Sunday, January 27, 2013

In a Mother's Heart, Part One

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It’s my youngest son's last year in high school and I find myself, at odd moments, giddy with excitement at what it represents, and then in the moments that follow, grief stricken.  

Some mornings, when I pull over to drop him off at school and he swings out of the car all gangly and long legged, this tall, thin young man who is comfortable and easy in a body that was once so chubby, in his collared shirts and curly hair and his glasses, well, some mornings I just cry softly on the way to work, not caring about the smudges from my mascara or who might see me cry.  And as I write this now, I can barely see the keyboard.

I will tell you the truth.  I am glad it's almost over, this parenting thing, because by the time I am finished, I will have been parenting non-stop for almost 30 years. Eleven of those years I was married and all I will say about that is that being married to someone with whom you have nothing in common except the children you made is infinitely harder than raising children alone.   

I have thought a lot about the quality of my parenting over the years, and frankly, some days were better than others.  Most people, when arriving at this point remember all the time with their children that they never want to forget, those precious moments of joy and laughter and hilarity.  We had a lot of those, and I hope we have more. I’m sure we will.  But it has been a very, very long journey, and frankly, I am tired. I fear I have gotten so much of this parenting thing wrong, but I have loved my boys with a quiet fierceness that has been steady and strong. And they have taught me far more than I have taught them. 

My friends who have met my sons say things that indicate I should take credit for who they are, but I resist that.  It is more honest to say that they should take credit for the woman I am, because they have changed me.  I think children are given to us just as much for our own growth as we are given to them.  I am a big fan of Kahlil Gibran’s idea that we are the bows from which the arrows are sent, and that our children are not ours, but are instead manifestations of life’s longing for itself. Therefore, they are not mine to take credit for, or to be blamed for.

As a mother, I have made embarrassing, shameful mistakes, said things I wish I could take back, done horrible, thoughtless things. I have forgotten things they remember that are important to them. Whole swathes of time are gone from my memory, many of them during the years of a difficult marriage or the early years of stark poverty and single parenthood in the city. I have fought for them, fought over them, fought with them, pulled them close, pushed them away, held them down as they raged at me, sometimes all those things all in the same day. I worry that this does not sound “normal,” but these things are the truth. And there was never a moment when I thought having any of them was a mistake, even when I was at my worst, and not even when they were. 

I always thought I would not mind as much when my day-to-day parenting duties came to a close, when it was finally time to stop the daily hands-on duties and worries.  I often joked, looking at my imaginary watch, that I am counting the days until I am done with the daily care and feeding...but now that the time can easily be calculated in days, I can't bear to count.  And truthfully, I am not done, I am living in fantasy. Parenting never really ends, if you define parenting as loving someone always and carrying them in your heart, and knowing you would drop everything, everything, everything for them, that they come first even if it may not always seem that way. And besides, none of them are moving out or living at college any time soon.  But soon enough, please God. Soon enough. 

To be continued. 

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

A Good Poem

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The whole of what I know
about writing a good poem
would fit into a doll’s teacup.
But I do know what a good poem
can do.  

A good poem can remind you
of the sound your spoon makes
clinking against the bowl
as you scoop out your morning cereal
and bring it to your mouth
to eat

and a good poem can show you
the slick feel of the spoon itself
as it slides against your tongue and
the rich touch of light
on the leaves of a green geranium
while you chew and contemplate
the sweet sacred rhythm
of plants.

A good poem can hold up to you
the quiet of the bare trees
as they stand very still
not resisting the constant weather
or the snow against their bark,
content, it seems,
to wait inside their shells
for the warmth of the dear spring
and not try to be anywhere, 
not anywhere
but here.

And a good poem can bring you
a few gifts from mother earth
now displayed together
on a corner of my big desk
in a small corner of my world:
the carefully woven nest
of a long-gone bird,
the lifeless body of a black-winged dragonfly,
the smooth, gray stones and
tiny blue robin’s egg,
reddish rattling pods and
oversized pine cones
and mostly the big old hawk feather;
gifts which now,
because of this good poem,
are in your world, too.