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I am the mother of pirate.
That same pirate is also a jedi, a superhero, a secret agent, and a paleontologist.
Before Ty was born I knew that becoming a mom would be transformative. I knew that in my head but I didn’t know it in my heart until I had this little baby in my arms and I knew… knew… I would never be the same.
My mom describes motherhood like this. When your child is born there is a rope (I am speaking metaphorically here… I would never advocate giving a rope to a newborn.) The mommy holds most of the rope and the baby has a grip on just the fray at the end. Slowly, slowly we start to hand over more of the rope to our kids — giving them more control, more say, more of themselves. And, in turn, we get less control, less say, and less of them. Until one day we see that they have the whole rope and we are gripping the fray at the end.
The first time this was put to the test was when Ty was about 18 months old. The older girls had been living with us for a few months and Ty chose Jade INSTEAD OF ME to read him his afternoon book. My first thought was to recoil and start reeling in that rope… but luckily I got ahold of myself. There have also been times when Ty has tried to grab so much, no, TOO much of the rope for him to handle. Like the time he was 2 years old and used a variety of household items — fire poker, stool, hanger — to try and break into Grandma’s car.
Last week Ty turned five. Before his birthday I thought I would be terribly depressed and blue at the thought of his turning five. I thought I would have “rope burns” as a bit more of the rope was yanked through my hands. Instead, I found myself willing handing it over with a quiet peace of mind that although my boy was growing up, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be and so was I.
I teased him by saying, “When you turn five, will you still hug me?” “Yes!” he said. “Will you still wanna cuddle?” “Yes!” he yelled. “Will you still climb into bed with me when you have a bad dream?” “Yes, MOMMY,” he said, “I will always hug you and kiss you and wanna sleep with you and cuddle you and love you and give you MARATHON kisses!” And, I know that all of this is not exactly the truth. He will, afterall, go on to love other people — his wife, his kids, his grandkids. And I will almost for sure be the overbearing mother in law that makes everyone’s eyes roll. Showing up with my color coded calendar of activities and still licking my finger to wipe a smudge off of his cheek. But, I do know that my love for him is a gift. That NO ONE will ever love HIM like I do. No one. Because no one loves you like your mom. And, I get to be “mom.” And that is a good thing.
So, avast the sails, me hearties. May the force be with you. Up, up and away. Get out your decorder ring. Dig up some T-rex bones. And have a very Happy Mother’s Day!
I love being a mom. Even when I am cringing at the sounds of my son’s voice, or exhausted by how buying the “right” coat for an 8th grade girl can feel like Middle East peace negotiations, I am glad that I am a mom. But, being a mom has made me needy. Very needy. Almost to the point where I wonder if there is some 12-step program for moms (if there isn’t, maybe there should be).
Mostly I need sleep. And I need adult food – like steak or red curry or expensive hamburgers. I also often need new clothes – ones that are not covered with someone else’s food or don’t embarrass my older girls at their complete lack of coolness. I probably need some new vernacular, too. Words like “cool” or “awesome” are so “ghetto” and not “tight”at all (how am I doing?).
I also need a lot of Grace. And I do mean Grace with the big “G”. Every single day I make mistakes that I can only pray do not send my kids to years and years of therapy someday. Like the time I was so frustrated with Ty’s behavior I threatened to take away his birthday or when I insisted that Izzy take off the “ugly” head band for her school pictures or just how every year going to get the Christmas tree results in some form of tension between Dave and me, but I still insist on loading all 7 of us up in the mini-van the Saturday after Thanksgiving to go get a damn tree and begin Christmas!
Ugh.
I also need my kids to hug me, and kiss me. Probably more than they need me to kiss and hug them. I need to take their pictures in such a way that they will see what I saw at each stage. I need to fill their babybooks with snippets that will help me remember everything. I need to be treated tenderly because my heart now lives on the outside and walks and talks and eats and poops. I need to pray and pray and pray that all 5 will be safe and healthy and that their teachers will love them and that their friends will be kind to them and that someday they will find someone to love them and that, hence, I will get grandkids that hopefully will sleep through the night and eat all their veggies and never scrape their knees.
I could go on and on. Like I said, I am very needy. And I love being a mom.
I swore that when I became a mom I would not, absolutely not, become one of those moms who could only talk about her kids; one of those moms who had the almost supernatural ability to steer any conversation whether it be about classic literature, politics, or lingerie, back to her offspring.
Well, guess what. I am there.
In fact, I am so there that I have started this blog to help me accomplish just that.
It is not that I don’t love literature and politics. I mean, I do. (I do admit, though, that it is my husband who likes the lingerie, not me). I used to be an avid NPR listener. I used to read Shakespeare for fun, for goodness sakes. But when faced with the chance to bring up something funny my four year old son said, or to lament with another mom about the perils of 13 year old girls, I cannot resist. It is like a reflex. At first, I tried my own intervention. But all I could come up with was a subscription to Entertainment Weekly and so now I can talk about my kids and the entertainment industry, not exactly the Ivy-league solution I was hoping for.
So, there is no doubt that motherhood has changed me. I feel that in many ways I am the sequel to myself. The first part of the story was the flashy, sexy version that knew something about wine, music, and art. Someone who wore heels and drank fancy beers and drove a sports car. But, part II (as most sequels tend to be) is a bit “off” from the original. Not bad, not bad at all, just so wildly not what you expected that it causes you to tilt your head and wonder is this comfortable-clothes-wearing, covered-in-sweet potatoes, messy-ponytail, PTA mom the same person as before?
Well. I am the same person but different, too. I can still talk about Barrack Obama, Dante’s Inferno, and the pros and cons to wearing thong underwear. But, I can also steer each and every one of those conversations back to the 5 most incredible, wonderful, amazing, awe-inspiring people I know…my kids.
The Kiddos: Age 13, 12, 9, 4 (the only boy) and a baby!
