What I want.

I can’t quite tell for sure

what is wrong.

But you are not you.

You collapse on the couch.

An unhappy lump.

I stroke your hair and your little boy back.

You shiver in your sleep

and now I know

why you have been so…

prickly.

What I want is to hold you.

But your baby sister wants Mama.

Your baby sister wants chapstick.

Your baby sister wants markers

paper

milk

snack

anything.  She wants anything other than

to let me sit

and be with you.

And your big brother needs help with his spelling.

And supper…I have to make supper.

Laundry.

Dishwasher.

Smears and spills and sticky stuff.

And all I want is to sit down

and pull you onto my lap

and kiss your forehead

and wrap my arms around you

until you feel better.

What I want is to hold you

but I can only manage a glance your way as you wake.

You are the most beautiful thing

and the most pathetic

and even now you want to help me.

Help me empty the dishwasher.

Help me set the table.

Help me get Ella in her seat.

Henry.

You make me want to be so much better.

Tonight I watched you 

feverish…sleeping…

and sadness filled me for what I couldn’t give you today.

I fail daily

to be the mother you deserve.

That all of you deserve.

I don’t know how to do this better.

But tomorrow I will try

Again.

Her Hero

I spend most days happily going about my work, whether it be laundry, or cleaning or cooking or whatever.  I am generally happy.  I do not like cleaning the bathrooms, though.  And I’m not a big fan of the dusting.  Nor do I like to clean the floors.  Actually, I pretty much don’t like doing any cleaning-ish type of stuff.  But that said, I do it, and I’m generally happy when I do.  I look around and smile when something sparkles.  And that tends to be enough for me. 

But sprinkled in among those happy days is an “other” type of day, in which I feel like the only person in this house that appreciates all that cooking and laundry and cleaning-ish type of stuff.  And the cleaning feels pointless.  Because as soon as it sparkles, someone comes over with sticky fingers and smears it all up.  Which is rather annoying, frankly.  I think to myself that I should just stop cleaning, and see how long it takes them to notice how disgusting it would get.  And then I wonder if they would even notice at all.  (Which could mean that I may need to step up the cleaning a notch, if they can’t notice the difference.  Or that my family is gross.) 

Anyhoo.  A couple of months ago, Kate told me she wrote about her hero in her daily journal.  And her hero was me.  Hallelujah, someone has finally seen the light!  I couldn’t wait to see what she had written about me.  And here is what she wrote…

My mom’s a hero!  She takes care of me.  She loves me.  I love her back.  My mom takes me to the bus stop.  She makes me dinner.  My mom makes cookies and hot chocolate for snack.  She puts me to bed too.  She puts my sheets on my bed.  My mom is a hero because she does nice things to me.  I picked her because she’s the best!    When I get mad, she’s still my hero.  Sometimes my dad is a hero too.  But my mom is even better!  She is the best hero ever!

Oh, I sat there all smug and puffy on my pedestal.  I even re-read it a time or two–I liked the part about the sheets.  And then I pretty much wilted as a smattering of memories of all the times I’ve let her down nipped in.  The times I could have been a better mom, but wasn’t for one reason or another.  Like telling her we needed to paint our toenails red for the fourth of July (and really intending to do so), but not finding the two hours it would take to enjoy that with her.  Really?  I really couldn’t find just two hours within a five day span to do that?   My life with her is peppered with instances like this.  Peppered with guilt for the times I should have done more, should have been better.  Sometimes I feel like such a disappointment. 

And still, I am her hero. 

I am her hero even though I sometimes have one of those “other” types of days where I go about my business not happily, but grumbling the entire time about how nobody appreciates me, and how I could drop off the face of the earth and no one would notice until they figured out that their clothes didn’t magically wash themselves and the dinner didn’t just appear out of thin air, fully-cooked in a pot on the stove, and no one was there to kiss the booboos or wipe the noses.

(I’m pretty sure the world would continue turning even without me, but it’s fun to pretend that it might just spin off it’s axle if I ceased to exist.)

And then after telling them exactly how much they would miss me, I flip that on it’s head and grumble about how much happier they might be without me because no one would gripe at them to put their dirty socks in the hamper, and they could be with the other “fun” parent all day long. 

(And also none of their clothes would match because the “fun” parent thinks that because they’re both pink, they must go together.  Which is annoying.)

So what stands out in my mind after reading Kate’s journal entry is that those moods of mine are just dumb.  And also, I need to stop the grumbling.  Because when my children grow up, I want them to remember their mom the way I always dreamed I would be, and that is not grumbling.  I always dreamed I’d be happily busy, and I always dreamed I would look pretty (that ship has pretty much sailed…).  I always dreamed that I would have a spotless home, and a refrigerator full of the most wonderful food that I prepared all by myself.  Mostly, I dreamed that I would be their soft place to fall.  I never dreamed that I would be a grump, not even now and then.  I never dreamed I would be so hell-bent on being appreciated, and making sure everyone knew exactly how hard I work. 

They do notice the things that I do.  But even if they don’t notice everything, who really cares?  I am her hero.  And that is pretty much all I need to remember. 

I am her hero.

Sometimes

Several  years ago, I sat with him and together we worked on a preschool project.  We were constructing a “family pennant.”  It was to be a display of his family.  We carefully went through old photos, and we cut out the members of our family and he glued them on his pennant.  When he said he was finished, I told him that “someone was missing.”  I figured he just forgot.  But he said, “I know, but there isn’t enough room for you, Mommy.”  Even the dogs–one of whom was deceased–made an appearance on the pennant.  In his eyes, I was the most disposable member of the family.  I simply said, “okay” and slipped into the laundry room where I silently fell apart.  I’ll never forget those words…there’s not enough room for you Mommy…

This morning, he handed his dad a Valentine’s Day card.  One that he made at school yesterday.  And he said “I forgot to put Mommy’s name on it.”  And inside the card I could see where he erased what he had originally written, and wrote in my name, too.  His card was meant for Daddy.  He wrote inside “You are the best Dad in the [whole] wide world.”  I’m sure his teacher, or one of the “good moms” at the school noticed he had forgotten to add my name and had him correct it. 

And again I sat this morning, silently shattered by this Valentine’s Day card that forgot me.  And I wondered why I haven’t yet earned his love.

I have made my entire life about him and his brother and his sisters.  I have  given up every little part of the person I used to be, and I am now their mommy.  I wanted that with all my heart.  I have everything I ever wanted, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like I thought it would.

Sometimes, it is hard. 

Sometimes, it hurts.  Sometimes, the weight of my heart is such that I find it difficult to breathe. 

Sometimes, I cry myself to sleep because the day was so damned hard.

Sometimes, I am not the mother I dreamed I would be. 

Sometimes, I am tired.  Sometimes, exhausted.

Sometimes, I feel heartbroken.

Sometimes, I feel like I am failing in everything I do.

Sometimes, I fear that there will never, ever be enough room for me.

An Open Letter to the Tooth Fairy

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I understand the enormous pressure you are under to visit each and every child that has lost a tooth each night.  And that it must be hard to do all that flying around that you do with those teeny tiny wings you’ve got. 

That said, let me just say that last night, you messed up.  You messed up bigtime. 

You forgot my Kate.  (Or Kathryn as she now wishes to be called.  Because she’s all mature now.) 

I had to pick up the pieces for you this morning. 

I had to assuage her frustration with you, after reading the angry note she wrote to you, wondering why you left her “nothing, not even a penny.” 

I had to assure her that you would be sure to come tonight, and that I am certain you did not forget her, you were just really busy.  Do you know how sad it is to look in the face of a little girl that wonders why she was forgotten? 

Now, again, I realize you are busy.  However, I would appreciate it if you would not forget Kathryn tonight.  Or ever again for that matter.     

Sincerely,

one sad mommy