Tag Archives: kids

This Wonderful, Simple Day

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The day started
tensely
caught in my head
as I drove my children
down to the city
where the man who was once my husband
lives with the woman he left me for
After droping my kids off
I screamed some things in my car
that I won’t repeat here
in polite company.
I taught two lovely groups of yoga students,
came home, felt
exhausted.
Then a girlfriend invited us out
to spend the afternoon at the pool
with her and her kids.
I really didn’t want to go,
but I forced myself to.
And then…
I spent time with my friend,
watched our children playing,
ate food that was offered to me,
enjoyed the sun,
the perfect day.
Now I’m so tired
but so calm and happy.
And grateful for this wonderful,
simple day.

Nighttime Self-Pity

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I’m feeling crazy and tired.
Kids are whimpering,
arguing,
resisting going to bed.
There is a mountain of laundry
waiting on my bed,
beckoning me
in a way I don’t want to be beckoned.
And their dad
is at a yoga class.
I ask why
he didn’t want to go to yoga
until he wanted a divorce.
Maybe he’ll find
another yoga teacher
to marry.

Summer is Over

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Tomorrow is the first day of school
and although I’m not the one going
I have jitters anyway,
for my two kiddos who’ll face
new faces, new rooms, new names,
new structure—were they meant for this?
A part of me wants to keep them home
safe and sound with me
to play all day, soak in the sun,
splash in the stream,
run in the forest…
But another part goes
THANK GOD SUMMER IS OVER!

For Everyone’s Sake

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I was the one loudmouth parent
on the playground today,
the one asking the big kids
to be safe on the slides
so that the little kids
wouldn’t copy their dangerous moves.
I was the loudmouth
asking the ten year old girl
to stop throwing full bottles of water
at the playground equipment–
with a dozen other kids
playing close by, in range of her missiles.
I wondered why more adults weren’t
monitoring and stepping in…
I thought about bystander apathy
and how they must reason “It’s not my kid.”
I was a big loudmouth stranger to those kids,
but I ended up playing frisbee with a couple of them…
maybe, even though I was a nuisance to them,
stepping in and diverting their daredevil plans,
maybe they nonetheless respected me in some way,
as the one adult who saw them
and asked them to be safe for everyone’s sake.

 

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P.S.  Do YOU tell other people’s kids how to act right when no one else is doing it?

Getting Better

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I’m almost better.  My husband was home today, so I was actually able to rest for a good part of the morning.  What a luxury, to lie in bed when normally I would be running around after a toddler, fixing lunch, doing laundry, picking up the piles of toys that are constantly strewn about in the wake of my four year old.  It was so nice to lie there and just be still, and wait for my body to feel better.  There was significant snowfall from the night before, and my daughter’s preschool was closed, so no one had to be anywhere else besides home.  As I lie in bed this morning, and as my husband did all the chasing and corralling that I normally do,  I noticed myself feeling perturbed by the level of noise achieved by my offspring, so I reached for some earplugs.  I rolled back over on my side, pulled the covers up to my nose, and reveled in the absolute deliciousness of stillness.   But what was that sound?  Yep, I could still hear the little buggers through the ear plugs.  Maybe the noise wasn’t gone completely, but it was significantly reduced.  Ahh, peace and quiet(ish).

All of the yoga studios were closed until 4pm due to the inclement weather.  The city studios reopened at 4pm; a lot of students live in walking distance and look forward to their yoga class, even if a foot of snow has fallen. I teach two classes in one of the city studios on Thursday nights, and was able to sub both classes out to a teacher willing to give prenatal and restorative yoga a try.  It took me a while to write out detailed sequences for both classes, and I was reminded of my days of elementary school teaching and the sub plans I would leave if I was sick and needed to take off work.  It was a relief to know that the classes were in good hands, that I could focus on healing, that I wouldn’t have to venture out driving into the Baltimore winter wonderland (our street had seen nary a plow all day).

There’s more snow falling now, and my husband seems to be coming down with the flu I had the last few days.  Tomorrow I might have three children to take care of instead of just two.  Remember my post about the chicken soup?  If I’m given the chance to relive that scenario, maybe I’ll have a better attitude from the get go.  Maybe.

I’m still working on feeling better.  Sickness reminds me how grateful I am for health.  This sickness brought me the gift of a yoga student friend who showed up in my darkest hour and relieved me of my responsibilities for a window of time, so that I could focus on feeling better…or at least just be still for a while.  What a generous offering.  I continue to be so deeply touched by her gesture, the proof that I am not alone, evidence that someone cares.

My body is tired from fighting this illness, and my mind is tired from this day. I was back to being my mom self by noon; lunch needed to be made and the hubby was shoveling the foot of wet, heavy snow off of our sidewalk and putting considerable effort into digging out the cars.  I was back to the laundry and chasing the boy child around, helping the four year old out of her pee pants for the fourth time today–you know, the usual mom stuff.

I’m glad I had twenty-one hours to recuperate.  Twenty-one whole hours! I wonder what it would be like to have a full day off–but beggars, as they say, can’t be choosers.

I’ll be back to feeling like myself soon.  Night night.

 

Before I Get Too Tired

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It is 1:35pm, and I just got the kids in their rooms for “nap”– in quotes because napping isn’t really happening these days. It ends up being the kids playing by themselves in their rooms for an hour or two while I have one blessed moment to myself. A lot of the time I end up lying down and trying to catch some shut-eye, knowing that at any moment my daughter may interrupt my attempts to rest with breaking news of her latest toilet accomplishments.  And then there’s the ceaseless chatter issuing from her bedroom. Her stuffed animals have been very noisy lately. They have involved, often heated, conversations with each other, and they have little regard for my profound need to rest. I’ve stopped fighting. I don’t tell the stuffed animals to be quiet. I just let them have their conversations and try to sleep in spite of the noise.

I find myself typing here, trying to get my post of the day over with, so that I won’t have to worry about it later when I’m so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. There is resistance in me to what I’m attempting to do here, and it’s strong, and loud, and intimidating. It pushes against me, tells me sleep is better than this baloney I’m smearing across the screen. It again says, “Why bother?”

Well, because I can. And, because I want to. 

I talked yesterday about the anchor of procrastination and the inner critic monster that accompany me whenever I attempt to write, and how heavy they are.  Today I have a different vision– of my creative self sobbing silently, sitting on the floor of a dungeon, back up against the cold stone wall, arms wrapped around knees, body curled in a little ball, head hung low. Creative self has been here a long time. It has nearly given up hope of ever seeing the light of day.

But lo, a candle flame appears at the end of the dank, dark hallway, and the someone carrying a candle is also carrying a key. Slow steps toward the prison door. Waiting, waiting. The face of the candle-bearer is cloaked in shadow–such a mystery–who has come to deliver this tired self from this awful place? The key turns softly in the lock, the door groans open on rusty hinges, a hand is extended to the prisoner who has waited so long.
Can my creative self get up and walk again, after so many moons of feeling bent and broken? At the moment of release, will the prison spring up again, so much bigger and deeper and darker than before? Trying to stand now, trying to take a step forward, learning to walk again, to leave this lonely place. Silently, the candle-bearer waits until the prisoner finds her legs and takes a few wobbly steps toward the door.

 

Many stair steps lead up to the light…each step takes great effort and the prisoner is feeling weak from hunger. She follows the candle flame, which appears dim and vulnerable in the encroaching blackness. One foot after the other, one by one by one…some day, some day I will be free.

Every time I show up to write a post, I reclaim a little bit more of the creative self that has been wasting away in my dungeon of procrastination, fear, and hopelessness.  I may find myself back in the dungeon after a brief moment out in the fresh air, but even so, the next time I may not wait so long to summon the one with the key, whoever that someone is.
Hmmm, who is this candle-bearer, and who is the despot that imprisoned me?