Not my weekend

The girls were with their father this weekend.  He came on Friday to pick them up for a weekend of fun and excitement.  Two days and two nights of nonstop action.

I've come to treasure and loathe these weekends.  I spent more than twelve years on 24/7 mama mode.  Never more than a couple of hours off a month, and even those precious few breaths were laden with guilt both self-imposed and forced onto my shoulders.  So, the last couple of months have been a lesson in adjustment.  It's my chance to sleep a little, and dress up a little, and just be a little.  And, it's my chance to watch them race out to a life where I can't share their every moments.  They get to stay up way too late, watch movies that aren't made for kids, and eat food not grown of the earth.  And, they love these weekends.  So much so that I can feel their disappointment when it's just another mama day.  The way their shoulders slump knowing we aren't headed to a movie or shopping, we are doing laundry and working on speech therapy.

Yes, on these weekends, the girls and I have forged lives separate from each other.

Until 11:36 pm last Friday night.

I answered the phone to a hysterical six year old begging "I JUST WANT TO BE WITH YOU".  

I tried to tell her she was just tired.  I spent more than twenty minutes taking deep breaths with her and reminding her that everything was just fine.  I told her over and over that I was right there.  That her sister was there with her.  That her papi could take care of her.  I used my best calm mama voice to try to get her to fall asleep.  And, every time it started to work, he tried to take the phone from her - sending her into another tailspin.  Until, finally, I told her I was coming to get her.

It didn't matter who argued and yelled and tried to stop me.  I couldn't care less whose weekend it was or what time the clock showed.  I threw on my shoes and drove twenty minutes to my child.

If all she had wanted was a hug, that's what I would've done.  Because mamas give hugs when they're needed.

If all she had wanted was a kiss, that's what I would've done.  Because mamas get up in the middle of the night to dole out kisses.

If all she had wanted was me to pull the covers up tight and turn the light off, that's what I would've done.  Because that's what mamas do.

We mother.  Nothing stops us from it.  Not late hours or long drives or angry men.

But my child needed her mama's arms, her own bed, and the comfort that comes from knowing you can count on someone to come running when you call out.

And, it didn't matter that she was going to lose the movies the next afternoon or the pool the day after that.  She didn't care that the food I would make her wouldn't be served with crayons and a prize.  What she needed was free.  Freely given and costing nothing, I proved to myself that I still have something to offer.

And, the next time they're gone for the weekend, I'll watch them race off with the excitement that hurts a little.  But I will know that when they run back for that one more hug -because they always do, it's because they know I'll still be there with open arms.  And that may not be exciting, but it beats the heck out of junk food induced stomach aches and horror movie inspired nightmares.

Teacher becomes student

Maya checks the closet to scare away monsters.

I heard her last night as I lay awake focusing on my own.

Eva falls down, brushes herself off, washes off the blood, and keeps right on going.

It usually takes me a minute of wallowing before I can pick myself up and take a few tentative steps.

Sofia is so completely comfortable being a self proclaimed nerd that she celebrates it.

I still have so many moments where I wish I could just be like anyone else.

Six, nine & twelve.  That's it.  They've got life all figured out already.  

Conquer your own fears.  Check.  

Take care of your own pain.  Check.  

Own who you are without apology.  Check.  

These three people could rule the world if one of them knew how to drive.  In every way that really matters, they don't need me anymore.  I mean, if I let them, I'm sure one of them could figure out how to make a sandwich.  And, I imagine it wouldn't take more than a few minutes for them to realize any question they have could be answered by the iPad.  So, pretty much all they would need is a chauffeur for a couple more years.

In so many ways, they don't need me anymore.  They're strong, self sufficient, smart, capable girls.  Most days, they have a better grasp on those things than I do.  Me, their "guide" on this journey.  Me, the one who was supposed to teach them how to grow into good women.  I am much more often the student.

Including last night.

It was 2:30 am and my six year old opened the closet to scare away the monsters who had woken her.  I listened to her turn on the light, open the closet, mumble a few words, close the door, then wander into my room.

"What's wrong, mija?"

"I had a nightdream."

"You ok?"

"Yep.  Kiss."

A quick kiss & squeeze before she shuffled her tiny feet back to her room and closed the door.  

I had been laying in bed since 11 trying to turn off my mind.  Trying to stop worrying and wondering and stressing and wallowing.  Trying to stop the monsters from crawling into my dreams.  Not strong enough to tell them to get the hell out of my closet and move on.  Four and a half hours I laid there, trying to save myself.

It took Maya two minutes to do it.

Proud and sad at the same time, I wait to see what they have to teach me today.

Skin

I can't stand the feel of my own skin.

There is no sleep for me again tonight.  I can find no comfort to wrap myself in.  And, every time my skin brushes against itself, I shudder.

It's hard to lay in this bed without the feel of flesh on flesh.  Mine upon my own.  My hands naturally clasp themselves.  My arms fall in to hold the warmth.  Legs tie themselves in knots to keep me from running towards the dreams.

But, I can't stand the search of my own skin.

On the inside, it feels like sandpaper wearing down the strength I've cultivated in these muscles.  My body slowly eroding itself.  The distinct discomfort of being trapped somewhere I freely walked into.  Trying so desperately to crawl out of a prison I decorated myself.

On the outside, the lie of softness.  The smooth warmth hiding the calculated cold of my core.  The gentle lines leading to the bittersweet scars of a time when I could feel more strongly.  When I could feel at all.

Because I cannot stand the touch of my own skin.  

Clenching and releasing fingers from palms.  Forcing arms to spread wide over the empty sheets.  Banishing one leg to the cold so as not to allow the comfort of its mate.  Anything to stop the torturous sensation of skin on skin.

Mine on my own.

I had to tell her

I had to tell her.

We were supposed to go to the state track meet on Saturday, so I had to tell her.

She was going to hear it from somewhere, so I had to tell her.

The second thing she said this morning, right after "Good morning, mama.  How did you sleep?", was "Can we go see Emma's mom in the hospital?".  So, after breakfast I sat her down.  Yesterday, I told her that we might not be able to go to the meet because her relay teammate's mom was really sick.  This morning, I had to tell her that she died.  It was exactly as hard as I imagined it would be.  Hard enough that I put it off as long as I could.  Hard enough that I couldn't tell her yesterday or before breakfast or in front of her sisters.

Eva knows what death is.  She knows it means forever.  And, before this morning, she knew it didn't happen to moms of little kids.  Moms of kids her age.  Moms she recognized and talked to.  Moms who cheered for her at track meets.  She knew little kids don't lose their moms.  Little kids with no more life experience than she has.  Kids who are barely out of booster car seats.  Kids who still need help doing their hair and reaching higher shelves in the kitchen.  Kids who still need their moms to place band aids and pull splinters.  Kids like her.

She's a sensitive kid, my Eva.  She feels more intensely than any other little girl I know.  She is an open heart, and today she is a broken heart.  I saw it break before my eyes.  I watched her world shift through those big brown eyes, and I could hear our pain echoing back.  As she curled into my lap like the toddler she was not that long ago, I squeezed her till she stopped trembling.  I squeezed her till I stopped crying into her hair.  I squeezed her to let her know I was right there.  I squeezed her to let her feel her mama's presence.

I didn't want to change her this morning.  I didn't want to break her world.  I didn't want her to know that tragedy can come for little kids and their moms.  But I had to tell her, with her on my lap wrapped in the safety of her mama's arms.  Because I was reminded, in the most awful of ways, that not every kid woke up this morning to the warmth they still so desperately need.

Hold your kids.  Do their hair and reach the top shelf for them.  Kiss the cuts before the band aids go on and blow on the splinters to ease the sting.  Give them things to remember before you forget that seconds are flying by.  You'll never get them back.

Now

They drive me nuts.  Each and every day, they make me want to pull my hair out one strand at a time.

And, I drive them equally crazy.  I nag them & make them brush their teeth & remind them to be nice to each other.

Every day is a lesson in endurance.

Until the day you're reminded that it is supposed to be a marathon - not a sprint.

You're supposed to have decades and decades to teach and watch and guide.  You're meant to mother them until long after they've become mothers of their own.  You are meant to have all the time in the world to squeeze in every lesson they need to learn.  Every hug they need to feel.  Every smile they need to hear.  

Only, sometimes, the time is cut short.  Sometimes, you only get a few short years with them.  Sometimes, tragedy takes you from them long before anyone is ready.  Sometimes, your time with your children is stolen from you.

Tonight, a little girl I came to know is without her mother.  A little girl who raced alongside my Eva in track.  A little girl who became my Maya's book buddy in kindergarten.  A little girl who had an awesome mom.

Her mom adored her.  Her mom supported and loved her.  Her mom lived for that little girl.

Time is passing.  Right now, seconds are flying by.

Hold those you love now.

Tell those you love now.

Show those you love everything you've been waiting to show them. Now.

Yes, keep nagging them & reminding them to brush their teeth & forcing them to be nice to each other.  But, do it now.

Sometimes you need a reminder that now is important.  There is a mom new to heaven tonight, and I think she would say that now is all we've got.  

My heart is hurting now.  My thoughts and prayers are with that little girl and her dad now.  

And, if I'm lucky, I will get a million more moments of now to give to my daughters.  Please let me use those moments wisely.

In defense of working out

I like to workout a lot.  Well, let me clarify, I workout a lot.  I don't like to start, I don't often like the process of it, but I really like how I feel when it's over.  Lots of people have made comments about how they think I look or how I should look.  Fortunately, I am the only person who sees myself clearly, so I know why I'm running my 8 miles a few times a week or spending my hours in the gym whenever I get the chance.

The hard truth is, I'm getting old.  Things aren't as firm as they once were, and I don't like the jiggles that have appeared over the last few years.  So, I bust my behind trying to stay as close to "in shape" as I can.  What shape that is depends on your perspective.  And, from my angle, anything other than tomato would be nice.

A HUGE pet peeve of mine is when people complain about their bodies without putting any effort into correcting what they see as problems.  Embrace your curves/rolls/dimples/flaps/handles or fix them.  Honestly, if I could be comfortable in the skin I would be wearing if I didn't sweat through my three layered workout clothes, I would sit down right now.  I've seen the women who wear their tube tops over their size XXXL bellies and I wish I had that much self confidence.  Truly.  Unfortunately, I personally feel better working out, so I exercise.  If you feel better laying on the couch, have a bag of chips for me - I salute you!  But don't lay there complaining about yourself.  And please don't lay there ordering anything that promises to "melt away muffin top" or shrink your anything without diet or exercise.  

The hard fact is, unless you are one of a very select few, you're probably going to have to exercise if you want to look your best.  True, there are some people who don't have to work at it -- we call those people preteens.  And, their time is coming.

So, please know, if you're happy with how you look, I tip my hat to you.  Nothing looks better than self confidence.  And, I would never judge another person's right to be comfortable in their own skin.  But, if you don't like how your behind looks in your jeans, or what rolls over the top of your yoga pants, or how much fat pokes out from behind your bra - you're probably going to have to get up and workout.  Or marry a plastic surgeon.  And, if you find an available one, ask if he has a colleague for me.  Until then, I'll be over here sweating till I don't jiggle anymore.

I still am

I am outside of the lines.  

I run when I should walk.  Barreling through all of the caution tape, I speed past the warning signs straight into the mess.

I say all the things I shouldn't.  I say what others think.  I yell what others whisper.  I tell the wrong people how I feel. 

I am the definition of "sit down and shut up, who do you think you are, I can't believe you just asked that, you'll hear from my lawyer".  

I care when I shouldn't.  Point me in the direction of the sweetest, most gentle soul you can find...and I'll strut right past them to the nearest cold hearted, illiterate fool.  And I'll care about that mistake longer than it takes for the tattoo to fade.

I am a conundrum.

I finish every fight that steps into my ring.  I've never started one, but I'll stay till the bloody end every time I'm invited.  And, the ones that don't have a definite conclusion will keep me up nights.  Because I HATE when people are mad at me.

I ask every question I don't want to have answered.  It's true that no answer is often the polite way of saying "no"; but, I don't want polite.  I want heart wrenching, breath stealing, soul scarring truths.  And I want them now.

I've been alone my whole life.  I'm completely comfortable swaddled in loneliness, but I think I'd enjoy company sometimes.  On my terms, of course, and only if they pick up after themselves.

I am a puzzle with so many missing pieces.

I want to believe in people, but can't imagine picking up the pieces they'll leave behind again.

I want to feel the sunshine, but I can't bring myself to uncover the scars.

I want to live the life in the picture frames, but am missing the pieces that hold it all together.

I am every wrong turn, bad decision, skeleton in the closet.  And, I am not waiting for anyone to be accepting of that anymore.