Who knew joking about (snarking on) Mother’s Day was such a controversial move?
This Babble post on 5 Mother’s Day Do’s and Dont’s was intended as a jokey gift-guide anti-Precious Moments commentary. But the smoke is coming out of their ears, people!!
Clearly, mothers should be glad of any gift they’re given and just be quiet already.
Today I celebrate 6 months of sobriety. A life without alcohol was something I could barely comprehend only 1/2 year ago. I wasn’t holding a brown bag on the street corner (yet), but I was thinking about those glasses of wine earlier and earlier each day and they, not life, were becoming my reason for getting up in the morning.
What started as a muse to greater regenerating clever blather became a dependence. The funny tightwalk between levity and release gave over to a fall through a canyon of doom. There were hostages and legions of hurt people. The first were last and the last were made first.
I am so much less now than I was then, both in net worth and employment and pretty clothes and shoes… but again so much more. More available, more alive, happier than I can remember.
If you ever wonder whether your drinks or drugs or habits are a dependence rather than a treat, try giving them up for awhile and see what opens for you.
And if you ever wonder what becomes of a person who loses something in order to gain something else, you can come visit me. I’ll welcome you here and gladly show you around.
****
Read this beautiful thing and thank god, or God, or goddess that there is such a lovely person on this planet…
Let’s say (hypothetically) one quit one’s primary nonprofit gig to spend more time with certain offspring. At the same time, other freelance work dried up and one’s house was going on the market (it is pretty and fancy and was purchased back when Mommy had a full-time job).
If there were a Costco sized box of Milk Duds (emphasis on MILK, not DUDS, for you Brits out there), and it was consumed more rapidly than anything else remotely healthy, would one still be a loveable sort of person, or merely an obsessive eater?
If on the road of life, I were waylaid by a number of children and unemployment, would “Milk Duds” be an appropriate response to the question of “So how are you coping with these changes?”?
The world is a Very Serious Place. And from this angle (small children in tow, high on sugar, earning enough to buy one carrot and two lattes as a blogger), it all seems quite difficult to sort through.
And it could be that the sugar and the serotonin are teaming up to make it all seem silly and ironic, but I could go on like this for quite awhile longer and not mind one bit.
***
I don’t usually do memes, but this one is about books and requested by her (lovely, writing, pretty woman), so I’ll oblige.
Nearest book: Living Sober (it’s all nonfiction around here lately)
Page 123 & 5th Sentence, then Type Sentence 5-8
Here is the Excerpt:
Many of us have been amused at our seeming inability, even after many years of sobriety, to walk away from a half-finished cup of coffee or glass of soda. We sometimes find ourselves gulping the last swallow of a nonalcoholic drink, as if… Perhaps most readers already get the point: It is not always easy for us to put down an unfinished page, chapter, or book we are reading.
I’m not going to tag anyone but go ahead and do this if you like.
Mamma Loves recently discussed the taboo of writing about marriage. Many people (rightly) shy away from talking about anything but the good things about marriage for fear of recrimination, causing needless pain to others, or good old fashioned privacy concerns.
But whatELVIS, some things need to be discussed, people! And there are ways of writing through the questions and doubts without betraying one’s spouse.
Those of us feeling like lost lambs in the wilderness need the help and camaraderie of those of you who seem like you know what you’re doing.
I think the stakes get higher when married becomes married with children (obviously) and I don’t know about you, but I get a HUGE stomach ache every time I hear of another marriage failing, another child or children embarking on the two house tango… It’s easy to assume or worry that other people’s choices are thoughtlessly undertaken.
And ever since becoming a mother, I have zero boundaries about other children. If a child 1/2 mile away falls and skins his knee, or falls off his bike or rides her bike without a helmet, my gut is stabbed clean through. And I’ll tell you, now that I’m wide awake the pain is acute.
In any event, raising children and being in love seem like two quite distinct activities. Two things that I’ve never personally experienced concomitantly… In my world and heart, you are either cleaning the floor, or having multiple orgasms… never/ rarely both (metaphorically speaking of course).
Maybe arranged marriages are smarter after all?
***
Incidentally, I now have 5 months sober. Thank you to everyone for your loving support. It is definitely finally getting easier.
i’m in tucson arizona this week visiting my parents in their 55+ mobile home park. i’ve often declared my refusal to travel anywhere with young children, and while the flight here somewhat proved my point, and the cranky transition to a different crib was rough for v, a few days in we’re actually getting some rest and having fun. this landscape is so vastly different than my green, watery, rainy, cloudy home that it feels somewhat like mars. mars with piped in latino music and pinata parties in brown grounded parks. everywhere brown and hills and cactus (”pactus” according to v).
transitions abound at home… so getting away, achieving a change in scenery seemed wise.. if only for the novelty factor. i’ve always craved novelty but lacked the adrenaline need to jump from planes (as some like) or race the bulls in pamplona. change of scene usually fits the bill, and if i can bring my children along (where their fun with grandparents means i get time to myself), then i forestall that weird displaced homesickness i suffer from when i travel without them.
as it turns out, one can be quite a gypsy spirit and still be mother to three young children. this is something it took quite awhile for me to come to terms with. despite my sassy mommy lingo, i felt weird fighting wanderlust when they needed me so much at home.
they’re getting older now. older! finally! they can keep themselves entertained and even slightly fed (if necessary) and only one left in diapers. as i approach 40, 40 40 40 40 40 40!!!, i have some time to consider my options. will i travel to london? go with michelle to a spa? go on a solo retreat to a beach somewhere? will this pit of dread leave once the day and the age has finally been achieved?
for now, things in my life are stable. the children are happy. i’m getting moreso. the larger questions that have plagued me for so long sit in a sort of hibernation.. until my brain and spirit get clearer and stronger. i still have little to no understanding about what makes a relationship, a marriage, happy. but perhaps i’m not one of those who comes to these things by anything but the long way. i dream that someday i might be kissed by that particular bird of happiness. until then, i have a way of life that is good enough.. happy enough for me.
last week, i had the good fortune to visit my sweet college friend and her beautiful family in rhode island. here is a picture of a marriage that works… and i of course observed it closely… like an anthropologist… or an arctic explorer… or someone who hasn’t a clue.
Before I was a Mom,
no one considered giving me pink fluffy handmade crafts with the words “Children are Angels Sent from Heaven” stitched on them…
or sent me treacly emails about ‘miracles’ and ‘hearts living outside of your body’ or ‘finally
understanding what life is all about.’
Before I was a Mom,
getting my body back meant breaking up with a lousy boyfriend and no one ever assumed I wanted to hear about potty-training
Before I was a Mom,
I believed childcare was easily found, every father did his fair share, and maternity leave was sufficient in 4 week increments
Before I was a Mom,
I had notches on my headboard, rather than stretchmarks on my belly and “getting lucky” meant more than sleeping 8 hours on the occasional night.
****
Send this to 5 ass-kickin mamas… none of whom mistake having a heart for being brainless… or loving their children with forgoing a life..
***
Meanwhile, I was interviewed by a lovely woman at NPR for this new book by Daniel McGuinn — “House Lust”…
If you ever feel house lust, you know who you are.
Settling. Sitting still. Reflecting. Pausing before speaking. Quietude. These states are elusive in the hustle bustle opinionated brain of a former CrankMama. And while she has known this since she was born, I took the long way and I’m not there yet. And if all goes well, I’ll never arrive.
I’m speaking now of not speaking. Of holding one’s tongue. Of choosing not to express every thought flitting across the warped transom of one’s mind. You know what is most interesting about this not speaking bit? It gives other ideas, other happenings, a chance to come in and unfold. When I make my mental monkeys stop jumping on my goddamn bed long enough to enjoy the quiet, wisdom can break through all the screeching. Not my wisdom really. The wisdom of something greater than me (and beyond that, hell if I know what it/he/she is).
Fighting, arguing, drowning one’s feelings, pushing them down, or letting them out in all their fiery irrepressibility is draining. Tiring. Depleting. And I never realized how much of my exhaustion was due to my junkyard dog routine (when you are an angry doggie, everyone and everything is a bone).
So for now, I’ve laid down my weapons of war, picked up a feather and a flower (just like Ferdinand) and am waiting to see what happens next. Me? Wait? Never before have I endeavored such a mad journey… and I get no credit for the idea. NONE.
And as they say, “more will be revealed.”
Today on Strollerderby: What does Britney Spears tell us about our fascination with horrible parenting?
So it’s been 75 days since my last drink and nearly 4 months since I began this odyssey — to sober up, wake up to my life, start a daily spiritual practice something like worshiping a higher power, something like trying to be a more loving person.
As slowly the cravings, mental and physical subside, replaced by new rituals and people and habits, hope increases. Hope that there is more that I can give, more to experience, and a greater sense of gratitude folded into the dailyness of things.
I used to think that a cracked up wit, saucy attitude, and brain full of literature were the tools I’d need to combat the challenges of motherhood and life over age 25. Turns out it’s all so much more prosaic than that. Soft heart, courage, determination, and humility seem far more important to the task these days.
All is not perfect happiness by any stretch, but broken down into 24 hours segments, I can say I haven’t felt this hopeful and resourceful for years and years.
V & I on a quiet snowy afternoon — just one of life’s joys I would have missed before…
Meanwhile, more at Imperfect Parent.
Hard to believe there are any edges left around here. What with the new sobriety, the daily attempt at spiritual practice (some days merely trying not to swear every other sentence or hate on slow drivers), I feel like a worn out old flannel shirt, dirty and tossed way down under the wet rags and muddy socks of life. Edges, those things that keep my vanity and pride humming along, can serve a purpose –a toughness in defense of precious littles, a determination and will to go on stepping, even through the concrete confusion of grimly long days. But it’s the softness that catches me by surprise.
Attending meetings daily opens my eyes to the beauty of softness. The edges all gone as people admit their foibles, their struggles, their deep dark shame. And I can see and love them for the brokenness and openness and humility without farce or false poise. They help me get over all the fighting words and fake courage of hip parenting, huge vocabulary-ed striving (well, almost).
And something else.
Softer is happier. Softer is relaxed and rested (and also admittedly weepy). Softer can be me and can be, sometimes for a flicker, okay.
****
Is there a link between clinging to our pre-parent selves and alcohol abuse?
And on a lighter note, seems the people can’t get enough of the push presents..
This weekend my girl D and I drove to Vancouver B.C., cosmo town for cosmo girls, for a few nights away… We talked, we spa-ed, we shopped, we ate (especially me), and we did not drink. The concept of vacationing without drinking seem(ed) completely ridiculous until recently, but it really worked out pretty well.
I fantasized about red high heel boots and enjoyed looking around immensely but did not buy anything but books…
Me and the puddins were happily reunited Sunday evening over lasagna, oatmeal, salad, and toast… and I’m reminded of how lucky I am to be the mama in this house..
