My New Mantra for Messes

Mistakes shaped into words become a step from which to advance rather than a setback to look back on with regret.

Because of last week's debacle, I have a new mantra for motherhood: "I want the mermaids."

Words are powerful. Have the right words playing over and over in your head and they'll propel you forward or, sometimes, more importantly, help you to pause.

With kids, it's the pause that holds the magic. Before you react, pause. Before you correct, pause. Before you look away, pause.

Messy Mornings

I need to do mess better.

I try so hard. I really do. I am learning to go with her flow. I am trying not to control. I let her use all the colors. I let her draw stripes on her leg so she can be a "stripey zebra." I laugh it off when they don't wash out. 

On Being an Artful Parent

By Ella and Mommy

On my shelf is a wonderful book called The Artful Parent, which teaches parents how to bring out their children's creativity. (A book that I need to reread ASAP, as our morning art sessions haven't been ending in the best way.) In the morning, before her after-lunch bath time, Ella plays with her art materials. It's occurred to me that the artful parent should probably be creating her own art, too. It's only fair, right? Why should children have all the fun?

Making Space

"Mama, there's no space for me," she says. "Please squeeze in." After only a few months, the reading chair  in her room is now too small for both of us. She has grown. I hadn't noticed. 

"Make space" is an oft-expressed plea. For the times when this need of hers is unspoken, her body finds ways to make her need known. It's as if she has made it her mission to find ways to squeeze in. As I'm typing, she sticks her head under an arm and finds her way onto my lap. "Mommy, may I sit here?" she asks, never listening for an answer. As I'm nursing her brother, she fills the empty space beside me and says she too is a baby, "your baby." On my bed, she steals a snuggle. At the dining table, she wants to "be closer." "Remember when I was inside your tummy?" she asks sometimes. "When I become little again, I can be in your tummy." I resist explaining why this can never be true. 

I'm an introvert. I need my space. I like my rooms empty so my thoughts can breathe. Sharing oxygen with another person, no matter how little, has its effects. I am a writer. I need my work. I like my words flowing, not interrupted by made-up combinations of consonants and vowels and endless emojis tap-tap-typed out by tiny fingers. 

But I am a mom and it seems like making space in my body for another being, another soul, was a lifelong contract signed in blood even after they cut the cord. 

I love her with all of my heart, or at least the part that isn't selfish and suffocating. It is hard not to be selfish when every part of your day is marked by bits of yourself being pinched off and taken. If I'm writing, she asks to hold just a finger, but takes my hand. If I'm eating, she'll have what I'm having—not her own, mine is "better." She is still nursing and refuses to wean. My milk is supposedly better than ice cream. "This is mine," she says of my breasts. "No, they're mine," I correct her. "No, they're mine, Mommy," she insists. "But I can share them with you, if you want." 

We tried painting together today. This is your paper; this is mine. No, no, darling, this is my work. Why don't you do yours? 

"But, Mommy, it's better together. Can I paint with you? See, I made it beautiful."

It is useless to argue. There is no me and you. Only us two. 

Today, I Let Her Win

"After I finish my coffee, it's Mommy and Ella time," I announced at the breakfast table. She had been in a lifeless and limp mood all morning. Practically melting into her bowl of yogurt. We blamed low blood sugar (she had skipped dinner the night before) and toddler-ness, but I had a feeling it also had something to do with her baby brother being attached to me since we woke up, getting cooed over and cuddled, and nursed (the thing she hates sharing the most). More than food, she needed Mommy, I guessed. When my announcement got the first smile of the morning, I knew I was right.

"So, what shall we do after breakfast?" Please, don't say paint. Please, don't say garden. Say "read a book," I prayed to myself. "I want to take a walk. With you," she answered. "In the backyard?" I said, fingers crossed. "No. Outside."

Oh. Outside. I never go outside. I am absolutely allergic to leaving the house. It is dusty. There are people. I'd have to look decent, wear a bra, brush my hair. Since leaving my job to become a stay-at-home mom, I'd further embraced my introversion and assigned the "people tasks" to the extroverts in the family: our helper, my husband, and E. They happily oblige: chatting with the neighbors, introducing themselves to strangers. This division of labor, it works. They handle the messy relationship thing. I take care of the indoor games: the art sessions, the block castle building, the storytelling. Yes, we will play, but we'll learn, too. Indoors, in my controlled environment. And I won't even need to find pants that still button up all the way.  

"Wouldn't you rather play upstairs?" I almost said. Like I always do. But, today, I pause, and didn't.