Category Archives: Mothers & Daughters

Choosing Love in the Tough Times

25 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by in Change, Forgiveness, Inspiration, Love, Marriage, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons, Parenting, Peace, Personal health, Perspective, Tough days

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“Be content with what you have;
rejoice in the way things are.
When you realize there is nothing lacking,
the whole world belongs to you.”
― Lao Tzu

 

I’ve been working on being content with what I have. Trying to fall in love again with my home. Trying to be happy with what I own, and being fine living without accumulating much more than what we already have. It’s a tough war going on inside of me. I see friends with bigger homes, houses cleaner than mine, their kids better dressed and well-mannered, enrolled in the greatest of sports opportunities, their lives seemingly soaring with perfection when my own seems a jumbled puzzle of trying times. I struggle with the balance of being fine with what has been given to me and what we work hard to maintain; what is being asked of me and what I feel I can manage with grace and balance, and it isn’t much.

I’ll admit my tendency toward selfishness gets the best of me many days. In realizing this awful truth about myself, I try to combat the inner-greed by turning my attention toward the practice of giving thanks daily. Over the years, I’ve retrained my brain in a way to instill a sense of gratitude, not loss. At first, I thought my efforts fraudulent; now I know that’s farther from the truth. What contemplation of blessings brings is a perception of will and a renewed mind, body, and spirit. A peaceful place of heart and a contentedness of spirit grows with practice. Amazing what a simple, “thank you for my good health, thank you for the kids I finally have, thank you for the husband I can’t even believe is mine, thank you for the goodness all around me” can do for one’s overall emotional and physical health.

What I’ve garnered from the practicing of minding grace is that my environment is affected by my natural discontented spirit. My home is a large source of contention, in this game, I’m afraid. Too often, I’m nervous when new friends are invited over for the first time, when family gather, even. My inner-critic feels fear of being judged for our ancient couch covered in a decade-old, faded Pottery Barn slipcover, the discount pillows strategically arranged to camouflage red marker and juice stains, all of the bargain Craigslist finds. Years ago, I used to be proud of my frugal nature, the knack I possessed for scoring the hidden gems at consignment shops and Goodwill. Deep down, I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, for this is who I really am—a delightfully frugal, sort of crunchy-kind of woman concerned with too much excess. Honestly, I’d be a nervous wreck having much nicer things than we own since my kids are still in that exploring stage, hard players, not too careful with a red marker in hand. They don’t care if our things don’t impress. So, I shouldn’t either.

“We need much less than we think we need.” 
― Maya Angelou

If I’m completely honest with myself and you, my patient readers, I’m not—at all—that unhappy with our place of residence. There have been countless wonderful memories made here, certainly some major heartbreak, but mostly the inner-workings of a family trying their best to live and love together inside the confines of a relatively small home. Most days, I like that we live among one another, that there aren’t too many places to hide away, that The Husband and I are teaching our children to be happy together. After all, what matters more than those we love?

What is restless, truly, is my heart. And when this cracked, pumping vessel of mine becomes restive—as it is now—I realize that the unease is due to a level of great imbalance within our family, something is off-kilter inside the four walls of our home. An imbalance that I can’t seem to tip back to level. Discontented in spirit is a personal defect I struggle with each and every day.

My initial reaction—when life becomes so overwhelming that it can’t be ignored—is that if I could just escape the confines of the instability here then the discontent will release its hold on my family and me, and we will be able to break free of the confines of the pain, the source of disruption, and all the troubles will disappear. In my right mind, I know that these issues we are grappling with will follow no matter the place and space, no matter what the numbers on the mailbox say, despite the size of the mortgage payments. Though, the fantasy of someplace fresher, cleaner, brighter, untarnished is a pleasant divergence from the reality of our messy lives. And so today, I remain stuck inside the walls and look for a resolve inside myself. For, we all know that the only control we have is over ourselves and our own choices.

During quiet times of reflection and prayer, I can change my outlook on the muck before me and merely choose love, stillness and calm, patience, and tender care no matter the trial set before me. It’s my choice. And the choice is yours for the taking, too, if you are brave enough to change.

“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.” 
― Pema Chödrön

The focus now needs to be keenly set on love. And not just the mushy-gushy type of heartfelt sentiments, but the difficult, tough-love kind—the talking myself into loving when my heart feels like a stone, when my stubborn nature builds walls around me, when I’m just plain tired of caring. When The Girl retaliates by ingesting foods with her allergens that she knows will make her sick, yet deliberately sneaks down to gorge herself on these intentionally, I need to find the love to deal with her terrible choices and the patience to remain calm when she is sick and wheezing all day long—she, yelling at me, as if I’m the one who made her so allergic and sick, as if it’s all my fault. These challenging times are the times to have compassion for her, to see the plight in her eyes from the slight stance where she stands before me, too often screaming in my face, her pain and anguish shooting daggers at my heart. Even in these trying times, I choose love.

The focus now needs to be on remaining still—right where I am, exactly where I’ve been planted—because any slight movement might erase the magic in the moment—imperfections and all. For, when Baby Girl slides into bed beside me every night lately because of her fear of the dark despite a nightlight in every outlet, and the rising fear she feels of losing her almost-four-year-old self to the baby she once was not so long ago. Even when I feel the anger  in losing precious sleep because of her beside me tossing and turning, snuggling up to every inch of me like she’s going to lose me in the intensity of her fears, I choose to be still beside her in her fear. Even in the middle of the night when I have been awaken too many times to worsen me for the wear—most definitely then—I must find the love for Baby Girl in the morning as she remains cuddled next to me, so innocent and happy, and kiss her sweet porcelain cheek despite my wretched grouchiness. I choose calmness and love, because who knows how long my Baby Girl will want to remain so close by my side?

The focus now needs to be on patience and tender care—the kind that can mend hearts, minds, and moods—the type of uplifting calm and true presence of Love itself. So, when The Boy stays out late with his dad for a Cub Scout camp-out and at 11:00 PM comes home hyped-up on the thrill of Halloween excitement, animatedly describing the fun he had that night with his buddies, too jazzed-up to fall asleep, then suddenly, quickly resorting to full-on meltdown mode, startling his sisters awake—this is when a mindful patience is necessary. Certainly, when The Boy wakes up at his usual early bird time, clocking only eight hours of sleep last night, uncharacteristically grumpy during breakfast, head-strong and groggily resolved to build Legos this morning, speaking only in whiny retorts to his sisters who are annoying him a little too quickly today because of his sleep-induced edginess—this is when I still remain patient in loving him in the rough moments together and all throughout this jolted day. For my son, I choose love because he needs to know that he is deserving of my love despite his having a bad day, and that I will always love him no matter what.

Folks, my dad said it best when he turned to me, just before he walked me down the aisle to be married to The Husband, with tender concern in his eyes and stated, “Remember, LOVE IS A CHOICE.”  My late father’s words have remained within me, and make more sense now than ever before.

“All your life, you will be faced with a choice. You can choose love or hate…I choose love.” 
― Johnny Cash

Going forward, my focus remains inward with the intent of turning all the interior reflection outward realizing the swirl of imperfection in my family’s less-than-ideal traits are so delicately mirrored as my own personal deficiencies, though it can all be overcome in time by choosing love. Humble mom moment.

 

“However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man’s abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace.” 
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

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In Loving Memory, A Wave of Light

15 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by in Infertility, Love, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Month, October 15th, Poets and Poetry, Tough days, Wave of Light

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Surprised by Joy

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee?—Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
IN LOVING MEMORY
October 15, 2014

Wave of Light

 

The Magic of “Three”

03 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Baby Girl, Birthdays, Change, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters

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(blog post authored by purdywords)

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child.  There are seven million.  ~Walt Streightiff

Baby Girl is now three years old. The days that inhabit between ages two and three are tremendous to watch, aren’t they? It’s like viewing a slow motion picture unfolding before your eyes of one joyful life lived in profound newness and exploration of the most plain, yet beautiful moments.

It’s incredible–the simple and complex changes, I mean–that occur in one short year. All of a sudden, I see marvelous, natural progress in my Baby Girl, when I didn’t quite notice the differences before her third birthday last week. Where I once saw a little girl with chubby fingers, a round face and rosy cheeks, I now look with amazement into a delicate faced version of a growing-up girl; eyes replete with wonder, a mind quick to widen with study, a dainty body wanting to stretch beyond its limits.

Her bouncy blonde hair, once a short halo of ringlets that framed her angelic baby face is now a long, flowing cascade of Rapunzel-like lockets falling just shy of the small of her back.  From her tiny rosette mouth, she once spoke short staccato words of newness and amazement. Now she speaks a lengthy flow of little girl sentences interrupted only by quick bursts of amazement or emotion, using advanced phrases confidently from the surface of a soft pink pout.

Baby Girl dances around the house playing ballerina fairy and the magical make-believe pixie dust falls around her petite shoulders like snowflakes fluttering through an imaginary winter blue sky. She’s one of those kids who wears her emotions out on her sleeve for all to see; facial expressions truth-telling of what she feels deeply on the inside. And that heart of hers? It’s pure as light and strong as diamonds.

She loves all things sparkly—she’ll ooh and ah over my wedding ring set, spend as much time trying on her bejeweled Cinderella crown, and put just as much effort into chasing rainbows on the surface of the wall in the front hallway or watching the streaming sunlight reflecting off a nearby pond. My girly girl, she is rarely seen without the color pink somewhere on her ensemble, and more than likely in the form of a ballerina’s tutu.

photo credit: purdywords

photo credit: purdywords (http://asadsongbetter.com)

Music is her guide and she will stop anywhere, anytime for the sake of a catchy beat. It’s common for Baby Girl to break out in dance, shaking her tiny tush to the beat of a drum, the strum of a guitar, the rise of a lyrical voice. Her shoulders will begin shimmying to and fro, and she’ll start to  match her own sweet voice to the song being played overhead. Later, she’ll recall the melody and verse by carrying the tunes as a secret kept inside her heart. (Some nights, I catch her singing herself to sleep.)

Ah, my Baby Girl, my delightful charmer is three years old! I can not believe how fast these few years have flown by. So fast. Too fast. All of these days–all of these lightning-fast days spent as her mother–have been one miraculous adventure after another. More than anything, I hope she continues to find unending reasons to dance, sing, and dream for all the days of her life.  That is my lifelong wish for my Baby Girl.

(blog post authored by purdywords)

In Gratitude for Adoption: Giving Thanks Day Six (30 Days of Thanks)

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

Posted by in 30 Days of Thanks, Adoption, Blessings, Infertility, Love, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Parenting, Personal health, Prayers

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However motherhood comes to you, it’s a miracle. ~ Valerie Harper, Adoptive parent

About nine months after my husband and I were married, we felt ready to begin a family. Unfortunately, our journey to parenthood came with unexpected struggle, a litany of infertility issues and repeat miscarriages. (We lost our first four children in that time: Agnes Elizabeth, April 2004; Julian Olivia, June 2005; Max Kolbe, April 2006; and Catherine Teresa, December 2006.) During these years of trying to conceive again and again in hopes of finally carrying a child to term, I went through the ringer to become a mother.

During those trying years, my arms became permanently black and blue with bruises from the countless multiple blood draws I endured to check hormone levels and to rule out other serious health issues. I became an NFP charting expert and obsessed with the healthiest, most natural ways to eat, take care of my body, and become pregnant.  I had laparoscopic surgery and was diagnosed with Stage III Endometriosis. Soon thereafter, I started a regime of Clomid and trigger shots of hCG to boost my body’s ability to ovulate and produce the hormones it was lacking to sustain a pregnancy. During those cycles I swallowed ovulation-inducing medicines and became a pro at hormone injections, I gained weight and felt ill most of the time. Down went the pills and painful injections were endured–graciously, in fact–all for the sake of becoming a mother.

Because I reached the maximum dosage without a successful pregnancy, I had to stop the Clomid and trigger shots of hCG. Shortly thereafter is when I found a disturbingly large lump on my right breast. After seeing my doctor, I was sent to the women’s clinic for a full work-up of tests and procedures which ultimately resulted in a biopsy of the lump. Not only was I dealing with infertility and losing babies, I now had my first breast cancer scare. (Thankfully it was only a cyst, but even the surgeon who operated on me was seriously concerned. In the years since, I have found two more lumps.)

To compound the pain and the struggle we were experiencing for the sake of parenthood, my immediate and extended family were suffering greatly, too. In the span of three years, we lost my father to his sixteen-month long battle with small-cell lung cancer, and said our good-byes to two uncles, and my maternal grandparents, as well. It was a somber time.

Through it all, The Husband and I kept hoping and praying for children. We certainly discussed adoption, but had not explored it until one fateful September day when the answer to our prayers came in the form of an evening phone call. A familiar voice spoke to us on the other line. A child needed a loving home and were we open to adoption? Miracle of all miracles, our answer was an exuberant, “Yes!” Nine months from that incredible phone call, we would be fostering to adopt The Girl. We were full of gratitude and joy to be given this chance, and to open our hearts and home to this child in need.

The first Thanksgiving with The Girl in our home was a memorable one for obvious reasons. However, our joy increased a few days later when I discovered that I was, miraculously, pregnant again! A little over nine months later, we welcomed home The Boy. The Girl had a sibling! We had a son! Eight months after his birth, The Girl’s adoption was finalized. We felt blessed beyond compare to have witnessed two miracles in our lifetime, and that we were finally parents as we’d always hoped to be.

I touted over social media today that I was grateful for adopting my oldest child. She has stretched my heart and spirit by her love and many challenges. It’s not always “rainbows and butterflies” around here, but the trying times are the ones that increase our hearts, minds, and spirits tenfold. Adoption is a blessing despite the many challenges it brings. I would not have it any other way.

Honestly, I would go through the struggle over and over again—for her, for us—to start my family by fostering then finally adopting this amazingly complex, beautiful and gifted person–this daughter of mine–who herself makes me a better mom and better person, truly. If you ever had an inkling to foster or adopt, I urge you to look into welcoming a child into your home. Adoption can change lives for the better.

Making Time for Each Other: Giving Thanks Day Three (30 Days of Thanks)

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by in 30 Days of Thanks, Attachment parenting, Blessings, Love, Memories, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters, Mothers & Sons

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Don’t wait to make your son a great man – make him a great boy. ~ Author Unknown

And mothers are their daughter’s role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships. ~ Victoria Secunda

This morning, I wanted nothing more than to linger under the white feather down comforter covering my always-too-cold body. My morning-tangled strawberry-blonde tresses were sprawled all over the pillows three in a line across the width of the queen sized bed that I share with my husband, and most nights with Baby Girl snuggled in between us. Daylight Savings Time did not allow for a grand morning sleep-in, unfortunately. Even with an extra hour on the clock, I was sluggish in starting the day. Commitments of Sunday Mass and Sunday school class for The Boy were calling out to The Husband and me to get our act together. All I really wanted to do, truth be told, was spend the chilly day in my pajamas, drink tea, and read from my Kindle.

Because I’m not a member of the Crawley family, I returned to reality and willed myself to get a move on. It helped that The Kids brought up breakfast to me (as is their sweet custom on Sunday mornings) before rushing through the rest of my get-ready-and-be-somewhat-presentable-about-it routine involving a lightning-quick shower and changing clothes a few times before comfort won over and I felt just alright about my appearance. By the time my menial transformation was complete, I felt equipped to manage The Kids’ dressing and grooming routines while The Husband stole a few moments to himself.

It’s becoming easier, the Sunday routine. For the less-hectic pace, I am thankful. More often than I would like to admit, however, I kind of long for the time I spent a few years ago sacrificing my own set beautifying pattern for nursing an infant just one more time before heading out the door to church. On Sunday mornings, I feel my arms at their emptiest.

For years now, The Girl no longer needs my help with dressing or self-care. She only looks to me now for verification that her outfit and hair are presentable. Lately, the only reason The Boy comes to me for any kind of help is because he’s been operating without the use of his right arm due to a bad fall off of his bike while I was away in Martha’s Vineyard. Next Friday, he gets the full arm cast removed and will be back to regulation speed in no time and needing my help less and less. The most assistance Baby Girl wants anymore is in wrestling on her always-pink patterned tights, or untangling the mess of a knot in the back of her curly, blonde tresses. She’s mastering buttoning, zipping, brushing teeth, and all other bathroom situations. Where does the time go?  It’s a scary thought–frightening, honestly–to think that one day I might need my kids more than they need me. Is that even possible?

Being that I’m a mom of three children of various ages and stages, it’s difficult to find time for myself, but even trickier to carve out time to spend with each child separately. Presently, Baby Girl gets the most individual time with me for the very fact that she is in school for only a couple of hours on Friday mornings. (I am more in love with my kids every single new day, but having two hours to myself every week has been life-altering. A huge change for me. No joke.) Anyway, when the complaints start rolling in that they need some “special mommy time”—complaints heard mostly from The Girl and The Boy—I remind them that I had daily alone time with both of them before the other was born. The Girl had a straight run of fifteen months with me all to herself between the time she was permanently placed with us and before her baby brother was born. And, since The Girl was in preschool most days by the time he was born, The Boy actually enjoyed twenty-seven months of mommy-son time before becoming a big brother. Now, I tell them, it’s Baby Girl’s time to have own succession of mommy-daughter time. When the grievances become prevalent, though, spoken loud and clear without mistake, I abruptly tune in and take note that now is the time to start making more of an effort to ensure that each of them gets a few minutes of my undivided attention daily.

Special, daily alone time with each of my three children is fantastic—even if it’s just for a few minutes to talk about their day, read a chapter from a book, or complete a puzzle together. What’s even better, though? Extra-special “dates” with each them.  Ever since the school year started, Baby Girl and I share a weekly lunch at a neighborhood Asian-fusion restaurant so she can eat her favorite dish, “Broccoli and rice, please. No chicken. Just broccoli and rice” as I enjoy a delicious cup of wonton soup and side dish of steamed mixed vegetables. The Girl and I have our time together monthly on a Friday when we make our way home from one of her routine doctor appointments. We’ll stop for a treat—a dairy-free fruit smoothie in the warmer months and hot teas when the weather chills—and we just talk and talk in the van as I fight against the traffic from downtown to our home. (Or–confession time–sometimes we just crank up the music on her One Direction album to pass the time away.)

A couple of weeks ago, I started volunteering in The Boy’s Kindergarten Sunday School class. Ever since, we have started a new trend of sharing lunch together while The Husband and the girls have their own lunch together at home. It’s a win-win. Today was an especially good date with my only living son. He pulled out all his charms, asked for many hugs, even held my hand a few times! I’m not naïve, I know that these “dates” might one day too soon become more of a treat only for me and more of a chore for The Kids to attend. But just for today, I am grateful for them whether we are just spending an ordinary day together or heading out for an extra-special treat.

Today, I posted on social media that “I am grateful for weekly Sunday afternoon dates with my son. His sweet nature and joyful disposition are contagious.”  My hope is that my children never doubt how much I admire each one of them and appreciate their interesting company. I hope they never–not for one day–question the joy that their lives bring to mine.

A Mother’s Reflection on Rest and Rejuvenation

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by in Blessings, Mothers & Daughters, Peace, Personal health, Siblings/Sisters, Travel, Uncategorized, Writing

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“What is the scent of water?”
“Renewal. The goodness of God coming down like dew.”
― Elizabeth Goudge, The Scent of Water

 

An excerpt from my journal, dated September 16, 2013:

Soon, I head out on a much-needed vacation that was masterminded by none other than my mother. She and I, along with my two sisters will be on an early morning flight tomorrow. And in less than two hours from our departure point, we will land in the city I love so dearly. After gathering our small amount of belongings, I will rent a compact car, and together, we will travel south to the lower peninsula of the state. After filling ourselves with a nutritious and indulgent meal and quite possibly some lattes and dessert, we will board a ferry-boat headed for a notoriously quaint and hip island.  Once the 45-minute sea voyage has ended, we will disembark from the lower deck of the passage boat and find ourselves, a mere 3.1 miles from port, embarking upon the final destination of our journey–and to a home that we will claim all for ourselves during the next five days and four nights before us.

On this north-eastern island, I have no plans except to spend overdue quality time with my mother and sisters and find a way to relax and reinvigorate myself, rejuvenate my health, and recharge my inner-battery. During this time, I will write and read, walk and partake in a yoga class or two, visit bookstores and island shops, perhaps indulge in a deep tissue massage or facial, go sight-seeing through all the touristy island haunts, photograph what catches my eye, subsist on fresh seafood and seasonal fruits and veggies. And dare I say it? Sleep in. However lofty my vacation plans, the only truly important goal I hold for myself this week is to come back home a noticeably calmer version of myself.

Am I blessed beyond compare that I can take a half-week to just be still? To spend whole hours in solitude in order to find a way back to myself? To know that I deserve this time to be alone, but in the company of my kin? Absolutely. And I eagerly anticipate getting there, backed only by the comforting notion that this mini-vacation is coming true only by the multitude of sacrifices of my husband, children, and especially, my mom.   

 ~ 

Stay tuned as I “write the island” in my forthcoming blog posts. Until then, I would love to read your comments. And, I am curious to know:

Have you ever visited Martha’s Vineyard? If so, what was your most treasured memory of the island?  If you haven’t been to Martha’s Vineyard, tell me then, where have you vacationed to purposefully recharge yourself? Also, what are some ways that you reinvigorate your mind, body, and spirit throughout the year when a vacation isn’t possible? 

Simply, love

09 Thursday May 2013

Posted by in AD/HD, Adoption, Attachment parenting, Childhood Mood Disorders, Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD), Forgiveness, Love, Mothers & Daughters, Parenting, Peace, Stress & Anxiety, Tough days, Writing

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There are times when silence has the loudest voice. ~ Leroy Brownlow

“…Peace begins with a smile. Smile five times a day at someone you don’t really want to smile at; do it for peace…” ~Mother Teresa

 

Day and evening, I have sat diligently at my distressed white Queen Anne desk to begin writing about the past, the present, the dream of tomorrow, but the words lead me nowhere, and I give up mid-sentence. Word documents are left half-explored. Bits and pieces of something remain–and that something has to do with bitterness and defeat. Anger and despair can’t be the only source of my words, so I allow days to pass me by to seek a cure to my writer’s block. I read instead.

A pile of books loaned from Uptown’s public library; a few favored electronic books downloaded to my Kindle; a growing stack of periodicals in the wicker basket beside the French country cream and green checkered love seat in the living room. Covered in my favorite down throw, I seek solace in treasured reading time. If my words are halted, then I will fill the void with other authors’ stories. I think, maybe this reading-only plan will help me to regain the courage I lost over these last three weeks to forge ahead in writing my story. Vindicated after just a couple days spent getting lost in stories, I find myself less harsh, and eager to befriend my ruby-red laptop once again.

Tapping the keys can be a most profound stress reliever. Anger melts away toward a deeper perspective–one borne of rumination, not regret. Word count increases and I feel like myself again.

~

The last couple of weeks have not been easy around here. The Girl has had a fair amount of challenges at home and school and the ramifications are felt all around us, lingering like a storm that begs to break. There are some days when I don’t feel capable of giving her all that she needs, to listen to her constant emotional wreckage, to be present and calm with her nearby. Truly, there are times when I feel like I don’t have an ounce of strength left in me to be her first line of defense when fighting the constant battles she brings to the table. I’m left overwhelmed by the daily management of this child and it has left me drained–so much so that I have to shut down my mind come evening and just be still.

Most challenging at times is the level of patience and calm persistence it takes to raise The Girl. The discipline always seems clunky– not quite right–and the level of perseverance it takes to get through an ordinary day is exhausting. If the everyday occurrences of emotional turmoil, wreckage and hyperactivity were kept to a minimum or happened on occasion then maybe I wouldn’t be living in constant frustration of it all. Before I react or teach, I honestly have to remind myself that she needs me more now in her time of trouble than on an average bad day–especially when I am the main target of her fight. Yes, most especially when she fights with me for no apparent reason.

This morning was a particularly tough one. Already tired that this irrational fight between us was starting at such an early hour, I asked The Girl, “Do we have to do this today?” A shrug was the only answer in return.

“Can you tell me why you are fighting with me now? Why are you arguing with me?” Silence.

With a heavy heart, I turned away from her, hiding my anguished face and my overworked mind tired of trying to figure out what ailed her this day. Exhausted of figuring out if this was one of those “big deal” situations or just her typical moodiness, I just had to turn away. Day after day after day of troubles and heartache–hers and mine–gets old fast.

One day of simple–this is my Mother’s Day wish.

As I descended the stairs to ready my little ones for the quick drive over to The Girl’s elementary school for morning drop-off, I gathered those two–The Boy and Baby Girl– in overzealous hugs and kisses, taking in a deep breath that filled my lungs with their little kid sweetness. With that breath, also a prayer. A prayer that this downreaching yogic breath would sustain me through the morning with The Girl–in peace. Despite my natural inclination to be annoyed and angry back at her, despite her ability to keep the charade going, I was going to win this war–with kindness, a smile, not engaging her at her worst–fathomless breaths guiding me through. It was my prayer that we were going to finish out the remainder of the morning without any further argument, without turning the gray effect into black, without more hurt feelings or emotional pain.

As I remained strong-willed in my efforts to remain calm, rising above the blackness of mood threatening to take over, my prayer was answered almost immediately. Just when I needed it most. Ironically, The Girl must’ve been doing her own deep breathing upstairs as she awaited my call to gather her belongings and head to the van. Because, once she descended those stairs herself, her entire demeanor had changed and I actually received a half-hug–her attempt at an apology. Her posture and presence dramatically morphed from bitter anger to a softer, calmer, kinder state. In thankfulness, I melted into that awkward embrace, my rigidness relaxing, too.

Thank you, Lord. Thank you for answered prayers and reminding me that I am not alone and neither is she. 

Upon locking the front door, I inhaled a triumphantly deep yogic breath of gratitude. It might not seem like much that The Girl quickly changed her attitude, but to me it was a sign of hope. Truly, a small miracle so desperately needed to sustain both of us after weeks of struggle. At the very least, I knew this change of heart meant The Girl’s morning at school would go smoothly. It also meant that she is growing in her ability to take responsibility for how her words–or lack thereof–and actions affect others. She is developing empathy, I think. This alone is a triumph worth celebrating. My hope is that the turn-around points to her learning how to be sorry. At this point, I’ll accept any attempt at reconciliation from her for a fight that I never saw coming–one that seems to resurface without any apparent pattern and typically without warning. I’d love for this recurrent fight to end so that we can forge ahead in love.

I’ll never stop being her advocate at school, with doctors, or in the community-at-large. But, the ever-present struggle between us at home has to end at some point. All I want for our family is true love and peace–in us and between us. All I want for The Girl is the ability to feel truly loved by us, the knowledge that she belongs here with us, and that she is alright just as she is. All I want is calmer, easier, better days ahead.

One day of simple–this is my Mother’s Day wish. 

Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane/Don’t know when I’ll be back again

23 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by in Mothers & Daughters, Siblings/Sisters, Travel

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A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves – a special kind of double. ~ Toni Morrison

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee/Calls back the lovely April of her prime. ~ William Shakespeare

In September, my mother is treating my sisters and me to a girls’ getaway weekend. On Sunday, we are getting together to vote on the destination. Each of us presented two different options and then we dwindled the list down to the two places we are voting on. Our final decision rests between San Francisco, CA and Martha’s Vineyard, MA–both equally enticing destinations, if you ask me.

It’s been over a decade since I traveled to The Vineyard on a whim one early summer day. A few years post-college graduation, I lived near Boston, MA. My work took me up and down the New England coast and inland, still. I covered much ground in a short period of time. I’m forever grateful that I took the chance to start my career in such a historically-rich, interesting, and beautiful part of the country, one for which my heart was already fond of. Because I once lived a mere 26.2 miles from Boston as an elementary school aged child, I remained akin to the culture, language, and beauty of this part of our amazing country. Back when my family dwelled there, my parents were intent on showing us the cranberry bogs nestled in Southeastern, MA, the crimson and orange leaves in all their glory at parks along the way to Plimoth Plantation, the white city lights and quaint treasures nestled snugly inside unique shops in Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and the sheer exhilarating mounting of intense excitement that comes with being a spectator at the start of the Boston Marathon. I was blessed with parents who loved history as much as they did the great outdoors. Oh, how New England tugs at my heart, still! To me, there’s nothing like the sights, smells, and sounds of the landscape and life uniquely New England.

On an opposite coast, San Francisco lies not without sentiment, I must admit. A different sort of freedom and nostalgia tugs at my heart for its surrounding waters, balmy sea air and of course, the distinct coolness factor representative of this Californian dream town. I found myself right in the heart of this incredible city as I began a new job and life in Massachusetts. My new employer hired me just in time for their annual sales meeting that was being held in San Francisco and I couldn’t believe my luck! Not only was I moving back to Massachusetts which I had always dreamed of, I was now flying to a city I’d only read about but knew I would adore. As I flew to California for the very first time, I was immediately enamored by all the Bay Area had to offer. Thousands of miles away from my beloved Massachusetts, it didn’t take long before I fell in love with an entirely new city. This expounded love for a city I had no connection to felt so different, unreal, even. It didn’t feel anything like cheating, or disloyalty. Actually, I recall it felt exhilarating and freeing to have found another place in the world where I felt completely at home. On the red-eye return flight, I imagined that over the next few years, with the opportunities that awaited me just with this new job in an industry I knew I was meant for, I conjured up all sorts of positive thoughts about the incredible American cities and towns that awaited exploration and newfound love in their own right. It was a dream come true, really—being single, free to travel on a whim, working diligently at my job that took me to places near and far—seeing America with innocent eyes. In the time that followed, I felt that it was easy to fall in love with almost any city or town as long as I looked for the good around me. This love wasn’t trite or inexperienced, but born of interest and excitement. So, I let my heart lead me up and down, inside and out all of New England. My love for new towns accompanied me from coast to coast and to almost all of the 50 states in-between. What I’ve realized in the years that have past by is that I was given a gift most people only dream of as I was able to garner so much about this incredible country of ours just by the mere act of employment—and that’s a freedom I will cherish forever. During my pre-motherhood years, I returned to San Francisco a few times more, explored a little deeper and wondered how I might ever be able to dwell in a city with the most ideal climate I’ve ever known.  No doubt the allure of the Bay Area hasn’t changed since my first visit, and I believe that there’s always room to fall head over heels in love all over again with such an ideal place on the map.

To be honest, I will be truly happy to return to either one of these choice destinations. Sure, there are logistics to consider (length of travel, The Husband’s work schedule flexibility, and of course the length I can be away before my three kids reach total meltdown mode or I’m missing them more), but ultimately, I will be happy with either way the vote may sway. What may be more interesting, however, is how well my two sisters, mother, and I will travel together. And that, well that’s a story best saved for another time!

“Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane/Don’t know when I’ll be back again” (John Denver)