If there was ever any question that I am emotionally stunted, this morning laid all doubts to rest. For weeks after my daughter tied the knot, friends would ask how I was faring, how my mama heart was adjusting to the loss of one of my chicks. I would smile and assure them I was fine, that in my steely emotional fortitude, I hadn’t even cried on the day of the blessed event. Oh, I got all choked up and lumpy in my throat that day and I did almost lose it when they ran the gauntlet and drove away. But I managed to suck the tears back into my eyeballs and make it through just fine, thank you very much.
It took a full four months after the fact for the first tears to fall. I missed my baby. A few genteel tears fell like a soft spring mist one morning and that was that. So I thought.
I’m a serious procrastinator. Better to just come out and own it rather than make lame excuses, don’t you think? Many moons ago I promised my online friends some pictures of the blessed event of my daughter’s wedding. Today marks six months of wedded bliss for her and my new son, so I find it a fitting time to finally share some of the fun of that magical day.
When I became pregnant for the first time, having endured several months of fertility treatments, I was confident that I knew exactly what I was getting into. I’d read books and articles, I’d studied other parents in my sphere, and in my youthful arrogance I was sure I’d be the perfect mama.
Then, after birthing my daughter, reality walked up and b*#ch slapped me, knocking me flat on my smug posterior leaving my ego bruised and bloody. Dazed, I realized I didn’t know squat. This motherhood gig was HARD.
I swore at my son the other day. Well, not exactly at him, more at his disability and how much work it puts on me. Even as the words flew from my lips, I knew I should be horrified. Ashamed of myself. Instead, all I felt was a bone-deep weariness.
I’m tired. So, so tired.
I’ve been at this homeschooling gig for over 15 years now. Most of those years have been a struggle with varying degrees of language disabilities. It’s hard. My youngest two, who are not learning disabled, have been given the dregs of my time, attention, and enthusiasm.
At my daughter’s urging last night, we brought the box up from the basement. I hadn’t seen my wedding dress in over 21 years, so it was with an interesting mix of reluctance and anticipation that I tore off the sealing tape. The dress had been treated and painstakingly packaged to keep out the light and air that would damage the fabric with the passage of time. I had never opened it, knowing that one day it would be time, that this cherished token of the happiest day of my life, would be put to use again.
Breathing a barely perceptible sigh of relief, I saw the fabric was still as snowy white as it had been on that long ago day. Only the sequins were yellowed with age. They shimmered, golden in the festive Christmas lights. When moments later, my daughter entered, wearing the dress, her feet fairly floating across the room, I smiled. Seeing her there, swirling around, admiring the train, the lace, the bead work, I was acutely aware that this will be our last Christmas with this exquisite young woman. Her beau proposed on Thanksgiving day. Come this time next year, her primary role will be wife, rather than daughter.
Join us over at Me Too Moments For Moms for the rest of the story…
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew11:28-30, NIV)
When I was a kid, I always thought of eggs when I heard this passage. Easy yolks, just the way I liked them, which was a pretty cool thing for Jesus to talk about, though a bit mystifying. Later I was taught that the yoke here meant a y-o-k-e, like oxen wear, keeping them together, and that we are to be yoked with Jesus. Kind of a ‘Jesus take the wheel’ scenario. Now the principle of that teaching is true, but this past week I learned that the word yoke here has a totally different meaning.
‘Tis the month for counting blessings and, while I have numerous things I could share which I am grateful for, those of you who know me well know I can’t help but find meaning in the absurd. I’ve been off the grid for several weeks, working hard on other writing projects, but I can’t let the season pass without sharing one particular blessing.
I am thankful for bugs. (Notice I am not including arachnids in this profession of gratitude.) In fact, this past month I have learned much from my little friends. It began in early October when my cousin, who lives out in the toolies, (That is redneck speak for way out in the woods with few or no neighbors in sight.) had caught a praying mantis and texted me to ask if I wanted it. Being a town dweller, my opportunities to observe and enjoy this particular species is limited. I jumped at the chance, and was soon taking custody of a dandy male praying mantis, whom my cousin’s children had named Jackie Chan, likely due to his naturally awesome kung fu fighting stance.