Skip to main content

Stirred not Shaken

"We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do."  Herman Melville

 

"Find things that stir you. Open yourself. Get stirred."  Margaret Miller-Finch

Take that anyway you want. Sounds like it could be sort of fun.   

 

When the children were new and small and wondrous, before their brilliance burned me blind, I was happy.


Well, perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic. That's the only sort of waxing I do, neither legs nor floors, only nostalgia.

Thinking back on the blur of early motherhood,  an image of myself  flickers before my eyes. Linda Blaire and Mother Theresa in one body, looming there in the shadows. Lurking, menacing, yet humble and loving. 

 

One moment lovingly bathing the child with lavender scented bubbles and warm water, patiently dressing and diapering the child, gently rocking him to sleep, tucking the sleeping babe in his cozy crib.

 

The next, smashing and stomping and kicking apart the wooden rocking chair in the living room, until all I had left was a pile of kindling wood, a badly bruised heel, and several splinters.  

 

I guess the months of sleepless nights, inadequate nutrition, and the constant cling and suck of a 15 lb 3 month old on my boob sort of got to me. 

I murdered a chair in cold wood. I admit it but I am not a complete monster. The chair had it coming.

 

My husband worked nights and when he finally came home from work in the wee hours of the morning, he asked, "Hey, uh...where's the rocking chair?" 

I recall saying something like, "Rocking chair? What rocking chair. We don't own a rocking chair. I don't know what you're talking about. Oh, by the way, watch out for that pile of sticks in the living room."

The memory of my crazed outburst does take the sheen off of my newly waxed nostalgia. 

I was going to say that motherhood stirs me. I was going to say that  being a mother was enough.

Sometimes parenthood is profound.  Spiritual, perfect. Moments of pure love. Pure joy, so beautiful you want to press it and keep it holy.

Then there is the routine, the mind numbing monotony, the mundane reality as you hoist the wet sheets from the washer to the dryer and approach the sink and prepare to wash the 3rd round of dishes for the day, sweep the floor, take out the trash. 

We should not lose sight of the possibility of grace every day and yet we should not hang our every joy and happiness on our children.  

That's too much pressure for a kid and you're cheating yourself.

You deserve to be an autonomous person. Not defined by any other person, no matter how cute he is after a bath. 

As parents we need to make reasonable sacrifices for our children.

By the same token we can't sacrifice everything.

We need to teach our kids that it is important for them to explore the world and find the things they feel they were meant to do, find the things that enliven them and make them happy.


The only way to teach this is by example.


It's not selfish to want to be happy.


Pursue your dreams.

Get stirred.  

 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Just don't call me Late to Dinner

A friend recently asked if I was ever called Maggie or if I'd always been a Margaret. That got me thinking about my name. I hate my name.  Hate it. I have never liked my name. It seems fine to call other people Margaret. It sounds agreeable enough when I say hello to another Margaret. "Hello, Margaret!" I might say. And the name doesn't offend me. It doesn't make me recoil or wretch. It's just a name. And a fine name at that. But it's not for me. I don't feel like a Margaret. It doesn't fit me well.  Hangs off me all funny and weird. Can't ever seem to wear it comfortably. I don't like to be called by name. Frankly, it makes me feel sort of sick.  When I was a chubby 3rd grader I decided I wanted to go by a nickname.   Peggy. I wrote it in my clumsy curly cursive on the front inside cover of my books.   I said it out loud to myself in the mirror. Peggy. Peggy! I liked it. First of all Peg...

possible blog material

possible blog posts for blogtober: 15 things you don't know about my left nut: 1. I don't have a left nut 2.  I do not even have a right nut As I can only get to #2, this idea needs fleshing out before I commit to it. Hahaha...fleshing out.  some things you don't know about my cat 1. I have a cat 2. she's a cat  3. she does cat things 4. she shits in a box   15 things I want to change about myself 1. fuck this shit 2. seriously 3. back off 4. you do not want to go down this path 5. really One billion (maybe this is too ambitious) observations made while sitting on the toilet  1. someone should really mop the floor  2. I need to get some new reading material in here,   3. I think the new Oprah magazine was in yesterday's mail  4. there are only so many times you can read about living your best life while sitting on the shitter  5. reading recipes while using the bathroom is sort of we...

Thinking about my son, jail, near death experiences, and hoping for the future

It's disconcerting when your 9 year old son asks if there are any jails in town that he could tour. My first thought, naturally enough, was that my son was planning a life of crime and wanted to see where he'd be spending 5-8 years of his life. But then I took comfort in the realization that my son is a dear darling boy who absolutely can not think past this moment. THIS moment. THIS MOMENT. He is the boy who tried to pick up fire, the boy who tried to put the knife in the toaster, the boy who ate his entire chocolate Advent calender in one sitting, never contemplating for a second what would happen next. The look of surprise and hurt after the touching fire thing was heart breaking. He was utterly disconsolate on December 2nd when he found he had no more candy and would have to watch his sister eat her stale misshapen chocolate stockings, stars, and bells, one each morning, for 24 days, in front of his very eyes. He was completely dumbfounded not not just a lit...