It Won't Happen Again

You said that I needed to be strong. I said I’d try. “No, I don’t want to hear about how hard you tried,” you replied. “You will be strong. Do it for me.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “I will be strong.”
These past two years have been all about me, growing in strength. This morning I took the coward’s way, acting out in frustration, throwing one of my hissy fits again because I felt helpless. Too many demands from others. Too many distractions. Unable to move forward at all. And I snapped. I flipped, as you’d say.
I hadn’t done that in quite awhile. It didn’t feel good. It brought only shame and more frustration. But this time it brought hurt too. Not to me, but to my daughter. At seven years old, she still thinks I’m great. The tears in her eyes spoke her disappointment in seeing me mad at her baby brother. I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I sent her to her room.
I collected myself and picked up the baby and apologized, nursing him, soothing him to sleep. I had put him in the crib because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept fussing while I tried to teach. His preschool sister was no help at all and I just felt incapable of handling the tasks at hand. I hate feeling that way.
My daughter came down when she realized I was calm again. I asked her to pray for me, though I’m not sure if a parent is right to ask that of a child. I apologized to her for acting out in anger. And for just a moment, I thought of trying to explain it all, the frustration of parenting and how it’s hard but I try. Then I thought of your words when I said, “I do the best I can.” You asked, “How would you feel if your father said that?”
So I skipped the explanation and the attempt to have her see me as a woman who often feels as if she’s falling to pieces. “It won’t happen again,” I said. “I promise.”

Birth

I’m proud of the births I’ve had. I don’t know why others want to take that joy away from me.
Me, my husband, my children. That’s all it’s ever been about. The other world is shut out. My best decision for me. You don’t have to agree. But can’t you allow me my choice? My joy? My experience?

These are the happiest moments of my life. And yet I’m on the defense so often. So often, I just shut up. I hide it. I keep quiet. I won’t share with you because you’ll feel bad somehow. Bad because I’m happy? Bad because I’m brave? Bad because I’m empowered in a way that you never knew was possible. In a way you never were interested in.

You chose big white shiny building with sparkling floors and sterile needles. That’s fine. It’s fine for you. It’s fine for so many. But it’s not fine for me.

It’s not about bedside manner. It’s not about getting back to nature. It’s about my husband at my side, reaching down, being the first hand to touch the fruit of the gift he gave me. It’s about welcoming home my precious babe. No bright lights. No room transfers. No release forms.

Just mom and dad, brothers, sisters, and love.

Cherubic cheeks

Her cherubic cheeks were smeared with chocolate. I huffed at the sight of her, wondering if there was ever a moment when that girl’s face was not a mess. But then I recalled how she got that way – by delighting in the chocolate chocolate-chip muffins I’d baked this morning. The ones I had made to make up for being a grumpy mommy the past few days.
I sprinkled water on a washcloth from the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Kneeling down, I began to wipe her face. Stray strands of hair covered over her sparkling blue eyes, gazing patiently at me. In those eyes, I remembered the baby I rejoiced over, the toddler I delighted in, the preschooler who this very morning had asked when I would make her favorite muffins again.
She smiled at me sweetly as my fingers pressed the cloth across her cheeks and I knew that this was how I wanted to remember my daughter. Not because her cheeks were spotless and rosy. But because her eyes gazed upon me lovingly while enduring my swabs.
So often lately, she had been one more person who needed to be clothed, and reminded that shoes need to go on the fireplace, and told to buckle up as soon as you sit in your car seat so we can go. Go, go, always going. Always distracted even when I’m home. The days go by and this girl’s hair needs brushing every hour, her shoes are never together in a pair, she talks too much, she sings too loud, she does everything but keep quiet and stay out of the way.
I love her. I forget sometimes to take a moment from scrubbing the dishes just to study her face, absorb the admiration she has for me. It’s a struggle to forget my own embarrassment over how poorly I’ve behaved. I want to hide my face, but instead I catch my breath and turn toward my daughter, humbled by the lovely violets she picked for me.

Feast of the Immaculate Conception

I'm up incredibly early today, inspired -- yes, finally inspired once again! -- to center my life on the Lord, to focus, to live for Him at least for today. For today is all I can manage to wrap my mind around. I can focus on eternity this minute, this hour, this day. I can't worry about tomorrow. That might burden me too much. Too overwhelming. Too much to do. Too much work and sacrifice which requires more energy than I have at this moment. But today -- I can handle that.
Lord give me the graces to do what I need to do right now. Oh most Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us who have recourse to thee.

Andrew Paul -- redemption

Andrew is the name of a coward I knew in 8th grade. Typical of most cowards, he was also a brooding bully – one that tormented me daily throughout that last junior high year. Even when my insightful 14-year-old self confronted him about how he picked on me merely as a way of making himself look good in front of his friends, he scoffed, deflecting the remark with, “Oh, and you know everything. Ha.”
I pitied the boy because not only was he never honest with me, but he also was never honest with himself.
Andrew is also the name of a brave young man I knew in college. Like many brave souls, he was jovial, with a hearty laugh which resounded through the hallways. I last spoke to him when visiting campus after I’d graduated. He gave me a huge smile, said it was great to see me, and congratulated me on my recent engagement to his dorm buddy. I last saw him less than a year later at my fiancé’s graduation. Andy arrived for the ceremony, bald, swollen, assisted by a walker, dying from a brain tumor. He was greeting and congratulating his graduating class, a class he was simply witnessing, due to his illness.
Later that same year, I was married, pregnant, and kneeling beside Andy’s body in a casket, asking for his prayers that I might be a good mother.
Even though his life was cut short at age 22, his was the most beautiful funeral I’d ever attended, mostly because he had led a beautiful life.
I believe a name can be redeemed. What once was a sound of scorn in my ears became a lift of delight. We all have our weaknesses, our faults, our dark hidden corners of the soul. Some of us flagrantly display inadequacies; some of us painstakingly mask them. But we all have them. Every one of us is in some way wanting strength, healing, light.
For a select few, the answer greets them with a knock to the ground, a blinding flash, and a reprimanding voice from heaven. So it was for Paul, “Persecutor of Christians” turned “Pillar of Faith.” Yet for most of us, direction, wisdom, and redemption are found through a long winding road. And as long as we continue on the journey, we maintain hope.

Love is messy.

Love is not a crisp linen sheet to be folded into neat creases and stored on a shelf, awaiting a special occasion to be laid out and displayed. No. Love is messy. Meant for daily use. Acquiring stains and wrinkles, fraying edges. Regular shaking out, washing and pressing required.

how much I've fallen short

All day yesterday I didn’t feel pregnant. I wasn’t waddling or aching or sighing from exhaustion. I was simply me again. And I felt good for a while. But I felt guilt too.

A friend of mine has a two year old daughter, comatose in the hospital. The family found her a few days ago at the bottom of their pool and she hasn’t woken since.

I prayed for the family during my morning walk, before school lessons, at lunch time, while grocery shopping, and all through the hour it took me to prepare a meal for them. I was happy to offer up all that I could. Yet my frustration with myself crept up all around me, reminding me of how much I’ve fallen short of my own ideal of motherhood. I wanted to do better and yet I was still not ready to completely let go of myself – to surrender — once again.