I've had a crazy morning. It was not bad, per se, just crazy. Loud. Even as I write this, Alex is standing in the living room screaming "ALL GOOOOOONE ALL GOOOOOONE!" because I took away her means of climbing into the baby's bed, where all she does is jump up and down and try to kill it. Oh wait, now she's on top of the changing table. One moment, please.
Ok. Where were we?
Crazy morning. It's usually in these moments that certain instances in my own childhood coming roaring to life from some part of my brain that I didn't know existed. The part that's gone all cob-webby and dusty, storing memories that are tapped into so rarely that it's not really worth it for that particular part to spend the energy cleaning house.
Mostly, these memories leave me in a state of nostalgia for the past, the ease of being a child, being the one that's not in control (or, not appearing to be in control). Not to say that I am not wholly and completely content in the life that I lead now; I am. I have a white-knuckled grip on my husband and my children that no amounts of barbie birthday cakes and awesome big wheelies from my past can loosen.
But today, it's not nostalgia that's beating at the doors of my head. It's appreciation. Granted, the memories I have of my own childhood are not from when I was one, or even two. But I see the same workings in my own children of the times when I looked to my parents for help, whether that be saving me from a mutt gone wild who was chasing me down the street, or to make my bagel just right, so it's kind of burnt, but not in an overpowering way, and the cream cheese is spread on juuuuuuuuust so. And now I look at these crazy little people that have taken over this house, and I see the needs that need to be met, and the food that needs to be made, and the boo-boo's that need to be kissed, and even the random dog that needs to be shooed away. Except now, I'm the big one. And for the most part, it's easy to do these things. Well, maybe easy isn't the right word. It's not an issue. Of course I would take care of them. I would die for them if need be. But there are certain little things in my day-to-day that are giving me a certain clarity when it comes to my relationship with my parents. Because I am not a perfect parent (and I am going to fall back on Original Sin and say that my parents weren't perfect either). There are times when I sit down with my breakfast and my coffee (which is usually lukewarm at best at this point), and even though the both have already eaten, the kids come crawling or running from whatever toy they were playing with and claw their way up onto my lap with their mouths hanging open, waiting for their share. And of course I share. Or I just get up and make a new piece of toast of whatever it is that I'm eating. But I don't want to. What I want is to just sit down for a little and have a warm (or cold) breakfast without little hands snatching it away right before I pop it into my mouth. Not perfect. Not entirely self-sacrificial. But out of the depths of my dusty brain, memories of me seeing my mother eat something, and then asking (without really expecting a no) for a bite, or a piece, or the whole thing. And she would give it to me (mom, if you are remembering times when you ran into the other room and locked the door and didn't share, don't the feel the need to tell me... I'm having an epiphany here!). Or she would set her breakfast/lunch/snack down and make me one too.
So, for those little things, I appreciate you, mom. Because now I understand that (ALEX DO NOT STEP ON THE DOG!) your brain doesn't rewire itself when you pop some kids out, and it's still just as hard not to have some time to yourself. Selfish tendencies don't just fly out the window and leave you be. They are still there, and you still need to continuously work, beating them back with a stick. So, thanks for that.
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