Is it being a mother or is it being me?

I have a funny “fifties” magnet on my refrigerator that tells it like it is: “It isn’t easy being me”.

I am more complex than I used to be. Common wisdom has it that we are a composite amalgamation of our ancestors.  Well, maybe.  I would say it’s the other way around.

My husband and each one of my children and grandchildren are now part of me.  In this tally I count their partners who are now my children.  If I’m not careful, what happens in any of their lives happens in me.

I have wake-up routine:  I lie for a time with my eyes closed, floating in the soft cushion of comfort that comes only when it is time to get up.   Knowing that the night is finished I greet the day with gratitude and thank “Louise” for my life, for my health and for my family. I try to hold myself in the stillness and form an intention for the day.  But each morning I realize that I have processed in the night.  My feelings are already waiting for me.

On some wonderful days I know that all is right with my world and those in it.  My thoughts billow in creative clouds.  My writing ideas scribble their way across my brain and I jump from bed energized by the necessity of getting to the keyboard before everything spills out into the morning without having captured it.  I long to communicate.

Some days I wake up with the list for the day already formed.  No soft entry is possible when my jaw is already tight with the stress of knowing that the list doesn’t fit within the hours available.  The necessities crowd out coffee on the front porch and the morning walk.   Writing is impossible for a mind so scattered that it can’t push the thoughts to the fingers in a rational flow.  Don’t even talk to me because I am busy, busy, busy.

And then there are the mornings when I wake with heaviness.  It is an unformed all-encompassing grey cloud that holds me to my pillow.  Someone or something in my circle of love is out of order: a word, a thought, or even a silence that should have been filled.  I am troubled.  And so I begin worrying the knot of thoughts that have snarled my day.  Who is depressed?  Who isn’t well? What did I say?  What did I not say?  Did someone have an argument?  What can I do that will help?

Although I recognize the arrogance of thinking it is all up to me…it is all up to me.  I am the mother.  I may be the cause.  I may know the cure.  No matter what, it is up to me to think it out, pray it out, talk it out or write it out.  But this is the stuff of busybodies, of interfering mothers, and overprotective grandmothers.

I am taking a deep breath.  I am dispelling the dark cloud.  It’s your life.  Just know that I am here.

xxoo

Comments

  1. I can’t help you answer this one because I’m a mother and I’m me, and I feel like this a lot. But I find that if I can even take the time to have an intention for the day before bounding out of bed to take care of a toddler screaming “MOMMY! MOMMY!” and his big brother telling him to pipe down, it’s always a better day than when I roll over and wish they would just go back to bed and LET ME SLEEP. But I’ll miss it one day, so I’m working on embracing all the moments and getting them all down on paper…

    Like

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