Thoughts in Her Head

My daughter walks home alone from school now. She takes the same path we’ve traced year after year, beginning in kindergarten when her backpack touched the backs of her knees, her baby brother was strapped to my chest, and her little sister was in the stroller. Last year in third grade, I stood at the corner and watched to make sure she safely crossed the street and followed the instructions of the crossing guard. Now, in fourth grade, she meanders quietly home, processing her thoughts after school without the constant chatter from a sibling or probing questions from me.

During the early years of school, I would pester her when I picked her up at her teacher’s door. What did she do? Who did she play with? But she would refuse to answer my questions, despite trying the alternative, “What was your favorite part of today?” or “What games did you play with your friends today?” I was constantly met with, “I don’t want to talk about it!” 

-You can read the rest of the story over at Kindred Mom. 

The Trampoline for Quarantine

“Want to get a trampoline now?” I asked my husband late one night. We’re quarantined with three active children who have been using the living room as a parkour course. For the sake of the couch, I needed an alternative. 

“Sure,” he replied. “But I want a good one. One with a high weight limit.” 

“Done,” I said. 

And we both went to work on Googling: “Trampolines for families. Trampolines with good reviews. Trampolines for adults. Trampolines that will last until the kids move out.”

“Maybe we should measure the backyard?” My husband suggested, mouse hovering over a “Buy Now” button. 

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.” 

We found the tape measure and haphazardly stretched it across the yard. 

“Isn’t the geodome like 10 feet?” I said. It’s a round climbing structure we have in the backyard. It takes up half the yard.  “We could probably do a 15 or 16 ft trampoline. I mean, we want everyone to fit.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he said. 

“Done,” I said. And made my husband go through the process of finding a coupon and ordering the trampoline. 

A week or so later the kids were on a Facetime call with friends when the doorbell rang. I gasped as I opened the door and stumbled into six gigantic boxes taking up my front porch. 

I debated on leaving them until Husband came home, but someone might steal them in my quiet neighborhood. They were clearly labeled with pictures of kids living their best life jumping on a trampoline. Better to bring them inside. 

The kids crowded around, phone in hand, to show their friends the boxes. “Out of my way,” I bellowed, wrestling one of the eighty pound boxes inside. Five more to go. 

Inch by inch I scooted the boxes in. Pulling and prodding with some assistance from my pint-sized associates. 

Finally, they were in, friends on the phone long forgotten, and my front door unable to open because that was as far as I could drag the boxes. Good thing we weren’t expecting visitors. 

Over dinner we watched a YouTube video on how to assemble the pieces. The male and female volunteers looked like average parents, inserting poles here and there, clicking things into place. At super speed (literally, the video sped up because who wants to watch someone hook spring after spring after spring after spring) the trampoline was assembled, and the safety net put on. It looked simple. Basic. Step-by-step attainable. Husband and I both hold college degrees. Surely we can assemble a giant trampoline. 

The next day after work, Husband wrestled the heavier boxes out to the backyard. Fighting gnats, I mean children, that continued to swarm around us, we laid out the foundation pieces. 

“Um, this is kinda big,” my husband said, watching as our lovely patch of lawn was dwarfed by the metal circle he now had laying on the ground. 

“Yay!” the gnat children cheered, running in circles and tripping over pieces. 

We put together the base, click click click. Maybe this would be pretty simple after all. 

The connecting pieces came next, finishing the circle of fun. After that the actual bouncy part of the trampoline was unrolled. 

The directions said to attach the springs one at a time, at alternating sides. The first few were easy, as the mat wasn’t fully stretched. Then we had to start counting holes and matching them up.  

“Let’s just go from here,” we said. Counting is for nerds. And we started to fill in one side of the circle. The springs started to stretch, my husband's muscles bulging as he matched them to their correct spots and tried not to blast his eye out from a ricocheting spring. 

Two hours later we had the base done. 

Next was the padding over the springs, which you’d think they’d have figured out some type of elastic to go around the frame. Like a fitted sheet. But no, we had to individually thread five million holes and tie the topper down. 

Now we were done. 

No, just kidding. Apparently it’s not “safe” to jump on a trampoline without a safety net. I don’t know about you, but we never had any nets on trampolines when I was younger. You either stayed on or fell off. And if you fell off, you just climbed back on and tried to be more careful. Or you ended up in the emergency room with a broken arm. Such was life. 

Anyway, we opted for the premium net. Nothing is too safe for our precious children (who were practically frothing at the mouth with uncontrollable excitement at this point). This net required more work than the trampoline itself. We take safety very seriously. Obviously. 

Ten poles had to be strategically connected to the trampoline base. Using his combined powers of super strength and rocket science reasoning, Husband meticulously latched and clicked and pounded when the clicks weren’t clicking. 

I went in to make dinner and feed the heathens. Next thing I knew, it was dark and the poles were all attached. 

Now, our backyard has a sorry excuse for a light to illuminate the patio. Really, it just serves as a graveyard for bugs. 

The oldest child fetched the floodlight from the garage and said, “Let there be light.” Not really. God said that. Regardless, there was light. Light enough to realize that the poles were on upside down. 

Yes folks, you read that right. Husband spent the next hour angrily righting his wrongs. 

I cleaned the kitchen. 

So the poles are hooked into place. Now what? Oh yes, the actual net to go around this behemoth and save all the children. We had to attach thin metal strips of alternating sizes in the correct spaces. But of course they weren’t color coded. We had to actually measure them to see which was longer. While maneuvering the fabric of the gigantic net-to-save-us-all. While standing on the trampoline. We only lost one metal strip, found it, had to rearrange a few, and then came the next part: hooking the net to the top of the now-righted poles. 

I held, he reached, and we may have performed a few illicit moves all around. The top portion of the net was now complete. 

“You take over from here,” Husband said. 

“Fine,” I begrudged. 

So we all went to bed.

The next morning the husband went to work and the kids jumped while I tied the net to the base. And tied. Over and under and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring. One hundred and seventy times. Tie off and done. 

For real this time. 

We might not have a lawn any more, but we do have a trampoline to last until the kids move out. With a premium safety net. No broken arms on our watch.

When Motherhood is Vomit and a Quarter

When Motherhood is Vomit and a Quarter

“Your children are beautiful,” she states pleasantly as I attempt to maneuver the dingy plastic shopping cart past her and rush out the door of the grocery store. The elderly woman hobbles closer, hunched over with age and nearsightedness, to peek adoringly at my blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub of a daughter in the front of the cart. I slow due to ingrained politeness and muster a grimace of a smile. 

My oldest daughter had just thrown up in aisle two and now sat miserably inside the back of the shopping cart. The middle one was trying to escape the constraints of the seat, and the baby was currently strapped to my chest in a carrier, expressing his disdain for not being fed right that very second. The groceries that I couldn’t live without had been hastily paid for and stacked around the sick child. We were on our way out of the store and I was trying to hold back the tears of my disgrace. Who brings a sick child to the store? Why couldn’t I have planned ahead of time for once? Why do I even try?    

Her wrinkled, knobby hand slowly reaches into her worn leather purse and pulls out a quarter. She hands it to the child in the front seat and tells her to buy herself a piece of candy. I murmur a quick “thank you” and resume my frantic pace to the car. As soon as I’m out of sight I apologize to my daughter and snatch the quarter before she can shove it completely into her mouth. We load up the car and head to the familiar confines of home. 

 

Sometimes I’m so mentally and emotionally exhausted from keeping these three little souls alive that I just want to crawl under the covers and disappear. The crying and screaming and touching and begging is not what I pictured in my fantasy of mom life. It can be so hard to keep giving and giving and not be able to rest or replenish. I often grieve my life before children, when I could take a nap on a whim or sit and read a book in one sitting.

I can hardly imagine that anymore.

But you asked for this. The voice in my head likes to say. You can’t complain when you have what so many wish for. You’re not allowed to feel guilty or unhappy.

But I am. I respond to myself.

And it’s ok.  

    

I know they tell you to treasure these moments; that time goes by so quickly. Those wizened moms of old, with longing in their eyes and hearts that remember. I know they miss the times when their children were little and would give sloppy kisses and extra-long hugs. They remember when the children never wanted to be put down and idolized everything Mommy did.       

I won’t miss this. I tell myself. I can’t wait for this part to be over.

Right now, in the present, it is hard. It’s sacrificial and patience-testing and sleeplessness and vomit and mess and toys and tears. It’s lack of adult interaction and repeating instructions five-hundred times only to turn around and find the walls covered in permanent marker and a text from your husband saying he won’t be home on time after all. It’s wondering if your education was wasted because you made the choice to be home for the children instead of using your degree to earn an income. It’s stressful and frustrating and trying and it’s ok that I don’t like this moment.     

Did you hear me? It’s ok.

Someday I’ll be the elderly woman in the grocery store, watching the struggling mom as she corrals her children. I’ll remember how hard it was, how utterly exhausting and depleting that season was. Maybe I’ll remember how embarrassed I was for the mess we made, or how I just wanted to have some peace and quiet. A quarter might be all I have to give, to show her how much I really do remember how hard it was to make it through.  

When I’m on the other side, I’ll see past all the insecurities and failures that she notices and I’ll see a mom trying her best and giving her all. Someone who loves her children and her family more than herself, who’s willing to keep going even though it might be so, so hard. I’ll see a mom who is strong and brave. Someone her children look up to and trust. Someone who is shaping the future by pouring herself into her little ones, hoping and praying they grow up to make a difference.  

Despite the vomit and the chaos and the stress, they are beautiful.

That Time I Asked for a Puppy

 Note: This piece first appeared on Coffee and Crumbs on April 6, 2020

That Time I Asked for a Puppy

My family met a Pomeranian the other day, a small dog with pointed ears and the softest fur. My children pet her while the owner looked on in pride. I must admit, it was fluffy and cute and everything a young girl would want in a dog. My nine-year old daughter looked up at me with wide blue eyes: “When can we get a puppy?” 

I already know my answer.   

Photo by Berkay Gumustekin on Unsplash

*****

I asked for a puppy when I was eight. “Maybe when you’re ten,” my mother said. I assume she hoped my puppy-wanting phase would end by then. Raising three young children, with a husband who frequently deployed, committed to school and church and extracurriculars, she wouldn’t give in to my pleas. “A puppy is a lot of work,” she said. “Ten is a nice, round, responsible number. You’ll be older then.” Disappointed, I waited. 

I counted down the years. Then the months. Then the days. On my tenth birthday, I was ready for that puppy. I wrote a persuasive essay to explain to my mother why I should have said puppy. I spent hours on that essay, scripting sentences about responsibility and unconditional love.

“I’m done!” I yelled. Tentatively handing over my paper, I stood by the kitchen sink and watched her read it, unable to identify the expressions flitting across her face while my younger siblings raced and whooped around the room.     

“This is nice,” my mother said, her brows creasing. “But a puppy is just too much work. I don’t want another thing to take care of.” 

“But I can take care of it!” I argued. “I can take it for walks and give it food and water. I can clean up after it.”

“And who’s going to let it out when you’re not home? Who’s going to take it to the vet and buy food and take care of the bills?” Her answer wasn’t about me wanting a puppy at all, but about what she could handle. She knew her limits and had made her decision long ago. “But you said I could have a puppy when I was ten!” I argued back. She shook her head sadly at me.  “Why don’t you try something smaller?” she suggested, seeing my disappointment. “Something you can take care of on your own.” 

Later, I climbed into our brown Aerostar minivan, tingling with excitement. I knew where we were headed, but I wasn’t sure what I would come out with. Bells chimed as we entered the strip mall pet store, identifiable only by a simple sign above the door. The smell of cedar chips and disinfectant washed over us as we entered a dark room. A gigantic green iguana eyed us from atop a perch in the far corner.

We walked past the neatly stacked rows of pet food to the small animals in the back of the room. “Let me know if you need any help,” the store owner, a portly older man with wrinkled skin, called after us. We stopped at the clear aquarium cages in the back. My mother trailed behind me, observing the creatures around us, calculating how much care each would need.      

I came home with a tiny, pink hamster. 

My best friend came over to meet my new pet. Beaming with pride, I showed her the hamster I named Misty, asleep in her fresh pile of scraps in the metal cage on my desk. 

“Can I hold her? Please?” she begged. 

I gently pulled Misty out of the cage and stood up to pass her off. “You put one hand under and one hand over,” I demonstrated. Unfortunately, Misty was too wiggly in my friend’s hands and dived onto the hardwood floor below. There she lay, twitching, while I ran to get my mom. My friend, scared of what just happened and her part in hurting my pet, quickly ran back home.  

Blood pounded in my ears and tears sprang to my eyes. I scooped Misty up and placed her in a small cardboard box. “Well, I guess we can take her back,” my mother’s face furrowed. She hugged and held me while I cried, then drove me back to the pet store. 

The store owner tsked as I handed him Misty in her box, exchanging knowing glances with my mom. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of,” he told me. I walked out of the store with Misty II, an identical tiny, pink ball of hamster fluff. My mother didn’t mention the unfortunate Misty incident on the way home. She didn’t have to: I felt the weight of my own responsibility.    

A few weeks later, I came home from school and noticed the door to my room was open. In my haste to leave in the morning, I had forgotten to lock the cat out. Inside the hamster cage was a gruesome crime scene. 

“Mooommm!” I yelled. My mother walked to my bedroom and we both stared at a sticky mass of fur, wedged unnaturally against the side of the cage, the result of something relentlessly trying to pull it through the bars. Princess, our black and white tabby cat, innocently sat and licked her paws outside my bedroom door. I buried what was left of Misty II in our backyard and marked her grave with a wooden cross.   

My mother took me, yet again, to the pet store. Despite her objection to taking care of a pet, she was a comforting presence by my side while I found Misty III, another copy of the first. Misty III lasted a few years longer than her predecessors. Eventually, she grew lesions on her small body and passed away quietly. My mother provided another shoebox, and we buried Misty III in our backyard next to Misty II.  

*****

For Christmas, I purchase a blue Beta fish for my daughter. 

It lives in a small aquarium on her dresser. We make kissy-faces up close to him so that he swims toward us and flares his fins. My daughter is responsible for it, but I still check on it and remind her to feed him. Unfortunately, Flower Fishy is found floating at the top of his tank, not long after we get him. “Goodbye Flower Fishy,” my children wave while I flush him. I hug my daughter while we stare into the toilet.  

“Buttercup can stay in my room now,” my daughter says as she moves our cat’s litter box and food dishes into her room. “Sure,” I reply, watching her attempt to catch the cat hiding under my bed. I am secretly thrilled she wants to take on that responsibility, more than happy to pass off the task of scooping the litter box. 

*****

My mother’s life was busy, much like mine is now. I have three children, each with their own needs. I juggle appointments and calendars for different schools, commitments to church and writing groups and book clubs and a house and a marriage. I am learning my limits, being tested to see what I can handle, trying to do the best for my children while maintaining a delicate balance of responsibility and happiness. 

While she didn’t give me exactly what I wanted, she gave me what she could, trying her best and setting boundaries for herself. She didn’t want to care for a puppy because she was too busy caring for me, helping me navigate responsibility while growing up, trusting me to learn my own limits and figure out how to move on after a loss. She set an example that it was okay to say no, to find a middle ground without sacrificing oneself, and to let her children make mistakes and face disappointments without judgment. 

“When can we get a puppy?” my daughter asks. “Maybe when you’re ten,” I answer. But I understand now, running a household as a busy mom, why we might come home from the pet store with a hamster.