Chronos, making dinner and prepping and plating, even though I'm tired and headachy. Kairos, coming in the door to a shouted "mommy!!!!" then lounging on the couch, on Jim, with Grif splayed across us both, watching Thomas and relaxing, truly, from the day.

Chronos, making the effort to get out the computer even though all I wanted was to crash on the couch. Kairos, seeing, feeling, knowing it was worth it.

We are three.

There was a short period of time today where I wished Grif was a twin. It's a feeling that I have often when I watch him latch on to 3-year-old he's never met, and proceed to laugh his head off and play with him for the next two hours like he was his "best friend ever." He was meant to be a twin, with his silly high-pitched (amazing) laugh and his noticeably stunning blue-grey eyes. He was meant to be a twin, with his endless, no, really, endless energy. His love of other kids. His delight in playing with another being his size and age and temperament. His, "you want to come play with me?" attitude of pure, pure innocence and delight that infects everything he does.

And then two hours later, when he's having a screaming fit cuz he's worn out from the park, I remember that this was the reason he was not a twin. Solely in service to my sanity, cuz two of him would surely push me over the edge I approach all too often as it is.

In truth, I wanted two kids from the very beginning. In truth, I was terrified of having (and parenting) ANY kids, regardless of number. And then between a pretty horrendous delivery, and an overly challenging first three months, coupled with my (ahem) age, and a myriad of other pretty selfish reasons, we decided to remain three and three alone. And lord knows that there are many days when I am sooo thankful he's a solo. Until days like today. When it's nearly 55 degrees and we go to the park to burn off some much-needed energy outside in the glorious, sunny sunshine. When we meet this sweet little boy Louis and his mom, and it feels like we should all have met years ago, our families and situations (and humor) so immediately alike and compatible, our natural affinity for each other. Louis' mom was 3 months pregnant, and so excited, that I couldn't help but pause for a minute and think, hmm. Should we have? Should we still? Regrets? And resoundingly, rightly, the answer is nope, none. Except for the fact that I should've exchanged numbers with Louis and his mom so we could meet another day and do it all again.

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.

My Friend the Mama

Ok, so when I started this blog, I had no interest in making it what a friend of mine deemed "one of those mommy blogs." I'm all for posting every day about what amazing new milestone your precocious child is up to (Grif is up to nearly three feet at this point), or the latest in mommy accomplishments (yesterday, I managed to go home sick and take a three-hour nap), but I guess the term "mommy blog" still leaves a funny taste in my mouth. Because yes, I am a mom, and I do blog (often about being a mama), but there's something somewhat pigeonhole-ish about trying to classify what I do here...which, to me, is really all about writing -- about life and love and hopes and dreams and everything else that crowds my mind.

But this one is about motherhood, and not just mine this time. Grif is just over a year-and-a-half old. Nineteen months to be exact. No longer a baby, he's a boy now....and no one in my life, none of my closest or dearest friends, has had children since I had Grif. Until now. My dearest, soulmate of a friend (for those of you following along, you may remember her as the real life coach I mentioned a blog or two ago), my gorgeous, beautiful soul of a friend is pregnant. And when she told me -- over the phone and too many miles away -- I was overcome, overwhelmed, overjoyed.

To hear her say those words, "I'm pregnant," resonated so very deeply with me. I immediately burst into tears, nearly uncontrollable sobbing. I couldn't speak, I was so happy. All I could do was cry and tell her how very, very, very happy I was for her -- my heart was so full. My heart is still so full -- so full of joy, joy, joy for her. I immediately thought of my own pregnancy, and where she was at this point in hers. I thought of my crazy delivery, and silently asked the universe to please make hers easier. I prayed for the safety of her child -- repeating the same mantra that I pray over Grif four and five times a day, "please help this baby be healthy, safe, strong, smart and good." I thought of how we decorated Grif's room, and pictured her doing the same with the love of her life in their apartment in New York -- what colors to choose, what bedding, furniture, books, clothes....

But mostly I thought of how motherhood had changed me -- how I feel differently about children in general, how I truly didn't know how much Grif could alter everything in my life while still leaving me the same woman I always was. And to know that my dearest friend was about to experience all of this for herself truly knocked me flat. My heart burst open knowing how fully and beautifully she will embrace motherhood, and I come near tears again just thinking of the time soon to come when I will get to see her pregnant, get to meet her child, get to see that sweet child grow up within the circle of her heart. I repeat, I was overcome then, and am overcome again now thinking about all the things that Grif has brought to my life -- motherhood being just the first. I had no idea -- how could I have? And to know that she is about to feel all these same things...I sigh again with happy tears in my eyes. Oh my sweet friend, I am so very happy for you. From one mother to (now) another.

Early Morning Mama

Last night, Grif woke up at 4 a.m., whimpering, not really crying, but in some sort of (mild) distress. He hasn't been feeling too well lately, so coming fully awake from a deep, dreamy (Tylenol-nighttime-cold-induced) sleep was immediate and easy. A little water, some quick cuddling and a pacifier later, I came back to my own bed. Ready once again for sleep. Both of us. But the whole 15-minute experience got me thinking...

About mothers. And the fact that I am, in fact, one myself. Ahh, Motherhood. How it has changed absolutely every detail every emotion every goal every feeling every dream every daily action in my life. My dreams for the future no longer (solely) include finishing the book I've been working on (dreaming about) for years. Now my "dreaming" energy is focused much more (daily) on finding a job that will let me work a shorter work week -- so I can have an extra day (or two!) with Grif and my hubby pilot. My budget no longer includes a car payment, instead I have a daycare payment. My living room is no longer the home of my reading sanctuary -- now it shares equal space with Grif's main play area and toy storage. In order to workout, I no longer have to just sacrifice leisure time, now I often have to miss a few Grif hours (hardest when I come home from work first to squeeze in a half-hour before going back out -- a mistake I'm loathe to repeat since the boy breaks my heart every time with his immediate tears and wailing when I leave again). My weekends are no longer marked by the luxury of sleeping in, but blessed by the quiet of three-hour afternoon naps. My whole view of my life, being present in it -- in words and action -- means now being present and central and aware for this amazing small child of mine as well.

Most importantly, my life encompasses more than just the pilot and me together. Now, we are three. Three we are -- a family. And the wonder of this -- amazement, thankfulness, sometimes still sheer disbelief -- strikes me speechless every day. I'm no longer just a daughter, sister and wife. But a mother. Of a bright, beautiful, glorious child. Who loves running outside. And who's already eaten dirt out of one of my plants. Who spins in circles while dancing (usually clockwise). Who looks at me with his big blue eyes and smiles right at me. A small boy who runs to me -- his mama -- when I open the door at daycare and peek around the corner. Who is most amazing to watch when Jim sits him on his lap at the drum set -- how Grif plays, sticks flying. My own little child who can summon me from the depths of sleep to comfort him, his warm body cradled with mine and his head resting on my shoulder. Whose laughter is simply the most joyous thing I've ever heard (and Jim is the best at getting Grif to really laugh -- laugh to tears -- my favorite thing to watch).

I found a new blog this week -- another boho mama type -- but I read a post of hers on motherhood, and fell in love with her writing and her voice immediately:

To be a mother means to kneel a hundred times a day; to kiss a damp and tousled head after a nap, or to rub away some sticky mark upon an upturned cheek (and to wonder, was that oatmeal, or something worse?). It means pressing my knees into the floor, so I can look into the wide eyes of a small person who knows how to press all of my buttons and also how to unlock inexplicable emotions in heart...

Her words have stayed with me all week. And apparently, though the night as well....it was these words that kept me half awake last night (this morning). Waiting to hear if the boy was returning to sleep. Waiting to return there myself. And dreaming/smiling/reveling in motherhood.

Stealing the Babies

I've been thinking a lot about Griffin these days (and yes, I know, when do I not think/marvel/dream about him?). Wanting to incorporate more of the joy and worry and stunning-ness that surrounds being a mother. I stare at him all day long -- even when I'm at work, I have a "wall of Griffin" that chronicles this year....he is truly a beautiful child (and yes, I am a wee bit biased). So many different expressions and looks -- his blue, blue eyes mesmerize me, his smile truly melts my heart. So much so that I often get teary looking at him, being thankful for him....being thankful for my motherhood.

I never thought it would be like this. I know that's an understatement for all parents, but I truly was worried at certain points in my life about my ability to love a child. How having a child would change my relationship with my husband -- how could I split my heart and divide my love for my husband with a child? Would I be a good mother? Could I be a good mother? Did I even truly want to be a mother? It was such an abstract idea -- who would this child be that would be mine? There was so much that would be sacrificed, changed, and I had no way -- no possible way -- of knowing what I would gain instead. That I would get a Grif. My adorable, fabulous, amazing boy...

As a child, teenager and young woman, I was not "in" to babies -- I didn't babysit (the few times I tried it because it was the thing that girls "did," it was a total disaster...I had to call my mom to come over and help), I have never ooh'd and aah'd over babies or children. I don't think commercials with children are automatically cute. I didn't want a flowergirl or ring bearer at my wedding, nor were any kids under 16 allowed at the reception. "Here, hold the baby!" Eek, do I have to, really? I had never been the kind of female that ever really felt that overwhelming need or desire to have a child -- I didn't not want to have a child, it just wasn't something that I was focused on. Or thought I needed.

Until now. I've said it before -- my husband is my heart and my soul, but Griffin is the center of my universe. I had no idea motherhood would knock me over like this, would consume me, fill me, become so much of who I am now. Even babies -- I still don't want to hold everyone's baby or coo at everyone's child, but I can see the beauty and wonder in their faces so much more clearly now. And rest assured, if I go out of my way to comment on your child, I truly mean it. Children crack me up -- and perhaps this above all, this window of realization, makes me laugh even more.

So today I'm stealing. Even two years ago, this movie probably would not have caught my eye. I would have maybe seen the trailer, thought it was interesting, but not really something I'd go out of my way to see. What a difference a year makes. I'm laughing even now....this movie does more than intrigue me. And I'm sure that it is only because I'm a mother now.

I saw this on Boho Girl's blog -- and now I'm sharing it with you.