To all the mothers.
Forcing myself to sit here with you- all 2 that may be reading along that is. I mean, I’ve wanted to write and enjoy the limitless possibilities of a blank page, but it seems that the pockets of time are easier to find on a phone. The house is a complete wreck, though I have been cleaning and teaching and feeding all day. Yet, I’ve put this off, doing the more imprtant things. As the desire to write swells up like a felt emotion, and eventually fades, I always grieve what wasn’t written. Ideas gone, lessons only a memory. So I’m here, forcing the other needs aside in an attempt to commune with my heart, and therefore connect with you. Piles of laundry staring at the back of my head and Ember mug boasting of a steamy beverage. If you are going to hang with me here, you must know that my “style” of writing seems to be fueled by a clean space and warm drink. Turns out, a near impossibility in my current season. The 6 little people have needs unending, characters to shape with hearts and hurts to hear. Sitting to write in a clean space with a hot beverage feels about as impossible as “finishing the laundry.”
Day 7 of no social media November. I intended to redirect my time spent on social toward intentional writing. What actually has happened is car troubles, 4 littles with colds lasting several weeks, and snow arriving on the first day of the new month. All of which have forced us home. Forced us all to confront our shortcomings head on. Close quarters with 8 bodies will require you to gather up all the patience you have and all the “ Will your forgive me’s” your lips can speak.
My heart has cried , my eyes too, “This is so hard!” Breathe in. Exhale. Life like this has a way of grounding you, not much dreaming about tomorrow can happen when every thought is interrupted by a clatter of glass on the ground. Just the other day this exact thing happened-CRASH! I cleaned it all-keeping my cool (which I add up as a small victory at the end of everyday. Yes, take those small wins with you to bed). Some time after clean up my two year old digs around in his diaper (not unusual around here) and produces a large chunk of the shattered item. Like, he literally had it in his diaper for an hour and I never knew. How is this my life? I think, for a moment, it is surely impossible anyone else has experienced what I have. In the small amount of heart sharing I have done, I’ve found that is untrue.
Sure, my friend in Pennsylvania may not have the exact scenario play out, but we all get it. The flavor of motherhood that leaves you drained and filled up all in one breath. My role as a mother who writes is to connect your soul to another. Tethering us to the reality that we all dance with. The dreams that take years to achieve because our babies are at our feet and those needs are immediate and our dreams must wait. The one two step of financial troubles or victories. The rote two steps forward and one to three back. We all have tasted this. This blissful wrecking of motherhood.
So, while I am away from my social media daily presence, I’ve been present. I’ve been thinking of you all, so much. The isolation that motherhood brings is soothed by having a platform of connection. Though it is not intended to replace person to person connection, I have learned that type of connection is a luxury. One that I simply don’t have at this time.
This luxury may break in through the routine on occasion. Shaped as a moment when I’m asked to celebrate a new baby gracing the home of a friend, and the stars align and I actually get to attend. I get to attend in a dress that makes me feel beautiful, and connect with hearts that do the same. With hot coffee and lovingly prepared food. A dream realized. Until next time.
So this one goes out to all the mothers. The married and the single mothers. The widowed and the left behind, or the hurt and leaving kind, I raise this hot beverage to you. To not being alone, even when we feel like it, to the relationships right here with us that sharpen and shape us. To the dance that we cannot tap out of, that we stumble along to even when we’ve lost the beat. Here’s to not being left the same, here’s to all the mothers.
