Mother's Day: with or without?

Perfect Mother's Day last weekend. Completely off-plan: was going to be alone time for me, scoping out my favorite knitting store and getting rest while daddy spent the day with kidlets.

Daddy got horridly sick Saturday night. So instead I took Sprout to play basketball at local playground while daddy stayed home with Blossom (who was supposed to be napping but whose eyes Blinked Awake five minutes after I left). Then lovely nap with Blossom. BBQ dinner by the feeling-much-better daddy.

Made me wonder: how many of us really accomplish the self-time Mother's Day? How many of us really want to? It seems like a good idea, but whenever I've tried it, I just miss my kids and feel slightly unhinged and cheated. My favorite activity on this day turns out to be mindful, wondrous, observation of them: how did they get so big? why are they so amazingly beautiful? who are they turning out to be? how can I be ever more encouraging of who they are and more present to them?

And why does a gift made by your kid blow the top off your head? Is it the proud smile and completely transparent vulnerability of them offering up themselves for your approval and delight? What greater joy than accepting the gift with pure and also theatrically exaggerated expressions of gratitude! How wonderful, the giggles of collusion that they surprised you (despite telling you repeatedly what the surprise in the bag was, and what it was for). Ahh, it makes my ribs ache just thinking of it.

Seasons of Life

In January, my long marriage flew wholly off the rails after grinding along for awhile. It wasn't because of having kids--we adore them, we adore parenting them together (most of the time). In fact, we adore them so much it has been easier to focus on them than the worn spots in our relationship or our individual psyches. The why will be saved for another time, but we have both been working hard at it after a few months in which we had to decide if it was worth trying at all.

Last weekend, we did a family photo shoot with two amazing photographers, Sara and Scott. It has been a dream of mine for awhile. I had a list (yes, I'm a little type-A) of the photos I wanted. I waffled up until the last minute of whether I needed to let the photographers know I was ambivalent about pictures of me and the husband or, truth be told, of all four of us together.

I needn't have worried. These are consummate seers: they captured what was there. What I see is a family where there's lots of love, two people who adore parenting their kids, two astonishingly gorgeous and secure and lively (in their own two different ways) children. These pictures gave me so much hope. First, because our kids look whole and healthy--a small grace note amidst the effort we've made to ensure our rough patch hasn't damaged them forever. There is not much couple-ness in these pictures, but that feels true and right. We have been bruised and are rebuilding that. But it also helps me see why family can tug at the couple strings: there is simply so much to do to build that larger unit, two little people who need attending to, that you are--literally--called in two different directions. I am proud that we give our little ones one-to-one and sometimes two-to-one attention, and the reality of that is this: we get less of each other. It's not bad, it just is. This is the season we are in. But we must be in that season mindfully, or risk running off the rails again. No marriage can afford to go on autopilot. As my Friend A and DH say, we will be all that's left of this once these two little people launch themselves into the world, so they can't get all we have.

The family pics also tell me this: this is why it's worth trying. Together, we are the N's. It started with a marriage, but now it is something so much larger than that. In my darkest, most selfish, most agonized moments, I had friends who reminded me of that when I couldn't feel it--that the family alone was a reason to try. I'm thankful for that.

Age: what's it good for?

It happened again today: the question. Am I Blossom's mother or her grandmother?

Eeek.

Despite my not-now-prematurely silver hair, and two bouts of nine months of doctor visits where my chart bore the icky designation "AMA," I am always surprised. And a little worried: as the third adopted child of a fiftysomething (true story) mom, I remember too well the squirmy embarrassment when people asked me whether she was my mother or grandmother. Life repeats? I don't want this for Sprout or Blossom, that squeaking hot paralyzing sense that something. is. wrong. with. your. family.

Got me thinking: what are the plusses of life-seasoned parenting? (Don't need to catalog the drawbacks: I'm reminded every time I climb the stairs with my 17-lb baby and lament my wonky hip.) Well, let's get it out of the way: resources. We fortysomethings have usually toiled away at careers and can more easily provide the requisite Robeez, right? (At least until #2 arrives and the monthly daycare bill rivals the mortgage payment.)

Wisdom? I'd say so, but life's tipping point--the one my therapist assures me comes to everyone at some point, where you question the whole foundation you've built your world upon and nearly every single one of your life choices--has spectred its way into my world of late. But maybe that's wisdom of the first order, knowing that you will face confidence-shaking moments, that life can infinitely surprise you, that you must be open to the awakening, that being cautious and denying life is the greatest risk of all. It sure has made me realize what I want for my kids is safety, freedom, the unshakable knowledge that they are cherished (not in a fussy protective way but the grounded-to-go-and-meet-the-world-my-young-one way).

Patience? Yes, most days. Not when facing the Aristotelian essence of dawdling that is a three-year-old boy brushing his own teeth. Especially after a hard day toiling away at that Robeez-providing career.

Here's what it must be: presence. I lived long enough without these little creatures, and then made a decision to bring them here. I know now what I would have missed without them. It makes me savor their every word, thought, emotion, developmental milestone. I want so much more for them than I got, even though what I got was okay. I want to be better for them, to be all that they deserve. I want to, as my Friend A says, parent from the inside out. And maybe, at fortysomething--if you've been paying attention--you know that inside better than you did at 20. Despite huge missteps and bumping my head on the same mistakes over and over again, I do.