Beauty

Today, Baby Badger woke up from her nap crying and somewhat disoriented.  She asked for a bottle of milk, and I brought her downstairs, holding her on my lap.  She drank her milk and drowsed a bit before fully waking up and looking up at me with a smile.  I don't know what prompted it, but I held her close and we sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" together, and she clapped.

For me, as a young adult, to think about what was beautiful was to focus on the superficial.  Models, actresses selling make-up, any other woman who was admired for her hair or face or body.  Always subtle jealousy and feelings of inadequacy because to be considered beautiful was always a title bestowed by someone else.

I wandered into the Boy Badgers' room late tonight to turn off the fish tank light.  As I do every night, I adjusted their blankets and gave them kisses.  And as I do every night, I stare at their little faces.  My oldest was sleeping peacefully, looking, to me, exactly as he did as a baby.  And I had the thought that if I watched him sleep again, many years from now, I would see my baby still.

When I became a Mommy, I still had those self-deprecating thoughts of my own attractiveness, magnified by weight gain and exhaustion.  But I found myself reserving the word beautiful for my children.  Even for brand-new infants, crying with soiled diapers or a food-stained bib, I saw beauty, and I allowed myself to define it.  It was suddenly beyond face-value and it ran deeper, resonating with new emotions.

The Little Badgers and I visited my grandmother in her nursing home earlier this week.  She will be ninety-five in a couple months, and has difficulty hearing and seeing.  In fact, for most of our visit, she didn't seem to notice that we were there, and I'm still not sure she knew who we were.  But, at one point, she looked right at me with her blue eyes shining, and she smiled.

For me, to be a Mommy is to feel full.  To walk around most of the time with strong emotion somewhere close by.  To see beauty in things that, in others' eyes, may seem commonplace, or ordinary.  My child's chubby hand gripping a cup.  The brilliance of the sky over our home.  A moment spent talking with my sister.  Beauty, now, comes with gratitude, and acknowledgment.  My perception of beauty is no longer as a facade, but representative of a personal journey, informed by love, and defined by experience.

The Step-Back

As a parent, it can be said that when you are in, you're in.  Even when you're out (at dinner, say), you're still in.  Just maybe not as an immediate presence.  But how far do you step back as a parent, when someone else, especially someone who is capable, loving, and tested steps in?  When that person is a grandparent, things can get complicated.

Stepping back, as a parent, isn't just confined to date night or a play date; it can be more subtle and familiar.  For us in the Badger household, transfer of power occurs every weeknight, when, after dinner, Daddy River Badger steps up to give the Little Badgers baths while I clean the kitchen.  I can step back for a while, even fool around on my phone, appreciate the cool evening breeze, or give some attention to my pouting cat.  Inevitably, there will be a streaking Baby racing through the kitchen, or Little Brother hopefully asking that I help get him dressed, but DRB is pilot-in-command.  And the step-back usually works in everyone's favor.  Given that shift in responsibilities, my shoulders relax, my head stops pounding, and I am refreshed, ready and eager to be there for my children.  And for the Little Badgers, all the anxiety of having to eat vegetables and not wiggle in their chairs falls away and they delight in the undivided attention of their Daddy.

However, sometimes the step-back is not as obvious and immediately satisfying; especially where grandparents are concerned.  Often this step-back yields time for Mommy to have a beer and relax, or sleep in a little, or go to the gym.  The Little Badgers are never happier than being just a little spoiled by their grandmothers, but, I worry that I am taking advantage.  And here's another problem: my rules may not necessarily be their rules, and too often when Mommy swoops back in, there's some confusion.

Here's an example.  Grandma Badger's house has a very steep staircase.  Me, being the overprotective Mommy, told the Little Badgers that they absolutely had to go down the stairs on their bottoms, no questions asked.  Grandma, separately, and without knowledge of my "rule" said that they must go down on their bottoms until the mid-point of the stairs, where there was a railing.  Poor Little Brother Badger was caught by his ever-vigilant Mommy standing exactly at the midpoint in his sleep suit.  I yelled.  He started to cry.  When I realized that he was following Grandma's rule, I felt terrible.  I apologized, I held him.  I think I stepped back too far.

And then there are the examples of when I (or Daddy River Badger) didn't step back far enough.  At Grammy Badger's house, children are indulged, and, I believe, rightly so.  I adore the sheer Little Badger happiness that comes when Grammy presents waffles with watermelon and a little whipped cream for breakfast, or a popsicle for a snack.  But, every now and then, we, the parents, overstep.  We make superior-sounding comments about the amount of sugar in the yogurt, or the number of cookies at snack time, and we hurt feelings.

When I am in the company of my own parents, and my parents-in-law, I trust them, and their judgement.  I trust the care of my children to them, and that's all that needs to be said.  I think I just have to work on the transition; I'm in charge, but I'm in the background.  I want my children to enjoy their grandparents and to build their own independent relationships without Mommy constantly hovering.  I want to let the Little Badgers' grandparents know how blessed we feel to have them in our lives, and how important they are.  We believe in them, because they raised us, and because they share our deep love for our babies.

My stepping back is necessary, I believe, for my children to start to learn how to be independent, to relate to others on their own terms, and to have a break from their parents' idiosyncrasies.  But I also think it is also necessary for me; to see our parents in a new perspective, to build and enjoy love and trust and shared experiences.  Being a parent means that when you're in, you're in; in the fray, in the whirlwind.  Having that chance to take a breath and step back and watch, and appreciate, and treasure the moment, is a gift.

A Little Rain, A New Outlook

Every spring in the Mid-Atlantic involves a little rain.  But it's not the cold, dreary, gray rain of the winter.  It's the warm, gentle rain that brings all the shades of green into sharp forefront.  For me, as in my childhood, the spring rains feel inherently refreshing and invigorating.  They usher in flowers, and the nighttime sounds of summer.  They are relaxing.  Or, at least, they can be, given a screened window, a hot cup of tea, and a good book.

With small children, however, rain can mean being trapped indoors, left to my own lonely devices.  Play-dough, books and puzzles can altogether last a good hour, if I am lucky.  A good game of chase always lasts a while and burns some of that unquenchable kid energy, but boo-boos inevitably result.  Imaginary herds of dinosaurs will fight with prehistoric crocodiles and insects until a fleet of monster trucks roll onto the field.  Finally, I'll turn reluctantly to the television, where the dinosaurs are computer-generated.  And then we'll have lunch.

Time in the Little Badger universe seems to move in fits and spurts.  Some moments will feel as though I am moving in slow motion, changing a dirty diaper on a wiggly toddler while one Boy Badger yells about finishing his breakfast and the other refuses to put on his clothes.  And then other moments will pass in a heartbeat.  These are usually the quality time, where my heart is full and the children are happy.  On rainy days, especially, the slow motion seems to take over.  There is an underlying, nagging feeling that there is no escape.  On sunny days, we can always run outside.  On these, rainy, days, I must deal.  I must deflect the energy instead of engaging it.

Of course, we can always plan an outing.  Trips to the local PetSmart, or Ikea, or to a relative's house.  These outings can relieve some of the tension, and also provide Mommy with a way to get her Diet Coke.  But, for all these activities, I still feel somewhat trapped, like my hand is being forced, expectations and assumptions dictating the day.

Ultimately, given a warm enough day and a gentle enough rain, we usually end up outside.  I'll put the Little Badgers in their rain gear, pull on their boots, and fling open the front door.  At first the children will be reluctant, but then they will notice a particularly attractive mud puddle, or a bug crawling bravely along a slippery leaf, and they will venture forth from the porch.  When the Little Badgers come back inside, they pull off their wet clothes and muddy boots and wash their filthy hands.  I feel a twinge of anxiety at the mess, but the little pink cheeks and healthy appetite for a snack (even fruit!) make me smile.  Honestly, I will have found myself smiling more than I had expected to, when I woke up to the sound of raindrops.  The games of chase, the dinosaurs, the books.  All are worthwhile, true, moments.

So, at the end of the day, when rain has changed up our usual plan and sent us scurrying for the indoors, I look back and realize that my feeling of entrapment was mostly self-generated, and perhaps not surprisingly, self-fulfilling.  A sense of new awakening is appropriate this time of year.  I think the next time it rains, I will trade entrapment for openness.  And let the day proceed, with no expectations.

She's Just Like Me

Everyone has seen the columns in magazines where celebrities are photographed picking up kids at school, or grocery shopping, or heading out to the gym.  "Just Like Us!", the headline proclaims.  Well, maybe, but I found myself thinking of those columns today.  My take on "Just Like Us" is that I'm not supposed to feel quite so inadequate with my frizzy hair, baggy jeans, or screaming kid, because it happens to the beautiful people, too.  But, celebrities aside, from an everyday perspective, I do take comfort in seeing even small similarities with other parents.  It's a warm feeling, a sigh of relief.  Especially as a stay-at-home parent, where I find myself very alone at times, the sense of empathy with other parents, manifested in similar choices, or patterns, reassures me.

Today, I took the Little Badgers to Ikea.  The boys signed in to play in the kids' area and ball pit, and Baby Badger came along with me to do some shopping.  We wandered up to the children's section and Baby gravitated towards a group of toddlers.  I joined the Mommies, attentive but standing back, letting the little ones play.  We called out instructions, kissed invisible boo-boos, smoothed hair, and adjusted clothes.  We made low-voiced comments to each other about how funny the kids were, and shared glances of understanding.  We smiled, and rolled our eyes, and gasped together.  As I stood there, appreciating the camaraderie, I noticed something interesting.  One Mommy was wearing jeans and running shoes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail; pretty much my doppelgänger.  Another was pushing a large stroller, her three small children buzzing around her; again, very familiar.  A third was chatting pleasantly with her mother while drinking a large fountain soda; hell-o!  No matter how different we looked, I saw a bit of myself in all of them.

Now, appearances are superficial, but the brief feeling of belonging was significant.  In becoming a parent, I've found myself empathizing more, reaching for common understanding, and searching for bonds in new places.  Perhaps it is the amazing new range of emotions that the Little Badgers have brought out in me, or the new depth of feeling that seems to run deeper every day.  Perhaps it is the new, sharp, realization of how vulnerable we all are, and family and friendships, too.

After all, as parents, we've all been through stuff.  Stuff that, in the moment, we think no one else could ever understand.  We're separated by generations, by geography, by a perception of a lack of common ground.  As a parent, there are opportunities to learn the depths of faith, fear, love, and strength.  It is comforting to know I'm not alone.

Distractions

This morning, three high-energy Little Badgers were racing around the house, amped from a good breakfast and energized by the bright sunshine streaming through the windows.  Little Brother asked me to help him with a dinosaur puzzle and we dove in, with Baby and Big Brother playing alongside.  A while later, I realized I was snapping at the kids.  There was an underlying irritation that was biting at the periphery of my contented Mommy-moment.  At first I was confused.  And then, Baby, climbing across my lap for the fifteenth time, really smacked my shin.  I had bruised it pretty badly the previous week, "climbing" out of the van, but, as any Good Mommy does, ignored it.  But, it was still there, distracting me from the Little Badgers' games.  And I got to thinking about distractions in general.  Most Mommies know the call of Facebook and the guilt that goes with it, but, Mommy Media aside, I wonder if I can truly blame myself for everything after all.

I find that some distractions are easy to ignore or push aside, guilt and a form of resentment naturally following.  These are usually physical: my stomach hurt, or I had a monster headache, or my shin hurt like a mo-fo, but the Little Badgers wanted to go outside for a walk, so I gamely went along.  See, only Bad Mommy puts herself before the kids.  I wonder if this is a form of indoctrination from my childbirth class.  Pushing through physical pain seen as evidence for my ability to put my kids first.  No pain, no gain.  Mommy is a bumper sticker.

Other distractions are harder to ignore.  These, of course, tend to be more "of the mind".  Worries about family or friends, worries about work or money, worries about being too fat, worries about whether or not I'm fantastic in bed, and, of course, worries about how badly I am messing up the Little Badgers.  These linger, overshadowing play time, lurking during dinner, creeping into story time.  These are almost impossible to truly push aside and they create their own form of pain that makes Mommy more of a mud puddle than a bumper sticker.

Some days I feel like my entire goal is to be "in the moment".  To enjoy every second and to soak up every Little Badger laugh, every silly joke, every push of the bicycle pedals, every sip of milk.  I had a startling moment when I was very pregnant with Big Brother Badger, that this was the closest I'd ever be to him.  From the moment of his birth, he would be growing away from me.  Mommies are told by sisters and mothers and friends to appreciate everything, that it will be gone before we know it.  And here I am, letting distractions sneak in and threaten those moments.  And here I am, blaming myself for the distractions in the first place.  My fault, my failure, my weakness.

But is it that simple?  Each of these distractions, both mental and physical, can be interpreted as some need of mine.  A need for some rest, or some ice, or some time to focus and relax, or a need for conversation with Daddy River Badger, or my dear sisters.  When Mommy takes care of herself, everyone ends up happier, but this seems to be a situation of dragging the horse to water, but finding the animal refusing to drink.  The jerk standing in the way is most often myself.  Daddy River Badger pleads with me to go out.  Go out with your sister!  Go see a movie!  Go out to the store and grab some chocolate!  My best response lately has been to go out to the gym and hurt myself some more.

I will dive back in tomorrow.  I know I will ignore my bruised shin.  I might ignore a headache.  I will spend my day shoving those mental distractions away with both hands, in futility.  I will throw myself into my job as Mommy, because I love it, and because it is everything I ever wanted to do.  I will appreciate those stolen moments where I forgot to be distracted by anything.  And then I'll work on making it over to Target to pick up that chocolate.

Great Expectations

Today it hit me that the Little Badgers don't mind the unknown.  For them, pretty much everything is unknown, or at least unfamiliar.  Meeting new people, going new places, experiencing new things, all in a day's work for them.  They may worry, or whine, but they go forward, boldly.  Me, not so much.  I  can, and do let worry and fear keep me from new experiences.  Not just obvious experiences like trying a new food, or meeting someone new, but more subtle things, like running as fast and as far as I can, or truly opening my heart to someone.

I wasn't always this way.  When I was seventeen, I performed an entire concerto with an orchestra in front of a full concert hall.  I threw myself into experiences, with joy and with abandon.  Most things that were new to me were also exciting to me.  A little bit of scary, but a lot of anticipation, and both feelings were all part of the fun.  New experiences were blank slates.  More recently, however, I found myself somehow thinking differently.  The scary got bigger and the the anticipation got smaller until the scary is almost all there is.  Perhaps being a parent does that to a person.  Being a parent forces me to consider all scenarios, to plan ahead, and to be aware of the dangers in everything.  Popcorn, strangers, a stray dog, riding in the car, all contain hazards that could, in a second, take away or injure my children, the most important part of my life.  I can no longer turn a blind eye, either with willful ignorance or with careless abandon, to anything, and I think it's rubbed off on my own, individual, self.

I thing I miss most is that truly blank slate.  The unknown.  Just rushing off and doing something on the spur of the moment, with no prior planning or excessive worry.  Now, when I face an unfamiliar situation, I inevitably do my research.  I'll Mapquest the location, Google the menu, worry myself into a frenzy, and, as a consequence, create wild expectations.  I'll expect amazingly good things, or amazingly bad things.  And, as it turns out, not so amazingly,  I'll pretty much always be wrong.  Most of the time, new things turn out just fine, and my obsessive treatment creates a tunnel vision whereby I find myself unable to fully appreciate the experience.

My children instinctively trust me.  They know that, no matter what situation they find themselves in, I will be there.  It may be unknown, or unfamiliar, but it will be fine.  I think I need to start trusting myself the way that my children trust me.  I need to get back to that place where I was not afraid to jump, or to run.  I need to step away from the grip of planning and worry, and fear, that I find myself in often as a parent.  After all, if there's anything I've learned from the Little Badgers, it's that the most intensely-planned-for situation rarely goes as scripted, and that joy can be found in the most unexpected places.  Places where we found ourselves by chance, going boldly into the unfamiliar.

Lost and Found

When I was little, I lost a ball.  I had left it outside, in the middle of a field, and had woken up the next morning to find it gone.  I searched everywhere, but that ball was never found.  A simple, rubber ball with a pink and orange design on it.  While I had it, it wasn't my favorite toy, but, in losing it, it gained a kind of special significance.  It was one of the first things that happened that my parents couldn't fix.

The other day, I took the Little Badgers to Ikea for breakfast.  We were planning on meeting some friends and were running a little late.  While I was pulling the stroller out of the back of the van I felt something bump my leg.  But, of course, I ignored it in favor of calling out instructions about exiting the vehicle and moving to the sidewalk safely.  Turns out, that bump was Big Brother Badger's favorite Lightning McQueen ball.  Oblivious,  I guided the Little Badgers into the store while the ball rolled its lonely way in, I presume, the opposite direction.

I was standing in line with my three little ones when a lady tapped my shoulder.  She had two children of her own and had parked very close to me right about the same time I had been pulling Badgers out of the car.  She told me that she had seen the ball fall out, had retrieved it, and put it safely on a bench in front of my van.  I thanked her profusely, and, indeed, we found our ball right where she had said.  Big Brother Badger was a bit confused to find his ball outside of the car, but took it in stride.  Later that day, I was hit my memories of my lost ball, long ago.  That was something lost, and resulted in a significant childhood memory, even tears.  Big Brother Badger would have been heartbroken if his ball had gone missing.  Did we, with the help of a stranger, dodge a similarly significant moment in Big Brother's childhood?  

A rubber ball is nothing, really.  But the feeling of having something that was mine, as a child, disappear without explanation left a strong impression on me.  It left me with a feeling and a memory that's carried through decades.  One little incident that my parents really could do nothing about.  I worry constantly about screwing up as a parent, but I've always focused on the big things.  The memory of my lost ball in the context of the one lately found brought it home that might be the small, unpredictable things that really stick.  The things that I can't do anything about.