Why the break-up of a family is one of the most painful losses.
I wept on my yoga mat. Deep, heaving sobs that wouldn’t stop. The song the yoga instructor played about unraveling your ego only adding to the deluge of my tears.
I’ve wanted to be a mother for as long as I could remember.
When I was 29 I had a dream about a blonde, curly-haired girl. She was sitting at the foot of my bed, looking at me with her big crystal blue eyes. “I’m your daughter,” she said to me. I remember waking up confused. My daughter? Other than her blue eyes, she looked nothing like me.
Three years later I gave birth to a blue-eyed baby girl. It took three years for her blonde curls to grow in. In quiet moments, when she sat in the living room reading books or playing with toys, her blonde ringlets rippling around her eyes, I remembered that dream and felt a wave of comfort wash over my soul. The daughter of my dreams had become real.
And why I believe in unicorns and fairies and that everything happens for a reason.
I’ve been saved by grace a million times over.
I’ve been saved by the grace of something bigger and grander than my wee human self so many times that I definitely believe in magic.
In moments of overwhelm, moments where I’ve face-palmed myself in a how the hell am I still doing this alone? kind of way, I’ve been saved by grace.
Mindfulness, meditation, yoga, and therapy master that I am, I still fall flat — often.
I think I would question myself and the meaning of life more if I didn’t have those emotional wall moments where a torrent of tears or primal screams are the only thing that save me from a nervous breakdown.
Screw a college degree. Find a kid who knows nothing but the moment and study them up.
The year that old dude (well, he was old to me) wrote that bestseller about learning all you needed to know in kindergarten, I was overstuffing my brain with college wisdom.
I rolled my eyes at Robert Fulgham’s simple truths while sacrificing many, many precious trees to fill notecard upon notecard with endless biology facts. I filled many paper cups with vending machine coffee while yawning my way through Dickens and Tolstoy. I turned a blind eye at free-spirited children’s laughter and squeals in the park I ran laps in until my legs gave out.
How time and writing and single-parenthood come together on a yoga mat.
My mind put on boxing gloves as it awoke this morning. It knew it was on a time crunch. T-minus a few hours until my daughter would be picked up from her father’s house to spend the weekend with me. When she is with me, I can’t write.
With tight fists, my thoughts jabbed at me as I made my morning coffee. Hurry up and get writing. As I ate my cereal my mind gave me a little air punch to the gut. My bowl of cereal left me feeling hungry. Yet I dare not waste time eating more. Hurry up and get writing. The threat of a fight with my mind sent a shiver down my spine.
A parent’s love-hate relationship with their children’s bodily goo.
I hate poop. H.A.T. E. it. Hate is a strong word, I know. From dirty diapers to accidents in undies, I’ve had uncountable moments cleaning, smelling (or trying not to) and griping over ongoing poopcidents (yes, I made that word up).
Ironically where hate lives, love isn’t far behind.
Why parents can’t rest — ever.
I unrolled our new self-inflating camping pad and laid it out on the living room floor for my daughter to try. The bright lime green against our light pastel rug made it an inviting bed. She blew up the attached pillow and cozied up, a lazy haze settling over her deep blue eyes.
“I’m excited to go camping this weekend, mom!”
I chuckled to myself. Just moments before she’d complained to me about camping. Will our tent be big enough (it’s new and we haven’t put it up yet)? Will it rain? Will our neighbors be loud? Will there be fun things to do? Her sharp, inquisitive mind was considering every angle.
Motherhood requires your full attention. Being a writer does too. Can writing and motherhood co-exist in a healthy way?
I think about writing all day.
As soon as I wake up and start scooping coffee into the filter, (Oh my that’s a sacred moment! The aroma! The sound!) the ideas start pouring in.
My deep in thought self suddenly hears a faint, then not so faint, “Mommy, can you come to the bathroom with me?” My 8-year-old doesn’t like to pee alone. My idea trance has ended. That writer bubble has been burst. My un-caffeinated body stumbles toward that little girl voice, “Yes honey, on my way.”
Sometimes a wave of anxiety washes over me — and she floods into my consciousness.
I can feel her, calling my name or crying after she’s fallen, bruising her knee on her dad’s hardwood floor.
And when she comes back to me a few days later she shows me her bruise and tells me she fell and I say, I know, I was there with you. I felt you fall. I sent you a BIG big hug, did you feel it?
Soul Writer. Single Mama. Life ponderer. Nature Lover. Therapist. Introvert. HSP & Empath. Life is my playground and each day a blank canvas.