Dissipate

I've been disappointed. More than once. I know you can relate. Who hasn't felt this way?

Disappointment brings forth pain.

It gets sticky when the disappointment revolves around my children. You see, I'm not disappointed in them but rather, in some people that surround, or actually, that could surround them. These sort of disappointments sting and inflict the kind of pain that you want to let go real fast, like when you grab a scorchingly hot pan without wearing a glove.

Letting go is the easy part.

In my younger/single days, I'd carry a disappointment for a short time but then I'd let it slip away from me like a fallen silk scarf. Now that I have children, certain disappointments that affect them stick to me like when you walk through a cob web, you feel it and it's difficult to get rid of it.

Moving on is always a bit harder.

The job of having to explain a one-sided truth to them allows me to be fully transparent but only half correct. Still, I must be careful of not transmitting my own pain with the message but as you know, this too can be a treacherous road.

I understand that we are not free from problems. I know that every single one of us has their own troubles and heartaches to deal with. But I also understand that a choice is always made. When it relates to innocent children, they simply want to be loved and cannot fully grasp why anyone would not want to be a part of their lives.

Life is complicated and confusing, eh?

In spite of all this, I'm not teaching them to be hard and unfeeling. Quite the contrary, I'm teaching them to be soft and vulnerable with their feelings because this is what makes them human and raw.

Being human is breathing and feeling and sitting with their pain or disappointment because no matter what, they'll inevitably grow from it.  I can only hope that they emulate what I am showing them in myself.

Hard isn't better. Swallowing an issue for the sake of proving to be 'tough' will not give them what they need to grow.  I want them to know that pain and disappointment are tough but it will eventually dissipate if and when they allow themselves to sit with it and own it.

Dissipate.

I'm trying to parent my daughters without masks or armor. I want them to see me raw and real and vulnerable. I'm choosing to be fully authentic with them. You see, there is always a choice to be made.

When I let disappointment dissipate it doesn't mean that I'm weak or uncaring. It means that there is no point in me holding on to anger and resentment because these are the things that'll consume me if I let it.

For quite some time now I've been diverting my attention and energy toward the people that do want to be a part of my daughters' lives. The ones that enjoy their company and are eager to learn more about them. The ones that celebrate the minuscule details of who they are and the very things that make them smile and laugh out loud.  These are the ones that matter. I don't need to chase the ones that don't put an effort because I'm only taking away from the ones that do.

I know my place and I know when to allow certain things to dissipate. My heart always remains open but I've become strictly selective with how I share my daughter's vulnerable emotions. They'll always get to choose either way. I guess you can call it the 'Tiger Mama' in me. I can't help it.

Children know who genuinely love them. Children know when they are wanted. Children know when not to ask for someone anymore because whether we think so or not, they've owned their pain in some unique way and they too have moved on.

I want my daughters to know that while disappointment is inevitable, allowing it to dissipate is their choice. As their mother I can only provide them with certain tools but I cannot choose how they ultimately utilize them.

Slow

Slow is what I feel like today. I feel like taking several steps back and just breathing in a slow pace. A deliberate pace. A pace that'll make me once again realize that this life is precious and wondrous.

There is a cliché that I've grown to dislike—"enjoy it because they grow up fast", and I say 'dislike' because while I know that this holds some truth, still, it's a nagging reminder that I and most of us take the rushed road toward life.

I don't want fast. I want more slow.

Slow lingers a bit longer. Slow brings you closer to 'in the moment.' Slow let's you enjoy every mundane minute. Slow makes you smile at the glimpses of magic in your life without you ever wondering how you'd miss it. Slow is right here, right now.  

Today is my husband's 42nd birthday. He is my everything. He often reminds me that slow is better than rushed. I love this and many more things about him.

Slow was my walk down the long and narrow isle on my wedding day as I smiled and refused to cry.

Slow were the days of my honeymoon in Italy because we hadn't a care in the world but to be blissfully in love.

Slow was my first labor because I remember every detail of it.

Slow were the days that followed becoming a mother of two. While it was overwhelmingly consuming, I can still remember the scent of my colicky newborn and hear the little voice calling out, "mama", from my sweet 20 month old while she sat and waited for me in her highchair. A difficult and guilt infused memory for me, nevertheless.

Slow were the days that I watched my older two fall in love with their newborn baby sister, my third daughter.  As they admired and kissed her little face, my heart swelled with joy times three.

On this wonderful day, slow is the gift that I've been given and an exceptional man is the one I am celebrating. Happy Birthday to my one and only love...

Slow holds bitter and sweet but slow is still better than rushed.  

Beneath the surface

I always find it interesting to learn what a person's impression of me is.  At the same time, I'm rarely surprised at how little people know about me. I guess this happens to many of us. Right?

There are a handful, and I mean a handful of people who 1) truly know me and 2) actually get me. I don't 'show' much of myself which is contradictory to what you read here. I share a great deal here on this blog.  I'm expressive but I'm very selective with whom I express my deeper self to in 'person.'

It is what it is.

There is a sort of restrain I maintain for the sake of 'safety' and 'trust' and some may not understand this. Worse, they may think it's about them. It's not. The ego always finds a way to fit themselves into the equation. Funny, eh?!

I'm a friendly person but I maintain very little 'close' friends.  I'm loyal and protective with those I love. I'm severely flawed and I'm quite okay with this. What others think of me doesn't define me because although I don't seek the approval of others, I do consider myself altruistic.

At my core, I'm deeply passionate and in tune with the subtleties of body language. I often find myself acutely observing people. Obviously, this is one of the reasons why I'm a writer. Interestingly, my husband shares a few of these qualities along with me and it fascinates me. He's my 'go-to' person and ultimate confidant.  

The one obligation I have toward myself is to be authentic. Self-reflection is oftentimes a difficult task because you don't always like what you see. Wading through all the garbage is tiresome. Tossing out the things that weigh me down is liberating. Choosing to keep individuals that stifle my energy out of my life is a relief. Being selective with whom I put my energy into is smart. This is the process of peeling down the layers of my authentic self. I'm not saying that any of this is easy but it 'is' necessary.  

While having a conversation with a very close friend today, we talked a bit about compassion. I expressed to her that for the past decade I've been cultivating compassion within myself.

It has taken me this long to realize that many individuals whom have willfully inflicted harm and pain toward me are also broken and lost souls that deserve my compassion. Yes, they deserve my compassion.  This awareness did not happen overnight. It has taken me this long to own it. There were certain events that had to happen for me to cultivate and own this emotion.  Follow?

"Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get damned hurt use it- don't cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist." Quote from a letter E. Hemingway wrote to F. S. Fitzgerald in 1934.

The thing about compassion is that it is not an easy feat. No. But it is a reality that has stricken my sense of worth in this world. Contrary to what I witnessed as a young child and for as long as I can remember, the one thing I always knew for sure was what I did 'not' want in my life.

I did not want an unstable life. I did not want a life full of regret. Basically, I did not want to be 'like' my mother. But I needed to be compassionate toward my mother, regardless.  Beneath the surface of my pain and resentment, compassion was being cultivated. It was a choice I made in order to heal and continue to grow and ultimately understand myself.

Growth doesn't come without pain.  Healing doesn't happen without once again ripping the wounds open. Compassion cannot be born without self-reflection.

As a child, my dreams were always bigger than my problems even when I thought the sun would never shine brightly enough. Perhaps this could explain why I'm confident in my own skin no matter what is happening to me. Sure, I get depressed and down and suffer from sudden bouts of anxiety but I don't ever lose my self-confidence. Only a a selected 'few' get to hear my moments of darkness because only a selected 'few' understand me.

I'd be a phony if I told you that I have all my garbage together. I don't. I'm 'far' from it. I've never claimed to have anything 'together' and I'm okay with this. I'm okay with telling you that I am a mess.  I. Am. A. Mess. Questions?

Most of us are a lot more complicated that what we seem while others simply seem ordinary. We all have our flaws and this is what makes us so interesting and beautiful. What fun would it be if we were all perfect? Blah, no way! Imperfect is way better. We are human. Imperfect beautiful humans.

Beneath the surface, I know that I am a rare and valuable individual. We all are.

One is like a pearl, sometimes irregular but always beautiful...

Beneath the surface of all this mess there is a compassionate soul.

We all have something that we need to work on and work with. Be authentic with yourself and you'll find your pearl beneath the surface too...

I Am NOT Supermom but I AM Mom Enough

The other day I was feeling overwhelmed, consumed and simply up to my neck with everything around me so I updated my personal Facebook page to read this:

There were more threads of people who commented (I just didn't snap the entire screen shot.)

You may say: 'Ok, fine. No big deal.' 

Now this comes as no surprise but you know what I noticed, yet again? That every single mother out there is practically in the same boat as me.

We're all struggling to keep our sanity, our homes in order, our kids fed and bathed and ALIVE, our life in some semblance of balance, yet we still put an enormous amount of pressure on ourselves no matter how many times we know this fact: "I'm NOT supermom."

I second guess my parenting decisions, DAILY. But I'm doing my BEST.
I worry that I'm scarring my kids in some emotional way, DAILY.  But I'm doing my BEST.
I struggle with feeling inadequate as a mother, DAILY.  But I'm doing my BEST.
I don't know what each day will bring me. But I'm doing my BEST.

There are so many other ridiculous things that would take up this entire post but I just don't want to do that to you. Follow?

Repeat after me, "I. Am. NOT. Supermom. But. I. AM. Mom. Enough."

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Here's one thing I KNOW for sure: There is no RIGHT way or WRONG way to parent. Period.

We're parents. We make mistakes, we do wonderful and not so wonderful things, we learn, we cry, we praise, we support, we give, we receive, we love and we're HUMAN.

Human.

So when TIME Magazine published their cover that read, "Are You Mom Enough?" along with the blogger, Jamie Lynne Grumet and her 'standing' breastfeeding toddler, I wasn't so much offended by the fact that a three-year-old was nursing but more about the hook and posture of the entire image.

Mom enough? Really?

Stooped on a chair, nursing? Really? No breastfeeding mother I know nurses her toddler in this fashion.  It's absurd and contradictory with how nursing a toddler is really done.  

I was baffled.

TIME got what they wanted. A seriously heated debate.

It has taken me days to let the rage settle and the hurt to subside. Rage because this depiction is insane. Hurt because I'm simply tired of yet another media incited 'mommy war' to take on another stab at ALL mothers.

This is a stab to every mother on this planet. Why? Because here is another tactic to cause 'the great debate' over parenting styles.

Just to be clear, I embrace, practice and advocate home-birthing, attachment parenting, long-term breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing and pretty much all the other 'unconventional' parenting practices.  It doesn't matter to me what parenting style you embrace or practice for your child so long as you're not judging and placing a stigma on the ones that differ from yours.

Who am I to judge or criticize any mother or her choices?

My mother was not an attached parent and did not breastfeed me or my four sisters. She parented me as best she could. I'm okay with this.

This is not about good mom/bad mom. If you ask me, that term should not even exist because if you're a mom, you're simply doing your best. Period.

What is grossly missing in today's society with respect to mothers as a whole is one simple thing:

Compassion.

There is zero compassion for the working mom.
There is zero compassion for the breastfeeding mom.
There is zero compassion for the formula feeding mom.
There is zero compassion for the mentally ill mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who has a baby as a result of rape or incest.
There is zero compassion for the mother who gave her baby up for adoption.
There is zero compassion for the stay-at-home-mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who turned away for a split second and lost sight of her child.
There is zero compassion for the lesbian mom.
There is zero compassion for the single mom.
There is zero compassion for the artificially inseminated and unmarried mom.
There is zero compassion for the mother who had an elective c-section.
There is zero compassion for the mother who chose to terminate her pregnancy.
There is zero compassion for the mother who forgot her baby in a heated car.
There is zero compassion for mothers. Period.

Yes, I strongly believe that there is little to no compassion in the areas I listed above and many, many more.

If mothers continue trekking down this 'mommy war' road then how does this shed a positive example for our children?  What will our children think of all this drama? How are we shaping their impression of motherhood, moms, mom culture and parenting collectively?

I think we need to start with extending a heck of a lot more compassion in ALL areas of mothering, motherhood, parenting and the like.

Let's BE compassionate toward each other.

My friend and editor over at ShePosts, Kristen Howerton, wrote a phenomenal piece on her blog, Rage Against the Minivan, where she brings up an undeniable and important factor in the mom world:
"Where is the Mommy War for the Motherless Child?", just read it and you'll see.

Her points are mind-blowing and her tone is just what the world NEEDS to hear.
These are the 'wars' I applaud, back-up and am the first one to stand up and shout for.
Thank you, Kristen!

While I and most of us moms are not supermoms, I can proudly say and with smug smile, we ARE mom enough.  Period.