Where Love Resides

Parenting is difficult, understatement of the century. My village here in Minnesota includes nurses, pharmacists, teachers, engineers, faith leaders, writers, lawyers, non profit gurus and more. Amazing, intelligent, charismatic and thoughtful women. And yet we sit around a table and grapple over these beings we created. Parenting is the toughest job any of us ever had. Every single soul is somewhat of a mystery to another, we can even remain a mystery to ourselves during certain seasons of our life. So how do we figure them out? How do we raise beautiful creatures during unprecedented times? During an era where technology begs to hurry them through adolescence, tempting with information they are not cognitively ready to absorb. 

I have no flipping idea. None. Oh I have mantras out the badoozle (not a word but works here). I have stashes of stickers and tiny cards, magnets and coffee cups, candles and special journals at the helm of my mothering. Having a rough day? Here read this quote, tear off your inspirational calendar pages until you find the pick me up. I love words, I have more than I need. Just ask my poor friends and family, sometimes I bet they think I don’t even breathe—I just talk. But the kiddos, so much of the time they don’t want our words, they just desire to be heard and seen. Don’t we all?

So yeah parenting. Whew. Kids going through this pandemic, entering stages of tweendom with too much junk at their fingertips are so savvy and might I say secretive. They grab your phone and in seconds are watching a dumb You Tube video. They are texting friends in groups of 3 or 13 with bizarre chat names and sending messages so cryptic the FBI couldn’t untangle or interpret.  

Stick to what you know is my only sage, sensible thing to share. My love language is different from that of every boy in our household. We’ve got an amalgam of needs in our chaotic corner of the cul de sac. Gestures of gift giving fill one cup, helping out with tasks lifts a few and several need lengthy cuddle time. I need my space and I admire creativity and purposeful kindness. You don’t need to cook me a meal, buy me jewelry or fold the laundry. Those things are appreciated but I just want my time. Was I always this way? Or did mothering become me? Did it take over and invade my individualism? So much that now all I crave is a break, a retreat to unfold and stretch back out to the girl still lingering and longing for release back into the wild.   

But you don’t truly get a break, ever really. You brought these humans into the world and it is your most important job to set them up for happiness and success. That’s all, no big deal—just all of that. Often it feels like I am crawling out of a mud pit, scratching and clawing my way to the surface. But every inch I progress I find a slippery spot, a divot or wedge too unsteady and uneven. And then I slump right back down into the pit. Nothing more to hold onto or brace myself. I figure out one boy for a moment and another one is drowning in nerves. I am acutely aware of my missteps, poor decisions, regretful punishments and feel inadequate for this job. But the toughest occupation of my life also brings the most joy. Not Pollyanna kind of joy, the real honey—the most succulent, delicious peach of all. 

You flounder, they fumble and yet you find yourselves choosing one another day after day. You belong together, the universe put your paths and souls in motion upon first breath. And in the tenderest moments it feels like an untouchable, impenetrable perfect cocoon is created, a waiting invitation with no deadline or expiration date. He reaches for your hair to soothe your wet eyes. He anticipates another’s needs and gently bows on his way to the cupboard. He takes all three on a glorious adventure, to their field of dreams. And you mama, you sit quietly stroking the softest puppy on earth—she feels like feathers and sunshine. You exhale and completely understand the place where love resides.