A BEAUTIFUL MESS

Okay, so I swore that I would write once a week. HA! That lasted a week.

Now lets get real.

Parenthood is the most abusive relationship I have ever known. 

Let me tell you why:

• You love your kids so much it hurts and you cannot wait to get away from them - some of the time.
• When you go out without your kids, what happens? Yeah, you talk, think and worry about the kids.
• They make you cry with joy and burn with anger within a matter of 10 seconds.
• From what I have learned thus far, our own kids are typically awful to us and perfect for most who watch after them. This is just not right.
• They pull at our hearts and our wallets and that can never be a good combination.
• They keep us up at night, wake us early and then they don't nap. How is this healthy?
• They smile, giggle, beg for more tickles and kisses and we beg for more time with them.
• At night, I watch them sleep, when it finally happens and I beg for them not to grow up too fast.
• When I drop them off at school in the morning I usually drive over the speed limit on my way out of the parking lot because I have some time to myself. What do I do? I go back to look in the window and watch them.

How is this healthy?  Parenthood. Seriously? Wow. No one could have ever prepared me, no matter what... ever. Its too big. Too massive. Too overpowering. The things you think you have under control... HA! Funny, not even close.

Sawyer is just about 18 months now and is the boy that will forever get whatever he wants if I have anything to do with it. He has dimples. Enough said. Well, is it? No, because I am his Mom. I want to say more. He is mellow and hilarious. He laughs and his nose crinkles up and his grin is bigger than a slice of watermelon.  He walks and points and says DUCK. He is charming and really just so fun. I am so blessed. He snuggles and loves books, eats like a truck driver and loves his sister.

 Scout is 4 1/2 now and has turned into a kid. She is .... well... she is a pain in my thankful ass. I love her. She is wild and carefree and worried and passionate and impatient and silly and sad and SMART as hell. She says the most beautiful things. "Mom, will you still be my mom when I die?" Helll-o?  Help me off of the floor.  When she said that I nearly fell over. Wow. So lucky. She is my girl. She and I will always go at it. When she is a teenager, I am thinking of boot camp. If she is anything like me, I don't want her near ANYTHING. But I hear keeping your kids locked in a closet is kind of illegal. So, I have to figure something out and quick.

What does it take every day to be their Mom? More patience than I have for sure. More energy that I could ever wish for.  Wine.

And, at the end of the day, when they are safe, home, asleep or awake, I know how lucky I am.  So, lucky.

Life is so beautifully messy...

UNPREPARED

"Mommy, why did Sophia's Dad die?"  Sophia is Scout's friend at preschool who lost her dad to suicide at the age of three. I could see and feel myself drop to my knees in my minds eye. The sensation that ran through me was foreign.  I hadn't planned on answering questions relating to death, not to a three year old. Not now.  I opened my mouth... and it all came pouring out. "Honey, Sophia's Dad was really sick. He died because he was really sick" I tried to explain.  "But why he died" Scout asked again. Bob chimed in; "honey, Sophia's Daddy was very, very sick. He died because he was so sick."  Scout still pondered.  Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over.  "But why he died?" She was being persistent.

I let it go... fast and furious it poured out of my mouth. "Honey, we ALL die. It is just part of life. We ALL die." I could HEAR Bob's eyes burning through me.  And I kept going.  "Sophia's Daddy died... but you are so very lucky to have YOUR Daddy."

Scout was sucking her binky and her eyes so very tired.  It was edging upon 10:00 p.m. far past her bedtime.
"Why we ALL die?" She continued.  I backpedaled.   "It's okay honey, you are so lucky to have your Daddy! Sophia is sad, isn't she? She misses her Daddy, and we all just have to be thankful."

What  in the hell am I doing?  I am telling a 3 year old that WE ALL DIE!  I hate myself for this.  She doesn't need to know this yet.  My reasoning was this:  I want to be honest and upfront with her about life. I swore I would.  But not about this. Not now.

"But where did he go"  Scout asked.

Now how do I explain this?

"He went up to heaven honey, he is in the sky.  People go to heaven when they die."  I hate myself for saying this. I don't believe this nor does it have any meaning to a 3 year old.  "He floated up to the sky!" I said with reverence! The hole I was digging was just getting deeper.

And that was it.  Tears were streaming down my face.  "Why you crying Mommy" Scout asked concerned.  Why am I crying? I am kicking myself inside.  I'm losing control of this conversation and I know Bob is upset with me for blurting out "We ALL die."  I'm upset with me to.

"It's okay honey, I'm just sad for Sophia not having a Daddy.  But Sophia is so lucky to have you as a friend Scout! And you are so lucky to have a Mommy and Daddy and we both love you so much!"

And as fast and furious as the conversation started, it was over. I felt broken. How, on earth do we tell our babies about death and sickness, pain and suffering?  Or do we?  How much are we supposed to protect them from the difficult realities of life?  Part of my comittment to telling my children 'straight up' is that my parents were SO brilliant at keeping my brother and I "protected."  It was magical how they protected us. did a left us; and it left us unprepared for *real life.*  I don't resent it. I just imagined I would do it a bit different.

And now, I can't take it back.

We all DIE... this is true.  That reality alone makes me choke up.  And I am angry with myself that I couldn't be more clever and discerning with Scout. More prepared. More sensitive.

This conversation happened on my 36th birthday - right as I had been thinking about my own mortality and not being around for my children. The worst, very worst possible thought of missing them, growing and changing and navigating through this life.  

We have no guarantees... this I know. But I am hanging on as tight a I can, trying to soak up every minute, good, bad and indifferent. Because... this is ALL we get. This ONE life. Because we ALL DIE... and every minute counts.  And my children taught me this.