Capture

From the time our hormones kick in (13 for me) we are propelled into this allusive game of chase.  Do we or don't we?  Do we meet the cutest boy you ever set eyes on after school or do we glance his way, smile casually and keep on walking?

For me I had a bit of a wild streak.  I so related to my beloved horse books where the untamed colt refused to be stifled, her spirit unbroken by all who attempted to reign her in.  I like to think of it as pre-Thelma and Louise for girls. 
That way of thinking followed me into my twenties.  I liked to be caught for a bit but then would soon tire of the same old pasture.  Not so much because of who attempted to own me but for the simple fact that my heart wanted bigger terrain.  The sad, strange thing was that even though I would bristle at first under the saddle, I eventually would be lulled into a relaxed state.

I would get comfortable.  I would forget the whiff of adventure in the far off breeze.  I would settle in.  I would want to please.  I wouldn't kick up a fuss.  How remarkable that on one side I was the demure girl, on the other, the racy you -better -run -if -you -corner -me -girl.  Both roles made me well, uneasy.  I didn't wear either coat particularly well.  Inevitably I would be in a corner quietly pulling at loose threads or attempting to rip the damn thing off me.

I remember my Mother saying to me she thought I always did better without a man, I was more "myself."  I never quite knew what she was trying to say to me intellectually, but I got it in my gut.  Alone I stood taller, had a handshake that would make grown men wince and liked being a person who was up for anything, no requirements please.  To this day one of the most treasured things ever said to me was being compared to an orchid--"beautiful and a little wild."  I hold onto that when I am doing laundry.  When I am in line at the grocery store, when I am so fatigued from giving giving giving I feel like I am going to crack;
I silently say to myself like a prayer, I am a wild beautiful orchid.

'Yeah right', the little voice in my head says. 'In your dreams cutie pie.'

When do we get to the point where we run to the harness instead of away from it?  When do we say to ourselves we are ready for the capture as long as we have a view to look to?  As long as we have our moments racing down the highway, sun blazing, hair flying, feeling the invincibility of 16?

 I like to think that the right capture is the one that lets air under the saddle.  The one that understands there will forever be a person inside us that wants to be encompassed by love but also has it within to flee in the middle of the night.

The right capture lets us exhale fully, lets us become who we are meant to.  The right capture has us smile heartily and fall hard when we need it.

We hope we can do the same for them. 
We hope we don't pinch them into doting versions of some 1950's TV show. 
We hope they feel they can yell they hate us, even though they don't.
We hope they can be swept away and live, wringing every last moment out of their existence, not just seeing a quote on a fridge about it but LIVING damn it, to do what they are meant to do without ever saying "I wish I could but..."

Knowing fully this wicked-wild crazy ride of stepping in and outside of lines; only for the bold of heart, only for the ones who really want it,  only for the ones who capture us; our hearts, our spirits- they are the ones who are deserving to own all of us; every last sticky, flawed, wonderful, messy, ecstatic, frightening part of us.

 I can tell you I wanted nothing less.  I can also tell you I fell hard trying to get it.  I failed.  I was stupid, reckless, beneath myself, foolish.  I was quiet, delusional, childish, selfish, broken.  I spoke love but only knew a shadow of it.

When I finally see, the glimmer, the too bright light that you politely ask to turn down please, it's giving me a headache, it's giving me vision, it's giving me a momentary flicker of what could be and dear God I don't know if this bravado girl can handle it. 
I don't know if the dead on look I give strangers will hold when I look into my future husband's eyes. 
I don't know why when I say my vows to him I am barely a whisper, so profound, so humble is my offering.
The man who captures me takes it; cups my burnt offering in his hands and with kindness scatters the ashes around to show me what they all add up to.
  How they swirl and stick to my eyelids, words, the parts of my life.  He welcomes to our table the two versions of me; the warrior and the little girl.  He wraps them in, folding tight with his own fragility, recklessness, strength.  I see that the view is there.  All at once I look to him and I look outward.  I put the harness on gladly, completely, with honor.  I wander and I dream.  I come home.
The light is always on.

Can I get an Amen?!

The blessed first week of camp!  Last drop off, kisses and hugs dispensed and I'm off!  Gleefully in my car, windows down and the wind blowing through my matted down hair.  Matted down because I haven't showered.  In two days. Or really eaten a meal sitting down when I think about it.. in.. actually, well, lets see, since the kids got out of school.   It's been just shy of a month since I wrote last. I am embarking on the quiet stillness; needing to empty the writing bin in my head that taunts me as I make PB&J sandwiches fifty times a day. Two hours of alone time coming my way!  Yay!  What to do..what to do.. lets see, I can:
 fold laundry/do laundry/go grocery shopping/pick up the toys-mess-laundry-wrappers on the floor/clean the bathroom/vacuum/remove gum from the bottom of tub/drop off the overdue books at the library/shower/run/yoga/write. I can fit it all in. Sure. No problem.

That's it though, it never gets fit in.  I may do most of all of the above but inevitably a shower gets missed or my butt doesn't get in the chair to hit the keyboard.  I'm all preachy to anyone who will listen about the importance of balance in one's life.  Yeah, whatever.  Even I want to tell myself to shut up.

There is no balance.  There, I have said it.
No. Balance.  There is no balance in Motherhood.

There are moments of calm, there are moments away, there are moments you may even think you have got this thing down but there is never truly balance.  How can there be?  Your life is not your own!

 And as I say now, a reformed balance militant crazy woman, that is A-OK.

Just as you embrace that new wrinkle sprouting angrily from your lip line
(Mantra: I still can rock it, I still can rock it) embrace this:

Maybe there is a infinite lesson here...grace under pressure, keeping our heads above water, finding the humor, all the things we tell our children are important in life- things that can never be put to use if they are not desperately called upon to be tested out. 

Time to take the training wheels off and fall.  Get the band aids ready.

I was always so afraid if I didn't run the house like Julie McCoy from the Love Boat something awful would happen.  Don't ask me what that awful was, I have no idea, just that it would be well, be a poopstorm I wouldn't easily walk away from.  I remember a movie I watched with a Mother talking about all the balls in the air that she juggles and how she cannot under any circumstances crack under the pressure of effortlessly having them in flight.

Exhausting.

I'm getting the Post it notes out for the bathroom mirror.  So what if you make jello for dinner?  So what if the laundry piles so high you post avalanche warnings?  So what if you rock in a corner for a few minutes feeling like you are going to implode?  Feel it.  Let the balls clamor to the ground.  Lose your balance and fall.
Nobody said you couldn't get back up.

You know Alice from the Brady Bunch felt like this. Sure, she hid her rage in her apron next to her bourbon bottle, but I know she felt it.  Hell, we felt it for her through the T.V. screen.  Wouldn't it have been so much better if she just let it rip one time?  Think of what she could have taught us!  Better than any public service announcement.  "Alice loses her shit- tune in at 5:00 to see it happen...."

So, this Summer I am forgiving myself of Julie, Alice, and anyone else I may have picked up along the way.  Forgiving that my hair looks like dreadlocks, forgiving that no article was written this week.  The laundry is still there but so are the smiles on my kid's faces.  We drop into bed at night with a full day had.  I wipe my perfection mask off and replace it with sunscreen.  Pretty soon balance will be back.  For a moment she will sit and have tea with me.  It will be a nice visit, one I will look forward to, all the while knowing she won't be staying long.  Hey, if she stays to help with the dishes, that's fine with me.

Octomom on my shoulder

It took me being called Octomom to snap out of it.  There I was in a puddle of my own doing, crying over my last baby graduating Kindergarten when a voice whispered to me....you know, it's not too late....
I could have another baby, I could delay this transitional pain, I could just very well postpone it to another day.
It could happen.
I am after all newly 40 and fit, love being a Mom, do it well most days and hope to the heavens my kids forget the days I don't.  It could happen.  Why not??

As I mulled this over, gnashing it about in my head I made the mistake of actually saying it out loud.  My girlfriend, who has known me since I was a child, practically screamed at me, her words shaking me at the keyboard- "ARE YOU CRAZY???!!! DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE ALMOST THERE??? YOU CAN SEE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL FOR CHRISTSAKES!!! VACATIONS ON THE BEACH! NO RESPONSIBILITIES! KNOCK IT OFF OCTOMOM!!!!!"

That did it.  At the same time repelled by the comparison while completely understanding it, I saw the reflection in the mirror.  And I didn't like it.  Nope.  Not one bit.

I consulted my Midwife friend who has grown children of her own but also gets to hold delicious babies on a daily basis.  I asked her, "does this feeling ever go away??  The I could syndrome?"
"Never" she says.
"Welcome to womanhood" she says with a laugh.
I do not find her funny.

I think I have amnesia.  You know how women get amnesia about labor?  I get it with the early years.  I have completely glossed over the sleepless nights, breast infections, toddlers running around your ankles so fast you are sure they are an inch away from running into traffic.  I forget my exhaustion, the balancing act, the doing 17 things at once to keep all from the brink of some imagined disaster.  I especially forget the seemingly endless thrown up food particles in my hair.

What I do remember is all that has filled me up.  I remember the dead of night, sitting silently by the Christmas tree nursing my Son, the only sound, his burroughed contentment against me.  I remember first words and first steps, the joy of seeing snow for the first time, the undiluted giggles of, well, everything.
It's a freakin Hallmark movie in my head.

I don't think I am done.  That is what the little Octomom on my shoulder tells me.  "Nooo, you are not" she insists.  My husband and she fight often.  They surely would not sit next to each other at the Thanksgiving table.
Because he remembers.
Everything.
He does not don the rose colored glasses Octomom and I stylishly wear.
He pays the bills, the bills we can barely pay now.

"But couldn't we"....she nudges back as she passes the gravy to him.
"No we can't" he says.
"No we won't" he says as he struggles not to throw the gravy boat at her.

Husband is right.  We don't have it in us.  We have this wonderful, crazy, joyful family, this total full plate and as much as I want to put one more piece of pie on it I know my stomach would be churning within minutes.
Isn't that how it is though?  We always think we should have more of what is good.  My inner Octomom struggles with the boundaries nature has placed upon my body, spirit, emotional capacity and finances.

And let us not forget at the end of the day what looms; gasp-- the next phase I am slowly with each passing year inching towards.  One where dinner does not need to be made, laundry does not need to be folded, permission slips do not need to be signed.  Even though I may as well be decades away from that moment it is still there, beckoning me, telling me that now is not forever, all roads are not endlessly open or mine.

Appreciation and gratitude are what brings me down the river.  Like that beautiful flower you place in a vase, you know it's wonder will not be there but for a moment.  All of which makes the intoxicating smell, uniqueness and awe of it demand to be enjoyed for the time that it graces your table.

The ride is everything

Adolescence waits for me as I open my eyes.  She snickers as I place my optimistic feet on the ground.  Oh no, you will not have her today she cackles in my ear.  My daughter already up, is straightening her hair; her beautiful, long curly hair, she straightens.  She grunts an acknowledgement and continues on her task.  I conjure up my cheeriest greeting.  It is met with an octopus-like disdain.  I cringe as it's tentacles wrap around both our throats and our steps, stopping our voices and blocking our path to a peaceful morning.

There is much I want to tell her this morning. 
 I want to tell her to: wear sunscreen/pack a good lunch/maybe the skirt is a wee bit short?/don't forget to empty the dishwasher/boys respect girls who say no/is this your math folder?/cherish your friends/too much mascara is a dangerous thing/and please let the dog out.

We don't get much past the sunscreen.

I internally do my morning routine of tug of war -do I let go/do I hold tight- as I pour my tea.  She starts to tell me something about her day and I concentrate like a gambler betting it all with my poker face.  I hardly hear her story as the internal dialogue is the bomb squad talking me through...do not smile, no sudden moves, only look in her eyes at key phrases...too much raise of the eyebrows and the bomb will explode and chaos will ensue.

Like a ransom call I will do whatever I can to keep her talking.

I find there is comfort in numbers.  If I could not vent to my friends who walk this shrouded way with me I'd surely start the day with rum in my tea.  How else to cope with losing your child?  She will come back yes, but when?  And who will she be?  I loved her when she was at my breast, when she screamed in the cereal aisle, when she dug for worms until the sun went down.  I love her still.  But there is a tinge of red in this water break.  It is a rebirth where nothing warm will be placed next to your heart.

My heart aches for her.  I see the clutches Adolescence has her in.  Adolescence doesn't care.  To her it's nothing personal.  She gets around that Adolescence.  I hear her in dressing rooms, restaurants, school concerts.  She is everywhere.  And wherever she is is a teenager with her head spinning around her shoulders and a Mother looking like she was just punched in the stomach.

When those moments arrive I try hold unto something. 
A picture.  A memento.  The counter. 
 Like an awful roller coaster ride I know I will be back down to the bottom eventually but the ride is still going to make me puke.  I see myself at the top, frozen in fear, unable to do anything but scream primal as loud as my lungs permit.  There is always someone on that same ride with you after yelling and clutching seems to accept that there is nothing to be done.  You both chose to be on this ride, you both knew the drop was coming.  But these people, they actually smile, as if to say what goes up must come down, hang on but also enjoy the ride.  I am not one of these people.  I am still mastering my clutch.  But each day I try that much harder to laugh at my lurching stomach and think how lucky I am to even be on this ride.

It's the only thing that gets me back down to the bottom.

Things they never tell you in birthing class

Like most expectant Mothers of the time I found myself at Barnes and Noble perusing the parenting aisle looking for the bible of all pregnant Mom's to be: What To Expect When You Are Expecting.  Right there with Brazelton and Leach was the hefty book with a friendly, peaceful looking lady all cozy in a rocking chair.  She looked so happy.  So confident.  So reassured.  All would be well she said to me.  What was I so worried about??!   I was sucked in like a sailor to the siren on the rocks.  Duped into buying that expensive book which I would find in short order was going to rule my pregnancy like a wet blanket soaked in terror.  I was certainly not that calm, collected lady on the front.  And that book was the reason why.  I am sure that it has it's place somewhere.  I'm sure there will be those who come forward and tell me how wrong I am, that the book is informative and wonderful.
Here is the place where I will insert a little nugget of wisdom to those who may consider it:

DO. NOT. EVER. BUY. THIS. BOOK. FOR. A. PREGNANT. WOMAN.

 Unless you hate her, or like frantic phone calls 5x a day asking if all the horrible things that the book says can happen actually will.

Much of what I endlessly poured over, bookmarked and never read past my weekly chapter on (saving it like a great dessert, one spoonful at a time) was in a word, rubbish.

I certainly didn't need to know all the information they were peddling, all the inaccuracies, all the stuff that can go horribly, devastatingly wrong, reducing me to a pile of rubble, contemplating which blood test I should get next and whether genetic testing was really for me.

As a wise experienced Mother of three now I can truly say that I needed a much different, looser power point presentation as to what was on the horizon for me.  I think it only right and proper to write down what I wish would have been told to me during that special time.

For your kind consideration:

Things someone (doctor, parent, mailman) should have told me as soon as the plus sign appeared

1) Your ass is gonna get fat.  Forget Posh Spice.  Your butt will never look like that.  It will grow at an alarming rate to match your stomach.  Anything less than that and you will topple over.  I have seen Posh fall. It ain't pretty.  Really.

2) While there are a few amazing, incredible women out there that run marathons at 37 weeks and rule the world while pregnant, you do not want to be one of them.  They cry in airport bathrooms while shoving chocolate in their mouths.  Move yes, but sit your behind on the couch and rest.  You're gonna need it.

3) Keep negative people away from you.  Especially that woman (everyone has one) that loves to spout how awful her labor was and how terrible you are going to feel any moment now.  Just give her a shove.  Growl a little too so she thinks your crazy.  The police will understand.  They don't want to arrest a pregnant woman. Do it, you will feel better.  But most importantly DON'T LISTEN.  She's icky and that was her experience. This is yours.

4) Remember that women have this down.  You are not the first nor will be the last to go through this process.  Trust.  Worry does nothing but make you lose the little voice inside you that guides.  You are going to need that little voice.  Especially when people say stupid crap to you in the grocery store.  Voice: do not shove anymore people today.  You do not look like you are carrying triplets.  Ignore and walk away before you get arrested again.

5) Labor will hurt like hell.  But you can do it and you will feel like a bad ass after.  Good job Mom.  That's what you say to yourself as you hold your baby.  Good Job.

And because What To Expect When You Are Expecting gives a little postpartum yummy advice, I submit the following:


6) Your body will resemble Austin Power's Fat Bastard after.  That's O.K.  It will bounce back.  Except your boobs.  Sorry.

7) Milk will squirt sideways out of your breasts making your husband vomit in his mouth a little and look at you like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.  Oh, and you will kind of feel like her too.

8) Do not expect to get right back in the saddle.  Like #2 there are women who do but they are also the ones who look all pinched in the face.  You just stretched a human being out of your hoo hoo.  Or you were cut open.  Or you just had a newborn placed in your arms.  You are gonna feel nuts, exhausted and like you cannot do this.  You can.  You just are going to feel like you can't for awhile.  And anyone who does should be shoved.  Be careful though; the police are still watching you and you are not pregnant anymore.

9) Accept that this time will not be an episode of Little House On The Prairie.  There will be moments you will HATE your husband.  Much like dispelling the facade of the rocking chair peaceful pregnant lady, do the same with this.  I thought we were supposed to be so ridiculously happy.  And we were.  But we were also sleep deprived and grouchy, overwhelmed and doing everything we could to take care of this new little being.  Be gentle with yourself.  And him.

10)  Enjoy. Like the little old ladies in the grocery store who tell you it goes by so fast, they are honestly not talking smack.  It's true.  One minute you are cuddling your newborn and the next she is rolling her eyes at you asking for 20 bucks and informing you, you have "like, no style whatsoever."

Parenthood is fun.  Cathartic.  Engrossing.  Messy and joyful.  One freakin' wild ride. 
And with it the rule: no rocking chairs allowed.

A good bra can fix anything

I don't care what it is, any problem, no matter how monstrous or trivial, life altering or mundane, can be solved with just one thing; a good bra.  Think about it- world peace, in-law troubles; you name it- all can be taken care of by the simple action of finding that splendid unmentionable and connecting it's maddening hook clasp between our shoulder blades.  A good bra makes us stand a little taller, smile a little brighter, shine that little speck more.  We all know what happens to our morale when we put on a saggy, misshapen, dingy-drab from so many washings it looks like it was grey in the first place- bra.  We feel like that.  We feel the blah, we feel the misshape.  We greet each new set of eyes with an Emily Dickinson-like stare, please don't really see me, I'll be the wallflower in the corner, thank you.

We can't blame ourselves for this, it truly is not our faults.  When we are teenagers and our boobies appear we think they, like the mole on our arm will forever be with us just as they are in that moment.  We take them for granted.  We walk around letting them fly free.  We do not care!  We are 13, 18, 26, 30!  We should be getting the forklift ready for their descent but we don't.  No, we just ignore and look away, we pretend not to see them melting like the polar ice caps.  We get pregnant.  We get forty.  We breastfeed.  We run that 5k with that terrible shot elastic in our sports bra.  And then BAM!  One day, they don't greet the sun quite like they used to.  Or they deflate like a balloon popped by a horrific child.  We look around, we want to yell "WHO IS THAT KID ANYWAY??!!"  We want to blame somebody.  What do you do though when there is no one really to blame?

You stop blaming.  Like the stages of grief you finish your bargaining, anger, and pleading and you hit your own version of acceptance.  You stop buying your bra's at Wallmart and your march yourself into Victoria's Secret.  You ignore the 16 year olds who are asking you "Ma 'am, can I help you?" and you keep walking because homicide is not on the calender for the day.  You tell the most mature salesperson you can find (21 year old girl) that you need something that will help you with the breasts that have betrayed you.  You tell her you want to take the fat from your ass and inject it into your breasts but that you will not do that because 1) you can't afford it and 2) how would you justify it to your daughters that you convince yourself are looking up to you??  Once you have explained all of this to the 21 year old who is texting security you take a deep breath, lift your shirt and say- "can you, for the love of God, help with this please??" "

I have been told that there is a panic button for this kind of moment at Victoria's Secret.  A hush falls over the store, walkie talkies are involved.  You find yourself escorted into a special back room with not a florescent light in sight.  You are placed in a vault-like dressing room where bra's are slipped to you through a secret compartment in the door; gingerly handed to you like little sticks of dynamite.   Tentatively, with jaundice and malice you try the bra on.  Like a golden arch of sunlight piercing the dressing room door, a miracle occurs- you look in the mirror and Voila!  What has forsaken you has been restored, the prodigal son has returned.

You wear it out-you have no concern for the way clothes are made with formaldehyde these days- no need to wash it first, you can't be bothered with such trivial details!   The world has changed!  Hell--oo!   You go to the counter.  You don't check the price- you don't care- you would mortgage your home for this bra!  You walk out of the store with it on under your shirt and close to your heart; your heartbeat and bra are one.  You let people pull out in front of you in traffic!  You laugh off your Mother in-law's comments about how she had it harder than you!  You saunter into your children's school at pick up time and wipe off any trace of Emily Dickinson!  You and your new bra look them all in the eye with the fearlessness of an outlaw at high noon; you don't look away!  You start that letter to the United Nations and it begins with "listen up 'cause this is how it's gonna get done!"  Yes, things are going to be different now folks.  Look out, nothing is ever going to be the same again.  A good bra can fix anything.

You know it's love when it's 10:00 pm and he's at Target buying you tampons

I want to take a poll. I want to make up a really scientific poll that asks women one important question: "How do you know your man loves you?" I bet I would get all sorts of profound, heart soaring answers that would make me cry, sigh and shoot my husband dirty why don't you do that?! looks.

Love is a very complex thing. Some may argue that you can't even effectively articulate what it is. Even the Gods struggled to quantify it.
 But I think I have them all beat. Yes, I dare come forward and say I know what love is.

Love is being in your PJ's on a rainy Monday night watching the game, getting ready for bed and hearing your wife shriek from the other room-- "Oh crap!!! I am out of my super expanding lifeboat overnight pads!!" and with only a defeated sigh, get up off the couch, get your coat and go to the store to buy her some. That's right ladies; I'm going to say it-- it all comes down to absorbency. The reason I am so sure of his love is not because of our shared life together, our connected hearts, our family- it is because of my feminine hygiene products.

I am fairly confident the dread of buying tampons, pantiliners and pads is something that men are born with, right there with more muscle mass and in most cases, hairier upper lips. The absolute deer in the headlights fear, middle school-octane embarrassment, alarm, the Oh my God will anyone see me at the check out line panic that our guys have when buying "the stuff."

There are varying degrees and category's of this. For example:

Pantiliners are on the lower scale of the terror alert for guys. They can hide the pack under and amongst their Maxim and Men's Health magazines. And make no mistake; their purchase of both Maxim and thong pantiliners together make them feel about as cool as Shawn Cassidy in 1977.

Tampons are presenting less of a shock and awe reaction these days. He may never like getting them, but it's relatively O.K. because the guy next to him has them in his basket too.

 But the knock down, cut you off at the knee's, biggest Mother of all mortifying purchases is the heavy, heavy, super elephantine extra wings to land a 747 ultra sponge, soak up a lake OVERNIGHT PADS.

Diapers in a box.

Fill up a landfill with just one pad.

Oh yes, the big ones.

  There is no way out of the tornado with this one. Nope, nothing cool, no thong time here. Just a nice chap trying to hide your Grandma king size package with his poor little Maxim. And please know he is going to bump into:
His boss.
The principal of your kids school.
The mechanic.
 His running buddies.
His new client that is just getting to know him. Oh, but he knows him now. Yes, he knows more than he wants to about him now.

Hopefully he sees what I see, a man who puts others before himself. A man of great capacity. A man who does not care if he goes over a bridge on the way home because he has a flotation device in his grocery bag.

When I was younger I used to think love and romance were sweeping unspoken hot passionate looks and embraces, sunsets and you and me against the world moments- ala' Say Anything (cue John Cusack image with boom box over head, under window--sigh) As I march towards forty I see what it really is, in all it's blazing glory; true love. Wrapped up neatly in a enormous bag of Niagara cushions for your hoo-hoo.