On a recent date with Drew we came upon this very subject. Because Drew is a boy who understands absolutes he was very concerned when my answers were vague.
"Is pizza bad for you?" he asked.
To which I replied, "Only if you eat too much."
He looked down at his mini-pizza. Looked up at me with a contemplative look. And then he carefully counted the number of slices on his plate.
"Are 8 pieces too much? I'm really hungry."
The concept is hard to explain to a boy who wants concrete answers. And the concept that I once held up as a banner of truth now seems to be bending under the heavy weight of parental responsibility.
So I ask this....If there is supposed to be moderation in all things, does that also apply to mothering?
I ask this with a smile on my face but a pit in my stomach. I don't intend to be glib. I know that I'm a mother always....simultaneously a joy and a chore. A job full of triumphs and tragedies. A profession capable of the highest highs and the lowest lows....sometimes experienced within minutes of each other.
The pit in my stomach comes from my desire to return to "moderation in mothering" but not seeing a clear path to that goal. Looking back I believe I once practiced the concept well. I had a private voice studio, teaching duties, occasional singing and accompanying gigs, friends, the gym, musical directing and dates with Jay. I accomplished all those things while never neglecting my boys' needs and wants. (Except for the time I had to leave a 9 month old Owen with Auntie while he was trying to pass a football sized poop! I left Carly with a jar of suppositories and instructions to call me if things got worse.) It was a carefully orchestrated balance of mothering and personal goals and responsibilities.
Now with the absence of all of those extracurricular things (including the gym and our dates, which I miss the most) I find myself drowning in the mundane chores of life, the repetitive nature of my days, the haze of having the same conversation over and over.
It is like I'm on a see-saw with Owen on the other end. He is stuck up in the air with his short little legs kicking to reach the ground below. I'm sitting down on the ground, desperately trying to shoot up in the sky. But we're out of balance. I'm just too heavy. So we are stuck.
Being out of balance is frustrating. I feel stuck. My reactions are skewed and disproportionate. Case in point: Kai got the syrup from a tall shelf in the pantry (he is a climber!) and became a human fly trap! Did I laugh? Nope. I glared. Then I mopped the floor and before it was barely dry, Kai tackled Owen who had a full glass of apple juice in his hands. Did I take a deep breath and say something patient and motherly, like..."It is okay. I know it was an accident." Nope. I yelled. It doesn't take much to send me over the precipice into the river of rage swirling below!
So I walk a tight-rope suspended high above the ground, where just the slightest of bobbles (like another failed batch of yeast rolls, oh the yeast rolls!) is enough to send me flailing to the safety net below.
But as I speed toward the ground, (trying to make it look graceful and intended because, after all, I am indeed vain) I notice my safety net isn't there!
Where is it?
It is at work.
Gone for 14 or more hours of every work day. Working so diligently and honorably and dutifully. Doing exactly as he should...providing for our family. He can't be in two places at once. But I wish the hourglass was more slanted in my favor! Having Jay here returns me to the land of sanity...at the very least it allows me to lay in bed an extra hour while he conducts the symphony of chaos we call the morning routine. It is a blissful respite that I enjoy on Saturdays. Bless him!
The more I write, the more lugubrious I sound. More ungrateful and more self-absorbed. I can hear it. And I can see it on the screen. I don't like it. But, as the old saying goes, "it is what it is." I'm being honest with no witty anecdotes to dispense and no nice little conclusion about perspective and "it could be worse" stories.
I haven't yet reached the depths of despair. I believe I love my boys too much for that. They are so good and patient with a mother that seems to be having a pre-midlife crisis. While I move forward in my search for balance and moderation, they are here. Busy as little worker bees providing me with moments of clarity and hilarity interspersed between the calamities and chaos.
Besides, what human being alive doesn't smile when they look at this snaggle toothed nugget of squishiness?
