On Being a Mom/Mother/Mama/Nana/Grandma/Grandmother-The List Goes On

Billy and me in front of Old College, Aberystwyth

Recently the daughter of a friend blogged about being tired as a mother, sometimes filled with self-doubt, aggravation, and running from hugs one minute to time out the next with her small brood of four, not so small when one considers that for most of the waking day it's a four-to-one ratio.  She went on to add that it was a burden to young struggling moms to have older women return their complaints of exhaustion or frustration with the cherry and oft-spoken, "You'll miss this time when it'is gone."  Though well meaning, and I've said it myself, I could suddenly and totally see her point.  When one is battling for sanity in a sea that threatens to drown, one needs a life preserver and a word of encouragement not a reminder that it is an opportunity for a character building experience. It set me to thinking about my own child-rearing days.  I wrote her a response.

The good news is that all the tough, hard, or they vomited in their bed, you cleaned up, then they vomited in your bed episodes, the times-out, the I-would-pay-cash-money-for-8-hours-of-straight-undisturbed-sleep, and the feelings of helplessness, incompetence, and exasperation become somehow quite funny when retold over holiday tables. Trust me, it becomes hilarious; but at the time it is happening, it is just 'hard work.' Stay the course and know that the Grandma's of the world survived and so will you.

The not so great news is that you'll never stop being a mother, even after they're launched. You become cheerleader, sometimes confidant, therapist, and sometimes "mom-on-a-shelf," who is taken down when needed. But this confusing time is beautiful too. Just when you know how to be a mama, you have to learn how to be a mom/mother to adults that you can't scoop up and put in time out. The frustrations and feelings of inadequacy are equal but different and sometimes you want to scream into a pillow or put your head in an oven (not really, well kinda sorta), but you love over and above, in between, and forever. 

It's this love that is the constant through the confusing stages of life. So hang in there, lovely girl. Take naps with the kids when you can. Be kind to yourself because you are a brilliant mom and just exactly made to order for your little brood. Laugh out loud. Dance. Allow yourself to be human. Motherhood will drive you to your knees, to tears, and to the heights of testimony. It's all part of of an amazing journey. 

Blessings on you from a survivor!

Which then brought me to my time in Wales, away from hugs and kisses and relegated to Skype, email, Facebook, and the occasional letter.  There's nothing quite like a handwritten letter, but I digress...

Our oldest son, Billy. found himself in London recently and generously planned an extra day to visit his mom.  That's me smiling in the top photo.  "I've got a car," he emailed.  "Looks to be about 2 hours from London as the crow flies.  How far is it?"

Well, for one we have rooks in Wales.  They are noisy but had little if anything to do with road design.  The north/south roads were made by the Romans when they invaded Briton years ago.  They have multi-lanes and are fast.  Unfortunately the east/west roads were made by the early Druids, who were either following cattle or sheep, or were so deep in their own thoughts that they went round in the most imaginative curvilinear paths that it is nearly a seven hour drive from London to Aberystwyth, longer if you stop for a picture or a break.

After some checking, I found that there is a "fast" train from London to Birmingham that takes only an hour and another that travels from Birmingham to Aberystwyth that takes only three... so that's four hours each way.  (I didn't know that Euston Station was an hour away from his London based hotel. 

Billy's a good sport, a very good sport.  At 18 months old he gathered toys for the other children in nursery and passed them out.  He grew to be a great big brother... we talk a lot about his big-brotherhood over holiday tables... I now understand much better what all the upstairs noise was after I so lovingly and tenderly put them all to bed and collapsed in a wilted heap on the living room sofa near my husband.  In my case there was an 8:1 ratio for the bulk of our daylight hours.

But back to my post, these are not photoshopped pictures.  They are real.  Billy came to Aberystwyth in spite of the inconvenience and added travel time to his already busy schedule. We shared castle ruins, college campus, St. Michael's cathedral, Old College, a double ice-cream to celebrate his birthday that had just passed and the occasional sit-down to just talk.  We walked the Prom and viewed the Irish Sea from the end of the Royal Pier.  We ate at Wetherspoon's where he ate Dragon sagsage, visited the Ceredigion Museum, and, of course, stopped at the Sweetie's shop to send home British treats for the grands.

I guess what I'm saying is that there are joys and challenges that are part of each stage of motherhood.  Would I trade the downs if it meant I'd miss the ups?  Never.  How would I come to recognize the sweetness?   Would I trade the plethora of reasons that created sleepless nights?  No, because they brought me to my knees and taught me faith.  Families come in all shapes and sizes, each with an assortment of personalities, challenges, and enough"growing experiences" to fit all comers.  I love my family with all its good and not so good.  Why?  Because they are mine.

Thank you, son.  Your visit was just the best.

                                               

Week Two - Journey in Fairyland

October 1, 2012

Just east of Aberystwyth/University of Wales, a steam train stops at a reasonably level station - Wales consists of hills that go on forever.  It was only, however, a short walk to Devil's Bridge and Mynach Falls.

 There you will find three bridges.  The first was built by the monks of Strata Florida in Medieval times.  In the early 1700's the second bridge was built and in the Twentieth Century the third, a wider bridge for cars, was completed as the topmost bridge.  One can easily drive or walk across the narrow ravine oblivious to the hidden jewels that lie beneath the triple span.  Corroding iron turnstiles on either side of the road mark the way down.  Don't let the antiquity of the gates fool you.  It's still ₤2 to enter.

There is, of course, the name and the myth, which I will recount in my own words...  

In ancient time an old woman lost her cow on the far side of the river and was bemoaning her loss and how she could reclaim her property when a man appeared and offered a most miraculous proposition.  He would build a sturdy bridge over the torrent during the coming night but she would have to agree that the first living thing to cross would be his.  Wishing her cow back in her possession, the old woman agreed, turned, and journeyed to her home.  As the night wore on, she reconsidered the bargain she had struck; however, her need to reclaim her cow overcame her concerns as to how the man might accomplish all he offered.  The next morning, she rose, wrapped a loaf of bread in her skirt, and accompanied by her dog followed her way back to the river to find a fully completed stone bridge with her cow standing just on the other side.  It was truly amazing.  The woman, however, had not become old by being foolish.  She approached the bridge, unwrapped the loaf and threw it across the expanse.  Her dog joyfully ran to the other side of the bridge to gather his treat and disappeared.  The Devil, for such was the man, stormed and stamped his feet for the dog was the first living thing to cross the bridge and he had lost the woman's soul in spite of his cunning hard work.  It is said that the old woman and all who came after have used the bridge undisturbed, as the Devil, shamed at being outwitted by an old woman, was never seen in these parts again.

Built by medieval monks or the Devil, himself, to peer over the rail of the topmost bridge, the view is daunting.  There are two trails - a long and a short - both treacherous to say the least and one must choose based on how adventurous they feel.  The short trail, pictured here, takes only 10-15 minutes and, wanting to take my time and explore, I chose this one and was greatly rewarded by nearly unbroken solitude and a chance to stop, sit, listen, and write - pages of pent up emotions that softened the bands that bound grief and fear within my heart.  I wandered the trail, sat repeatedly to write, inhaled the green of Wales, the magic, the wonder, the eternal nature of the water as it swirled in the punchbowl and forced its path through the narrow divided cliff faces.  A newly turned autumn leaf floated down and with a soft but audible scritch landed on my open journal.  "Hello, mom," I murmured.  I could feel her joy that I was here in this place; and bittersweet, I knew that part of her joy was the renewed companionship of my father, who recently joined her on the other side of eternity.

Healing was not the only jewel I added to my collection of memories and wonders during my hour on the slate stairs.  The sound of fairies was in the rush of the torrent, the rustle and bite of the Welsh wind in the tree tops, and the sight that met my eyes around a bend in the path forced me to stop.  This was truly an enchanted place.

I had just framed a scene in my iPhone when I very nearly dropped it.  Peeking over the top, I questioned the play of light, a trick to my eyes.  Could I be seeing what I thought I saw?  Buried beneath the varied flora, I saw... what?  You tell me - a sleeping dragon, nose almost touching the iron rail that guarded the path to the falls.  I walked back and forth, peered into the depthless eyes, and finally in wonder touched the outstretched snout in blessing.   

     

Imagination is a powerful thing.  I had come on the student trip wishing only to see some of Wales, to overcome my fear of travelling alone, and disappointment that my husband could not yet join me as planned.  Instead, I found childlike wonder as I stood between worlds - the beauty of our Father's creation and His gift of imagination.  Until next time, I will continue to follow my path where it leads.

What A Difference A Week Makes

There is an old song, "What a Difference a Day Makes." It's an old saying as well but it is nonetheless true. However, a week can literally change one's life.

On Wednesday, I interviewed for a position as a doctoral student. On Thursday I'd like to say I was gainfully employed but that would necessitate a lie. It rained. Friday the basement slab was poured. On Saturday, my little grandson scored 2 points in what will soon be his new bedroom. We actually had sun in Astoria. Hence the shadows!

The beginning of the week, Sunday and Monday, found me playing catch up. Tuesday I tore out sheetrock, which moves us just a bit closer to actually moving back into our home. I do what I can.

But this morning my life stopped and started again. I woke, smiled at the sound of hammers, sat up in bed in the RV, and turned on my computer. There was an email from Julie. I didn't open it. My life was in that email. I read another instead. Then when sufficiently awake, I clicked on Julie's email. I read it. Tears sprang to my eyes. I joggled my husband awake and explained that nothing was wrong for the look on his face expressed concern at the tears cascading down my cheeks.

"What? Are you..."

"I got in!"

"What?"

"I got in. I got in. I got in. I'm a doctoral student at Aberystwyth University in Wales. We leave in September!"

Needless to say he was relieved that no one had died and after congratulations, he spent the rest of the morning researching Aberystwyth and its environs. I spent the next few hours posting to my various cohorts, compatriots, mentors, family, and fellow Jack Kent Cooke Scholars that I had been accepted. My joy was full... not so...

For I was unprepared for the outpouring of love and congratulations that arrived via email and Facebook from around the globe. I have heard it said that one can judge the wealth of one's life through one's friends. If this is indeed true, then I am a very wealthy woman.

As the day progressed, the builders continued framing. I tore out wet, previously mouse infested insulation but... I smiled the whole time.

Write - Can children cuddle up with ebooks?

In response to Gabe Habish: http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/childrens/childrens-industry-news/article/50346-digital-book-world-panelists-gauge-the-children-s-e-book-market.html

Terry Brooks in his "Shannara" series addresses the fantasy world the comes after the technological apocalypse where knowledge contained on DVDs, etc., has been lost. Dark Angel, a TV series, did the same. As a society, what do we leave behind to show we were here if all writing enters cyber-space, if cursive is no longer taught (already implemented in some areas)... we've already eliminated history and language as requirements in education. Technology is great as an adjunct not as a foundation upon which to raise a child.

Peter Pan, Uncle Wiggley, Nurse Nancy, Tarzan of the Apes, Scuffy - The Tugboat. The names invoke private reads behind my uncle's leather chair in San Francisco, while the murmur of adults became white noise as Tiger Lily was captured, Wendy told stories gleaned from other books, and the clapping of one's hands saved Tinkerbell from death. Scuffy, lovingly referred to as Scuppy by a two year old, was cradled in his arms as he drifted off to sleep night after night until it was dog-eared and worn. It waits on a shelf now for the next generation.

What is gained through ebook use? Ease of travel (doesn't weigh much), instant gratification, and with backlight, they can be read anywhere, cost of books is a bit less but one needs to buy 20 plus full sized print books to make up the cost of an inexpensive electronic device, which will last how long until another replaces it?

What is lost through ebook use? Books can be heavy so one must choose well when one travels but then how many children travel? And the choosing of a book in itself teaches us who and what we are. Indeed, it informs who we will become. We live in a world of instant gratification - I know I've grumbled at the lines at the DMV or Post Office, not to mention check out queues. But delayed gratification teaches patience, a commodity our world finds in short supply. Why does everything have to be right now? Can we allow children to be children, to savor the moment of discovery, to trace a picture from an illustration as the artist within develops? How do you cuddle an ebook? If you drop a book, you lose your page. If you drop your ebook, you can lose your library.

I love walking into my physical library and seeing old friends. The folly of Jardyce vs Jardyce (Bleak House by Dickens). Does Peter ever grow up? I feel the tears and inward struggle contained in A Room of One's Own where the "willows weep in perpetual lamentation" and am grateful for my own small writing alcove. Alcott, Barrie, Riordan, Dickens, Pearl S. Buck, Poe (ah, the terror of turning a physical page), Shakespeare, Rowling, Tolkien, Austen... the list is too long but whether dead or alive, I am among friends. I can touch their spines, flip through their pages, find a pressed leaf - that was the day I sat in the "airplane" tree and ate ripe tomatoes and read of Tarzan finding his birth place and teaching himself to read - or a violet placed in an antique volume by my grandmother's hand. Where was she when she read this missive? What were her thoughts? All I know is that the flower was plucked and tucked purposely between the pages. But why? As bookmark, as something lovely to remember, what were her thoughts? One cannot tuck mementoes in an ebook, creating a connection to the next reader.

Do ebooks have a place? Yes. Just like the computer upon which I send my thoughts and words into the world, technology is here and is convenient and places my beloved research at my fingertips; but for a child... I say to let them discover the feel, the smell, the world of paper books; let them be grounded in the joy of a favorite book - a talisman that winks memory at them from a shelf; give them their foundation of patience, the savor of delayed gratification, the excitement of being the first to open the pages into a new world as they make it their own.

Allow them to press their own flowers.

Between the Pages

A small letter arrived this week. My sister is still finding things as she preps our parents home for sale. Her envelope contained some fragile onion skin that was 63 years old. It had no date but I knew how old it was based on the contents.

There was a small 2"x 2" black and white photo of my mother and a mini-me. The note was to my dad, serving overseas during the Korean War (I refuse to call it a conflict) and in a separate piece of onion skin was a small pink ribbon holding a very strawberry blond curl. The note said it was the one that used to hang down over my forehead, the one he used to brush.

I was reminded of the poem,

"There once was a girl, who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good, she was very, very good.

And when she was bad, she was horrid."

Not that I was horrid (although my siblings may have commentary to add) but I thought back to the little mauve celluloid brush that I was mine and which I used throughout childhood to coif my doll's hair. It was nice to think that dad had brushed my hair with it at one time.

Questions came next. I felt a bit voyeuristic as I peeked into the past - young lovers, a new family, separation enforced by continents and political ideology. A young wife rearing two young children alone, reaching through the mail to her soldier husband, sharing a token, a symbol of their love, a child's curl. It was a happy note but between the hand-written lines was a longing for reunion, a sharing of the mundane day-to-day cement that binds lives together.

I was grateful for this brief look into my history, that I had a mom who was sentimental, a bit of a pack-rat; and for her example, my grandmother who pressed flowers between the pages of her books. These are all glimpses into the past, into lives, into hearts. What do you save between the pages of a book, at the back of a drawer, in a box on a shelf in the attic? What memories will you leave behind of a life lived, loved, and well-spent?