We were drowning in twins plus Doug. It sounded like the name of a new family reality TV show, but I laughed when my friend described one of her first vacations when she and her husband had to juggle the toddler boys and her older stepson without any help on a city bus. The mental picture made me laugh, but really only out of recognition. My version lately is that I'm drowning in late summer bedtimes (of my three-year old) and teething troubles (the baby, of course). I'm gasping for air and desperate for someone to throw me an arm floatee or something these days.
I guess we're all drowning in our own pools of sleep deprivation, or anxiety, or hopelessness, or ....whatever.... at times.
I touch base briefly when another friend, a mother of a three-year old friend of my little girl's this afternoon. We are living in different places now, with different challenges, but instantly we are able to connect at the heart of the matter for us both: life has become a sacrifice. Words are coming out that I didn't plan, but I do recognize the truth that they hold. I'm telling her that I have to be thankful for my beautiful family, my healthy kids, the joy that they all bring. When I lose hold of that I fall into a hole of self-pity and forget the amazing blessings that I have. Life is a sacrifice, so many times. I recognize it and then demand my own way again in the next breath. It's like that verse of looking in a mirror, and then instantly forgetting what you've seen.
I forget. I forget. I dive into my pool of self-pity and then I'm gasping again and again for air.
I just had a birthday last week. I am now the age that it is believed that Jesus was when he died, 33. I've heard other people say this before, but now it's my own reality and I am shocked. Sacrifice. My savior paid the ultimate sacrifice in willingly ending his life to ensure a spot for me in heaven. A thought comes into my mind that this sacrifice that I make each day for these precious children is how he is teaching me to be like him. I marvel, because the thought does not come from me. I know he is placing it on my heart, and I am humbled. My sacrifice--lost sleep, frustration that I cannot always do what I want or even need exactly when I want to--well, it sounds like a child throwing a selfish tantrum as I think about the sacrifice of life offered to me in the form of loss of life, and so much suffering, by him.
Thank you, Jesus, for showing me again that it's not all about my drowning. And for gently reminding me of what the sacrifice is all about, which is in learning to be a little more like you. In comparison my suffering is so miniscule that I glimpse again into the nature how deep and how wide is your love.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Emanuel's Teacher
There is a picture of me in a classroom, surrounded by bright and smiling children's faces. One boy has a plastic fireman's hat on and is clutching a stuffed lion. A girl with a ponytail and dark, straight bangs that fall in her eyes a bit sits beside him, smiling shyly. A small, mischevious boy named Arturo stils in my lap with a rather sarcastic smile, squeezing in next to a classmate who looks bemused and is clutching a bag to her chest. One boy stands behind where the jackets are hanging. He has a drawing of a dog displayed proudly in his mouth, but he is not misbehaving, only showing off his work to the camara. Emanuel sits at a bit of distance from the rest, but close enough to me that he is able to hold my hand. His expression is pensive; his glance displaying emotion that seems way beyond his years. He is four years old. His fingers are interlaced with mine, his teacher.
I taught them English that year, at least that was my job title. I was the English teacher of two groups of preschool children at an American school in Mexico. The only credentials that I brought with me were a bacherlor's degree in Psychology (and Spanish, not English; and especially not Pedagogy) and my native language. I spent weeks and weeks trying to stumble my way through lesson plans and classroom discipline, two areas I knew virtually nothing about, in a language that did not get my pupils' attention when I most needed it. I relied on my assistant, Sharon, to lay down the law and the routine of our shared classroom. If it had not been for Sharon, I would have packed my bags at the end of Week 1 and never turned back.
These were the privledged children of the community. There were sons and daughters of political figures and professional soccer players, and they were all entrusted to me for their early instruction and foundation in the English language. Now that I have a preschool-aged daughter myself, I marvel at the responsibility I had in my hands. If any of those parents had a clue of how unprepared and unschooled I was for the position, what would they have thought?
In pretty much all ways--except for speaking English with a perfect accent--I have always felt that I failed as a teacher that year. I met my future husband, who was a P.E. teacher at the same school that year and confessed as much to him that last week of school while filling out my student "evaluations".
Yet, as I look back at my 22-year old self, putting on a cheerful front for the camara in that picture, my heart aches.
For Emanuel. I remember his simple trust in me, his teacher; his overt signs of love and affection. He could have been reprimanded (for the upteenth time) for small acts of agression against a classmate, or for not listening, again, to instructions to get in line or sit down and work. In fact, he was one of my most undisciplined students. Yet, paradoxically I loved him the most. He could be unabashed in his antics, but he was also uninhibited in his love. Why did he choose me to love? Why not his Spanish teacher, who he spent the other half day with? Didn't he see how unfit I was to be his teacher?
It didn't matter to Emanuel. He loved me just the same, and I, unashamedly, favored him right back. Today Emanuel would be turning 15. Might he possibly remember his preschool English teacher?
I am still a teacher, and now also a parent. My Angelica loved her first teachers--Miss Natalie and Miss June very much this past school year. That love set her up for a trust in the institution, a love of school and of learning. If Emanuel felt that with me, then I am astonished.
Looking at that picture tonight, it occurs to me that perhaps I didn't fail that year after all.
I taught them English that year, at least that was my job title. I was the English teacher of two groups of preschool children at an American school in Mexico. The only credentials that I brought with me were a bacherlor's degree in Psychology (and Spanish, not English; and especially not Pedagogy) and my native language. I spent weeks and weeks trying to stumble my way through lesson plans and classroom discipline, two areas I knew virtually nothing about, in a language that did not get my pupils' attention when I most needed it. I relied on my assistant, Sharon, to lay down the law and the routine of our shared classroom. If it had not been for Sharon, I would have packed my bags at the end of Week 1 and never turned back.
These were the privledged children of the community. There were sons and daughters of political figures and professional soccer players, and they were all entrusted to me for their early instruction and foundation in the English language. Now that I have a preschool-aged daughter myself, I marvel at the responsibility I had in my hands. If any of those parents had a clue of how unprepared and unschooled I was for the position, what would they have thought?
In pretty much all ways--except for speaking English with a perfect accent--I have always felt that I failed as a teacher that year. I met my future husband, who was a P.E. teacher at the same school that year and confessed as much to him that last week of school while filling out my student "evaluations".
Yet, as I look back at my 22-year old self, putting on a cheerful front for the camara in that picture, my heart aches.
For Emanuel. I remember his simple trust in me, his teacher; his overt signs of love and affection. He could have been reprimanded (for the upteenth time) for small acts of agression against a classmate, or for not listening, again, to instructions to get in line or sit down and work. In fact, he was one of my most undisciplined students. Yet, paradoxically I loved him the most. He could be unabashed in his antics, but he was also uninhibited in his love. Why did he choose me to love? Why not his Spanish teacher, who he spent the other half day with? Didn't he see how unfit I was to be his teacher?
It didn't matter to Emanuel. He loved me just the same, and I, unashamedly, favored him right back. Today Emanuel would be turning 15. Might he possibly remember his preschool English teacher?
I am still a teacher, and now also a parent. My Angelica loved her first teachers--Miss Natalie and Miss June very much this past school year. That love set her up for a trust in the institution, a love of school and of learning. If Emanuel felt that with me, then I am astonished.
Looking at that picture tonight, it occurs to me that perhaps I didn't fail that year after all.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Between yours and mine
I live between your needs and mine. Your needs are limitless and intense and always. I, ever the introvert, cannot step away from them and clear my head at times. This is why I believe that I can feel so low. I am not myself in those moments, not the loving, nurturing mother that I want to be and create an image in my head that I should be. I love you both so much, but I hurt and I despair in those moments because I can't pull myself together and be me for you. I see people walking around so incredibly normal when I do get away to step into work mode. All of these students walking around on campus, consumed with their lives. Talking on cell phones, buying a coffee, talking loudly about school assignments or work or their social lives. Everything seems so normal. But I don't feel normal in that environment. I wonder if the fact that I brushed my teeth and hair in a matter or seconds and put eye shadow in the car, just to arrive breathless minutes before teaching my class each afternoon is written all over my face. Not really a true transition between all day long at the park, or at the library or at home with you both to becoming The Teacher in the afternoon, but it has to do. This is how we do it, Mommy during the day and Daddy "at night". We do it for you. Sometimes I feel that this is the hardest thing I've ever done, and I'm not even truly sure what "this" is. Is it staying home with you? Is it leaving you in the afternoons when I really want all of us to spend our evenings together? Is it the grading, and preparing and "extras" of teaching that I must fit in here and there? What is so hard, after all? I love you and I wouldn't have it any other way because I get to be with you, and even in those few hours each day that I'm not, I rest easily in the fact that the person who takes my place is just as special and important to you as I am. He's your daddy and he loves to be with you. What could be better? I am between your needs and mine. There are unresolved passions and desires in my heart of hearts to pursue. I wrestle with my ego. I want to live for me, like those (God love them) blisslessly unaware 20-somethings I see each afternoon. I want to be them somedays. I remember my own days of free-spirited travel and living to follow my dreams. I wonder, am I content to just be who I am where I am? Some days I am, and I rejoice. I am at peace, and I rest in between in that tiny sweet spot between your needs and mine. You give me great joy and I love you so much. I am completely surrendered this time and space in my life, and I realize that you are the pearl of greatest price. I must not break it, I must do whatever it takes to perserve its immense value and worth but just being there for you, moment by moment. I need to just keep moving and do the next thing, even as my back is hurting and my hair needs done and could I just get an uninterrupted shower for crying out loud? I do need to go to work this afternoon....and really, do you have to get me up at night because of a bad dream or a late-night feeding again? And every night? And then, I'd like a weekend for myself, and maybe a month to travel, and on and on it goes. My mind just follows that well-traveled path over and over and over again. The hard part is just that--putting aside my needs when yours are greater. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I feel so incredibly angry, and sometimes I feel like I'm going to break. But I never quite do. Someone greater than me is lifting me up and carrying me through, even though I only seem to notice in retrospect. That's why I'm still here, living between your needs and mine. Every day.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
An Ode to Adrian
I am hushed over the computer with my eyes practially bugging out--miracle of miracles-- both my newborn and toddler are actually asleep at the same time! So here is my opportunity to put some thoughts together, which has not been an easy thing to do since Baby Adrian was born six weeks ago.
Baby Adrian. My snuggle puppy (yep, that's a Sandra Boyton title) and my unexpected little boy. I was quite vocal during my pregnancy about wanting another girl and when asked about the possibility of she being a HE--since we chose not to find out at the ultrasound--I would crinkle up my nose and sigh. "I have no idea what to do with a boy" followed by a slight shudder. The other person might smile and say wisely "The same thing you would do with a girl" but I wasn't really listening. I was convinced I was a Girl Only Mommy.
With that last momentous push with all of my heart, soul and being, I heard the doctor say triumphantly "It's a boy!" and that was that. I knew it! I thought. For as much as I had resisted, by the end of my pregnancy I found myself referring to "it" as "he" and wondering why my belly was hanging so dang low--so different than my first pregnancy with Angelica. My subconscious had been warning me, trying to get me ready ahead of time. My baby was then whisked away to be cleaned and checked, and I just sat back in the bed, without much urgency to get right in there. Finally my husband walked over to sneak a peek. "What's he look like?" I asked tentatively. "He....has big, big eyes" (A little later in the recovery room we would laugh and say that the baby was a slightly feito, a "little" ugly in Spanish, but luckily I now chalk up that observation to the fact that he was still pretty squished and spotty from being born). Big eyes? I was curious. "Bring him over, I want to hold him." He was then placed on my chest and I was checking him out. He really looked like a he, no doubt about that, smack dab in his facial features. But there was still something endearing about him...
And that was the beginning of this love story.
A love story that took a few days to figure out the perfect name. We came to the hospital without one, and the options we pulled out of our "just in case" file weren't working. Alan? Nope. Elian? (Nope, that one was out when I tried it out on the delivery room nurse who pronounced it as "Alien"). Julian? The nurse wheeling me to the recovery room raved about how much she liked it, but still something didn't feel right. Then I remembered "Adrian". And my heart skipped a beat--he looked like an "Adrian". I then remembered my mom's comment to that name when I tried it out during pregnancy: "Aren't there more girl Adriennes?" and recalled that that had been why I had thrown out the idea at the time.
Skip ahead to the next day at the hospital. One of the pediatricians on-staff at the hospital walks in cheerfully and introduces herself and her assistant, Adrian. Adrian??? I can't see the other person yet. Is it a he Adrian or a she Adrienne? A tall and handsome he Adrian walks briskly behind the doctor. I smile. "Your name is Adrian? Do you like your name?" He replies that yes, in fact he does and always has. And then laughs about the Rocky association: "Adrieeeennnnne" (which does not deter me). I consider this my sign. I tell my husband. We agree on Emilio as a middle name, in honor of Rufino's paternal grandfather.
He has a name, and my heart opens even more to him. The days and nights pass slowly. He cries so much. He sleeps all day and we barely see his open eyes when it's not 12:30 AM. or 3:00. Or 5:30. I cry with sleep deprviation. My patience goes south with my sweet Angelica, and I feel torn in two different directions with two sets of Very Big Needs of my children. He wakes up and needs to be fed; she wakes up and needs my attention. Shortly afterward, he starts to fuss and then all out cry without consolation because he's tired. She watches me try to soothe him and then promptly loses it. Theres only so much a two year old can take when her mommy is loving on someone else. She melts down completely and demands to be held, crocodile tears streaming down her face. He screams, she screams. (We all scream--me inwardly--but not for ice cream). Eventually the storm clouds pass and he's sound asleep and she's playing in the living room, singing to herself, but not soon enough. Then there are the nights when deep down I know that I don't really like him very much. I resent that he and I are the only two people awake, together, again. But then out of the blue he lets me sleep a little longer, maybe 3 hours in a row, and I wake up completely enamored with him. Head over heels. He smiles at me--finally-- and I feel the shift. I open up a little more, and let him in. Adrian. My boy, wonder of wonders. What will I ever do with you?
I will love you. Patiently will I wait to get to know you. I will try not to lose my way as we maneuver down this path together, even as day by day I may feel stretched to the limit and sometimes like I'm letting you down. I'm not holding you enough, or singing or talking to you enough because I'm tired or Angelica needs me or quite frankly, sometimes I'm just not sure what to say to you. That guilt does grip me fiercely at times, Adrian. I can't give you all of me all of the time, and that hurts. But I promise that I will still be here, imperfectly, trying to scoot along and meet your needs as best as I can as we slowly come to get to know each other more and more. I'll be here. For you. You can bet on that.
And you, baby boy, may teach me things I never would known had you been born a girl. God love you for that.
Epilogue: The doorbell rings. Angelica startles awake and yells from her room. Baby wakes up and cries. In one split second chaos returns, and my moment of sweet reflection is shattered...but alas, these thoughts have remarkably still been pulled together and recorded! YAY!!!!!!
Baby Adrian. My snuggle puppy (yep, that's a Sandra Boyton title) and my unexpected little boy. I was quite vocal during my pregnancy about wanting another girl and when asked about the possibility of she being a HE--since we chose not to find out at the ultrasound--I would crinkle up my nose and sigh. "I have no idea what to do with a boy" followed by a slight shudder. The other person might smile and say wisely "The same thing you would do with a girl" but I wasn't really listening. I was convinced I was a Girl Only Mommy.
With that last momentous push with all of my heart, soul and being, I heard the doctor say triumphantly "It's a boy!" and that was that. I knew it! I thought. For as much as I had resisted, by the end of my pregnancy I found myself referring to "it" as "he" and wondering why my belly was hanging so dang low--so different than my first pregnancy with Angelica. My subconscious had been warning me, trying to get me ready ahead of time. My baby was then whisked away to be cleaned and checked, and I just sat back in the bed, without much urgency to get right in there. Finally my husband walked over to sneak a peek. "What's he look like?" I asked tentatively. "He....has big, big eyes" (A little later in the recovery room we would laugh and say that the baby was a slightly feito, a "little" ugly in Spanish, but luckily I now chalk up that observation to the fact that he was still pretty squished and spotty from being born). Big eyes? I was curious. "Bring him over, I want to hold him." He was then placed on my chest and I was checking him out. He really looked like a he, no doubt about that, smack dab in his facial features. But there was still something endearing about him...
And that was the beginning of this love story.
A love story that took a few days to figure out the perfect name. We came to the hospital without one, and the options we pulled out of our "just in case" file weren't working. Alan? Nope. Elian? (Nope, that one was out when I tried it out on the delivery room nurse who pronounced it as "Alien"). Julian? The nurse wheeling me to the recovery room raved about how much she liked it, but still something didn't feel right. Then I remembered "Adrian". And my heart skipped a beat--he looked like an "Adrian". I then remembered my mom's comment to that name when I tried it out during pregnancy: "Aren't there more girl Adriennes?" and recalled that that had been why I had thrown out the idea at the time.
Skip ahead to the next day at the hospital. One of the pediatricians on-staff at the hospital walks in cheerfully and introduces herself and her assistant, Adrian. Adrian??? I can't see the other person yet. Is it a he Adrian or a she Adrienne? A tall and handsome he Adrian walks briskly behind the doctor. I smile. "Your name is Adrian? Do you like your name?" He replies that yes, in fact he does and always has. And then laughs about the Rocky association: "Adrieeeennnnne" (which does not deter me). I consider this my sign. I tell my husband. We agree on Emilio as a middle name, in honor of Rufino's paternal grandfather.
He has a name, and my heart opens even more to him. The days and nights pass slowly. He cries so much. He sleeps all day and we barely see his open eyes when it's not 12:30 AM. or 3:00. Or 5:30. I cry with sleep deprviation. My patience goes south with my sweet Angelica, and I feel torn in two different directions with two sets of Very Big Needs of my children. He wakes up and needs to be fed; she wakes up and needs my attention. Shortly afterward, he starts to fuss and then all out cry without consolation because he's tired. She watches me try to soothe him and then promptly loses it. Theres only so much a two year old can take when her mommy is loving on someone else. She melts down completely and demands to be held, crocodile tears streaming down her face. He screams, she screams. (We all scream--me inwardly--but not for ice cream). Eventually the storm clouds pass and he's sound asleep and she's playing in the living room, singing to herself, but not soon enough. Then there are the nights when deep down I know that I don't really like him very much. I resent that he and I are the only two people awake, together, again. But then out of the blue he lets me sleep a little longer, maybe 3 hours in a row, and I wake up completely enamored with him. Head over heels. He smiles at me--finally-- and I feel the shift. I open up a little more, and let him in. Adrian. My boy, wonder of wonders. What will I ever do with you?
I will love you. Patiently will I wait to get to know you. I will try not to lose my way as we maneuver down this path together, even as day by day I may feel stretched to the limit and sometimes like I'm letting you down. I'm not holding you enough, or singing or talking to you enough because I'm tired or Angelica needs me or quite frankly, sometimes I'm just not sure what to say to you. That guilt does grip me fiercely at times, Adrian. I can't give you all of me all of the time, and that hurts. But I promise that I will still be here, imperfectly, trying to scoot along and meet your needs as best as I can as we slowly come to get to know each other more and more. I'll be here. For you. You can bet on that.
And you, baby boy, may teach me things I never would known had you been born a girl. God love you for that.
Epilogue: The doorbell rings. Angelica startles awake and yells from her room. Baby wakes up and cries. In one split second chaos returns, and my moment of sweet reflection is shattered...but alas, these thoughts have remarkably still been pulled together and recorded! YAY!!!!!!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Waiting Game
I'm somewhere in the middle of two distinct realities. It's a strange place to be in: to know as surely as I know that night follows day, that life is about to change again from "before" to "after".
I knew this feeling when I was pregnant the first time. I knew that I'd draw a line in the sand and say this was the way it was. Back then. Before the baby arrived. And this is how it is now. That feeling is nothing new, except that I've somehow deceived myself into believing that since I've been through it once already, I somehow know the outcome this time as well.
Which is completely ridiculous. Life doesn't give you a plan book with details on circumstances with set outcomes, like a math formula or a verb conjugation (though I'd no doubt feel comfortable living life through those conjugations!) Life is best lived through faith and wonder, and I am clinging to both as I wait. There's nothing else that I can do. I tell everyone that I'm "in denial" about life after this pregnancy--even though in a previous post I chided pregnant women for not thinking past Labor Day to what life would be like with a newborn--I just can't seem to follow my own advice on this one. Guilty as charged. The only thing that seems real right now is where I am right now. I'm 38 + weeks pregnant with a nameless Baby #2 who is unidentified (to us!) by gender. I carry around this weight within me and feel all extremes between exhiliration to utter exhaustion. I feel a sweet sentimentality toward my precious Angelica, who at 2 1/2, is entering her final days as our Only Child. I want to stay in this in-between place just a little longer and savor the not knowing of what's to come.
I love hearing her proudly exclaim that she's going to be a big sister. And her laying her head on my belly to "listen" to the baby, or bringing her favorite musical stuffed dog to "sing"
to the baby. Or...the memory of us being in the middle of grocery shopping when she turned her gaze from my mid-section to my face, saying: "Mommy, your baby is getting really BIG!" They are precious moments to me.
Yet at the same time I continue to check every day off as one more day closer to Labor Day. And I can't quite keep my mind off of the subject for more than a minute at a time.
It's a strange place to be in, this hazy space between then and what's-not-quite-to-come. I know I will look back on it and say If I even had a clue of what this new reality would be like! But somehow I feel content in this place, sensing the change slowly coming in my own soul as this new life gets closer and closer to revealing itself to us and changing residence from my womb to my heart.
I knew this feeling when I was pregnant the first time. I knew that I'd draw a line in the sand and say this was the way it was. Back then. Before the baby arrived. And this is how it is now. That feeling is nothing new, except that I've somehow deceived myself into believing that since I've been through it once already, I somehow know the outcome this time as well.
Which is completely ridiculous. Life doesn't give you a plan book with details on circumstances with set outcomes, like a math formula or a verb conjugation (though I'd no doubt feel comfortable living life through those conjugations!) Life is best lived through faith and wonder, and I am clinging to both as I wait. There's nothing else that I can do. I tell everyone that I'm "in denial" about life after this pregnancy--even though in a previous post I chided pregnant women for not thinking past Labor Day to what life would be like with a newborn--I just can't seem to follow my own advice on this one. Guilty as charged. The only thing that seems real right now is where I am right now. I'm 38 + weeks pregnant with a nameless Baby #2 who is unidentified (to us!) by gender. I carry around this weight within me and feel all extremes between exhiliration to utter exhaustion. I feel a sweet sentimentality toward my precious Angelica, who at 2 1/2, is entering her final days as our Only Child. I want to stay in this in-between place just a little longer and savor the not knowing of what's to come.
I love hearing her proudly exclaim that she's going to be a big sister. And her laying her head on my belly to "listen" to the baby, or bringing her favorite musical stuffed dog to "sing"
to the baby. Or...the memory of us being in the middle of grocery shopping when she turned her gaze from my mid-section to my face, saying: "Mommy, your baby is getting really BIG!" They are precious moments to me.
Yet at the same time I continue to check every day off as one more day closer to Labor Day. And I can't quite keep my mind off of the subject for more than a minute at a time.
It's a strange place to be in, this hazy space between then and what's-not-quite-to-come. I know I will look back on it and say If I even had a clue of what this new reality would be like! But somehow I feel content in this place, sensing the change slowly coming in my own soul as this new life gets closer and closer to revealing itself to us and changing residence from my womb to my heart.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Why wait?
I am 100% part of Gen X, the generation of women who agonize over the "work/family" balance. We are sandwiched between two interesting generations. The ones that have gone before us--the baby boomers--were busy smashing down glass ceilings and proving their worth in the work place (sounds exhausting!). The ones that are coming of age now are being referred to as Generation Y or "the Millenium Generation". Apparantly, they are the confident ones who were brought up to 'question' everything. They won't be tied down to a job that is unfulfilling, and they see Gen X's preocupation with balance as superfluous. According to a USA Today article from back in 2005, Generation Y: They've arrived at work with a new attitude, they simply choose jobs with flexibility and seek out telecommuting options or working from home if children come on the scene.
Many of my peers have also sought such options. But I wonder if the difference between generation Y and X is that we Xers still have a tendency to feel a deeper sense of identity in our chosen work field and place of employment (apparantly the Yers feel that work is one of many facets of who they "are", not to be outdone by competing interests for their time: sports, organizations, hobbies, etc. Work will never be the isolated, main activity for them). We feel a loyalty to stay at the job, where it seems that the Yers are much more open to the idea that technology moves people around, and that can include changing jobs with relative frequency.
This all leads to the point of our angnst with "work/life balance". We were brought up to believe that we could have it all, that in fact we should go to college and pursue a career. At the same time we knew we wanted families, and just assumed they would fit in there sometime. Yet we scratched our heads in our twenties, wondering how the two were supposed to fit together in reasonable harmony? So we waited for kids. And a lot of us waited until our thirties to get started. And we still questioned ourselves constantly, wondering if we had made the right decisions. (It's amazing how many books you can find on this subject! I have a prominent one on my bookshelf, from my mid-twenties when I was already starting to think about such things called Mid-Life Crisis at 30 by Lia Macko and Kerri Rubin).
A little life experience can open a person up to just a tad bit of wisdom. After many years of waiting and wondering, I'm not in the thick of trying to live this "balance" thing. And what have I come away with? I now know that we can't and won't always "have it all" during life...that there are seasons for some things, and there are disappointments along the road, no matter the road chosen. Yet, as I've said before, there is also incredible joy to be found on the way, in places most unexpected. I still work, but I now have a different perspective and attitude. I now understand what the Y-ers seem to have intuited: work is good, work is fun, but it doesn't define who I am. It will never be the Main Thing. Priorities are now much more visible, from the meeting I walked out on half-way through because my 3-month old wouldn't take a bottle. I went home and nursed her, and that was that. I know that some colleages may look at me (one even said it) with a slight look of disdain--"You're pregnant AGAIN?!" but that's okay. Work is what I do; motherhood has had a huge part of stealing my heart.
Getting back to the generational thing. We still chose to wait before having kids. Here are some reasons:
1. It gave us time to settle down, eventually buy our condo, and know the natural rhythms of life together.
2. We traveled...a lot (although--always on the cheap!) We took trips to Italy, France, Canada, and Brazil, not to mention Mexico several times to visit my husband's family.
3. I got so much experience working that I started to get burned out, and realized that I wasn't cut out to be the type to put my energies into climbing up the latter. I was pretty "stagnant" (in terms of upward mobility) at the position where I was, and really, not all that upset about it.
4. I had "finished" a lot of things once Angelica did come a long. School, getting into the work routine, the marriage routine, etc. She didn't rock our world as much as she could have, had she shown up a few years before.
Yet, I can't help but wonder sometimes how things might have been different if we hadn't waited...so long. I'm now 32, and this pregnancy will most likely be my last. If I had started in my mid-twenties, would I now be pondering #3? Would I have had more physical stamina during pregnancies and the young baby-toddler years? My friend, who had #1 and #2 in her twenties, seeems to think so (for herself). She told me back then that she was so glad she had them when she did, so she could keep up with them physically. I know there's truth to that!
The point is, I can argue back and forth with myself about it in my head, or realize that honestly--when it all comes down to it--I don't really have the control I like to think I have in life. (Hence the disappointments and joyful surpises along the way). God gave us Angelica exactly when the time was right for her to be born; the same thing for Baby #2. I respect my generation for striving to be the best that we can be in all aspects all the time, but I also find peace in the knowledge that there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1)
Instead of trying to have it all, I think we Gen Xers can start to be content with giving it our all in each of life's seasons. Good enough.
Many of my peers have also sought such options. But I wonder if the difference between generation Y and X is that we Xers still have a tendency to feel a deeper sense of identity in our chosen work field and place of employment (apparantly the Yers feel that work is one of many facets of who they "are", not to be outdone by competing interests for their time: sports, organizations, hobbies, etc. Work will never be the isolated, main activity for them). We feel a loyalty to stay at the job, where it seems that the Yers are much more open to the idea that technology moves people around, and that can include changing jobs with relative frequency.
This all leads to the point of our angnst with "work/life balance". We were brought up to believe that we could have it all, that in fact we should go to college and pursue a career. At the same time we knew we wanted families, and just assumed they would fit in there sometime. Yet we scratched our heads in our twenties, wondering how the two were supposed to fit together in reasonable harmony? So we waited for kids. And a lot of us waited until our thirties to get started. And we still questioned ourselves constantly, wondering if we had made the right decisions. (It's amazing how many books you can find on this subject! I have a prominent one on my bookshelf, from my mid-twenties when I was already starting to think about such things called Mid-Life Crisis at 30 by Lia Macko and Kerri Rubin).
A little life experience can open a person up to just a tad bit of wisdom. After many years of waiting and wondering, I'm not in the thick of trying to live this "balance" thing. And what have I come away with? I now know that we can't and won't always "have it all" during life...that there are seasons for some things, and there are disappointments along the road, no matter the road chosen. Yet, as I've said before, there is also incredible joy to be found on the way, in places most unexpected. I still work, but I now have a different perspective and attitude. I now understand what the Y-ers seem to have intuited: work is good, work is fun, but it doesn't define who I am. It will never be the Main Thing. Priorities are now much more visible, from the meeting I walked out on half-way through because my 3-month old wouldn't take a bottle. I went home and nursed her, and that was that. I know that some colleages may look at me (one even said it) with a slight look of disdain--"You're pregnant AGAIN?!" but that's okay. Work is what I do; motherhood has had a huge part of stealing my heart.
Getting back to the generational thing. We still chose to wait before having kids. Here are some reasons:
1. It gave us time to settle down, eventually buy our condo, and know the natural rhythms of life together.
2. We traveled...a lot (although--always on the cheap!) We took trips to Italy, France, Canada, and Brazil, not to mention Mexico several times to visit my husband's family.
3. I got so much experience working that I started to get burned out, and realized that I wasn't cut out to be the type to put my energies into climbing up the latter. I was pretty "stagnant" (in terms of upward mobility) at the position where I was, and really, not all that upset about it.
4. I had "finished" a lot of things once Angelica did come a long. School, getting into the work routine, the marriage routine, etc. She didn't rock our world as much as she could have, had she shown up a few years before.
Yet, I can't help but wonder sometimes how things might have been different if we hadn't waited...so long. I'm now 32, and this pregnancy will most likely be my last. If I had started in my mid-twenties, would I now be pondering #3? Would I have had more physical stamina during pregnancies and the young baby-toddler years? My friend, who had #1 and #2 in her twenties, seeems to think so (for herself). She told me back then that she was so glad she had them when she did, so she could keep up with them physically. I know there's truth to that!
The point is, I can argue back and forth with myself about it in my head, or realize that honestly--when it all comes down to it--I don't really have the control I like to think I have in life. (Hence the disappointments and joyful surpises along the way). God gave us Angelica exactly when the time was right for her to be born; the same thing for Baby #2. I respect my generation for striving to be the best that we can be in all aspects all the time, but I also find peace in the knowledge that there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.
(Ecclesiastes 3:1)
Instead of trying to have it all, I think we Gen Xers can start to be content with giving it our all in each of life's seasons. Good enough.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Don't lose the forest for the [tall and view-blocking] trees
Lately I've been thinking about all of those times over the years when I've been told that these are the best years of your life! As far as I can remember, it started in high school, but when I heard it then I just wanted to puke. If those were my best years then life was some kind of cruel comedy-tradgedy in my book. I was shy, alone, and in my own head during most of high school. Were there good moments? Yeah, of course. They just generally happened far from those front doors. Then I heard it again during college. Of course during those years I was preocupied with getting transportation to be able to get around the small Texas towns I lived in, or writing papers, or dealing with boyfriend drama. But generally, I think I knew even then that those years were pretty special. I finally broke out of my shell, started my love of traveling, and just generally had a good time with some really good friends. College was good, but I wasn't satisfied. I was always looking ahead--where would I go next? What cool job would I get? Who would I marry and wouldn't it be awesome to finally live as a completely independent adult on my own?
I did graduate, travel, have an interesting job and go to grad school. And marry and start "adult life". The next time I heard that these are the best years of your life was after we had Angelica. Having young children at home was, in the opinion of those preaching, IT. (Ironically, those were also the people who didn't have young children at home anymore). One part of me screamed inwardly, "How can this be it? Do you have any idea of what I've given up for this? My life is a sacrifice for this little person, and every day from morning to night, she comes first. Not me. My dreams and plans are still there, but fuzzy and in the backlight of my daily reality. Do you understand that?"
And then I stumbled upon a blog last week based on an article from last summer out of New York Magazine, titled I love my children, I hate my life by Jennifer Senior. Tell that to the people preaching! I wouldn't go as far as to say I hate my life, but I have been tempted to hang poster-board sized "affirmations" in every room of my house and in my office at school with the message This Is Worth It on every one. Because day-to-day life is work. And I want to venture to say that it doesn't matter what balance of outside work, home life and children a mom carries--it is always a sacrifice and many days a struggle. And during those moments of frustration, our "best selves" get buried and we lose focus. The forest is lost for the trees (the kind that rise tall and don't leave room to see beyond them).
We (okay let me go back to the first person singular) I hash things out on my husband. I end it all with the statement "I feel like I'm always complaining". He replies: "You are always complaining" and quickly tries to turn it into a joke as my eyes widen and my jaw sets in them-are-fighting-words stance: "Well, I'm like your complaint department. That's what I'm here for". Really? Has it come to that? These are the best days of your life play again in my head and taunt me. I want to be better, do better at this. When did I turn my husband into my complaint department?
Deep down inside, I know that these really are the best days and I want to live them at my best. I think the best days are the ones you are totally present in, the ones you instinctively feel their precious value even when the trees are threatening to choke you all around. Angelica teaches me this over and over, day after day. When I am exhausted and cranky, distracted and dissatisfied, she pulls me back into the now. Sometimes she does it literally, pulling my face close to hers and staring intently with her big brown eyes into mine. She does it with an emotional intelligence that takes my breath away. One day recently after running some errands, I realized that we had left behind her favorite book and that I had no idea where it was. I was devestated because this was no ordinary book--she slept with it and took it everywhere with her. So I told her that mommy had made an oops, and I confessed, I shed a few tears (dang pregnancy hormones). She gave me that look of wisdom beyond her years and she asked "Mommy, are you sad?" As I blubbered and nodded, she calmly reached for a library book of the same series (which she had shown no previous interest in) and started leafing through it. She continued asking me if I was sad until I finally relented, realizing that she was teaching me something. She said "It's okay, Mommy" and never asked for the book after that (although I admit that I went and found a replacement the next week, as soon as I could, and it has returned to being one of her favorites again).
My two-year old felt empathy? I think she did. And that's just one example of why I live each day with its monotony of meal preparation or constant toy pick-up or running here-and-running there, and fitting work into it all with sparks of wonder. The sparks of wonder tell me that this really is IT. If I need to hang signs up all over my house and beyond as reminders when the trees get too tall, fine.
Isn't it an irony of life that the most difficult things are often what end up bringing the most joy? The sacrifices made, the plans deferred bring us to a new and more vibrant NOW that we never would have imagined of know had we stayed the course we once thought we had chosen. Well that's what has happened to me. I was the girl who said "Kids? Nah...not now..and not for a LONG time". I was never the one who dreamed of mommyhood as a young woman. Yet, here I am in the midst of balancing my life as mommy and wife and teacher and so on...and in spite of the madness of it all I find these brillant colors that only being a mommy can bring. And I want to hold on to these days because there are these moments that I never, ever want to forget. And to think, I could have missed out on all of this!
And of course, as we all know, these things that bring joy in spite of great sacrifice...well, they are never things.
I did graduate, travel, have an interesting job and go to grad school. And marry and start "adult life". The next time I heard that these are the best years of your life was after we had Angelica. Having young children at home was, in the opinion of those preaching, IT. (Ironically, those were also the people who didn't have young children at home anymore). One part of me screamed inwardly, "How can this be it? Do you have any idea of what I've given up for this? My life is a sacrifice for this little person, and every day from morning to night, she comes first. Not me. My dreams and plans are still there, but fuzzy and in the backlight of my daily reality. Do you understand that?"
And then I stumbled upon a blog last week based on an article from last summer out of New York Magazine, titled I love my children, I hate my life by Jennifer Senior. Tell that to the people preaching! I wouldn't go as far as to say I hate my life, but I have been tempted to hang poster-board sized "affirmations" in every room of my house and in my office at school with the message This Is Worth It on every one. Because day-to-day life is work. And I want to venture to say that it doesn't matter what balance of outside work, home life and children a mom carries--it is always a sacrifice and many days a struggle. And during those moments of frustration, our "best selves" get buried and we lose focus. The forest is lost for the trees (the kind that rise tall and don't leave room to see beyond them).
We (okay let me go back to the first person singular) I hash things out on my husband. I end it all with the statement "I feel like I'm always complaining". He replies: "You are always complaining" and quickly tries to turn it into a joke as my eyes widen and my jaw sets in them-are-fighting-words stance: "Well, I'm like your complaint department. That's what I'm here for". Really? Has it come to that? These are the best days of your life play again in my head and taunt me. I want to be better, do better at this. When did I turn my husband into my complaint department?
Deep down inside, I know that these really are the best days and I want to live them at my best. I think the best days are the ones you are totally present in, the ones you instinctively feel their precious value even when the trees are threatening to choke you all around. Angelica teaches me this over and over, day after day. When I am exhausted and cranky, distracted and dissatisfied, she pulls me back into the now. Sometimes she does it literally, pulling my face close to hers and staring intently with her big brown eyes into mine. She does it with an emotional intelligence that takes my breath away. One day recently after running some errands, I realized that we had left behind her favorite book and that I had no idea where it was. I was devestated because this was no ordinary book--she slept with it and took it everywhere with her. So I told her that mommy had made an oops, and I confessed, I shed a few tears (dang pregnancy hormones). She gave me that look of wisdom beyond her years and she asked "Mommy, are you sad?" As I blubbered and nodded, she calmly reached for a library book of the same series (which she had shown no previous interest in) and started leafing through it. She continued asking me if I was sad until I finally relented, realizing that she was teaching me something. She said "It's okay, Mommy" and never asked for the book after that (although I admit that I went and found a replacement the next week, as soon as I could, and it has returned to being one of her favorites again).
My two-year old felt empathy? I think she did. And that's just one example of why I live each day with its monotony of meal preparation or constant toy pick-up or running here-and-running there, and fitting work into it all with sparks of wonder. The sparks of wonder tell me that this really is IT. If I need to hang signs up all over my house and beyond as reminders when the trees get too tall, fine.
Isn't it an irony of life that the most difficult things are often what end up bringing the most joy? The sacrifices made, the plans deferred bring us to a new and more vibrant NOW that we never would have imagined of know had we stayed the course we once thought we had chosen. Well that's what has happened to me. I was the girl who said "Kids? Nah...not now..and not for a LONG time". I was never the one who dreamed of mommyhood as a young woman. Yet, here I am in the midst of balancing my life as mommy and wife and teacher and so on...and in spite of the madness of it all I find these brillant colors that only being a mommy can bring. And I want to hold on to these days because there are these moments that I never, ever want to forget. And to think, I could have missed out on all of this!
And of course, as we all know, these things that bring joy in spite of great sacrifice...well, they are never things.
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