Author: kateleen17

Every now and again my husband will do a load of our boys laundry. And recently I have heard some irritation in his voice about all the pants that come to the dirty laundry bin inside out.

“Don’t they know?” He said.

And it registered.

Nope. They don’t.

Suddenly, I too cared about the pant thing. I paid attention to every pair of inside out pants that came my way. When I did laundry I called the boys back and told them to fix the pants.

Some things we just know, it just comes naturally. How to properly launder pants – that needs to be taught (at least in this clan).

At swim lessons today my middle changed into his swim suit and, once again, inside out pants.

Normally, I fold his clothes so they are ready for him when he is cold, and eager to quickly towel off and toss his clothes back on.

This time I paused.

Was I the only parent with crumpled up clothes sitting on the bench cheering their swimmer on? Likely. But I was curious. What would he do when he discovered his pants unfolded and left the way he’d tossed them?

When he and I returned to the changing room I asked if he wanted to toss his shirt on first – I hate being cold after getting out of the pool and his quivering lip produced my empathy.

“No Mom,” he said, “I’m going for the pants first this time.”

So I handed him the inside out pants and he promptly took hold of the leg and pulled it back through. Unperturbed.

I looked at him. Happily pulling his pants on, stumbling as he hopped the left leg and then the right leg on, chatting about his day. And you know what? I thought he would be annoyed. I thought he might look at me and say, “why are my pants inside out?” Instead, he took responsibility for his pants and how he’d left his pants without complaint. I’m sure in some parenting book somewhere, this is considered a win.

My middle child placed his hand over mine today, laying my hand flat on my thigh while he covered my hand with his.

He turned his hand over and over, spread it wide to match my fingers with his own. We were at a school function so neither of us could speak. We were supposed to be focused on whatever the speaker in front of us was saying.

I couldn’t say, “look how small your hand is compared to mine.”

I couldn’t say, “where did you get that scratch?”

So instead, I watched, and he peered closely at our two hands. I could see the wheels turning in his 7 year old mind.

Mama’s hands.

I have vivid memories of my mother’s hands. I write about them more often than her hair. Her smile. Her freckles. I write about how she painted her nails and pressed her cuticles back just so. The blue veins that ran over the tops of her long “piano” fingers. Or so they seemed to me. I write about how lovely they always were to me, and in comparison, my hands were small and chubby. Thick and clumsy.

And I know I did the same to my mother as my middle did to me today. Because her hands are the clearest memory I have of her.

After my mom died I struggled with the concept of her not being a part of the living for her as much as for me and those I loved around me. I was sad that she missed so many lovely moments.

I lose tears now over her not being here to take my sons’ hands in hers. I wish I could watch her hands, more lines running through them, grasp one of my boys’ hands in hers. I wonder at how different life could be if she had lived to meet them.

A person can get lost in death.

Lost in the missing.

Lost in grief.

My middle folded his fingers through mine, clasping them tight. I looked down at our hands intertwined and blinked as I bumped my arm against his.

He grinned at me in the silence.

Don’t let Mama get lost.

I sometimes tell the boys to prevent me from losing sight of them. And he hasn’t.

I am there in his sight line, his hand holding tight.

Today was the day I get with just my youngest. He calls it our date day. Or, at least that’s what he called it today.

We grabbed donuts in the morning after grocery shopping and later he had a private swim lesson because the other kiddos were out sick.

I still don’t mind lifting and carrying my youngest, even though he’s a solid 4 year old. The other two boys were carried at this age too, I’m sure, just not as often. When you have a baby in your hip, throwing a 4 year old into the mix means they have to walk.

So I hefted my 4 year old throw slushy puddles and the adventure of the day was REI. He met an employee who showed him millions and millions of brochures while I searched for a rain coat for the oldest. she delighted in him and I delighted in their conversation.

“These are amazing!” My 4 year old said.

“These are all places you can go with your Mom someday,” she said, “and look, this one opens into a map.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” my 4 year old said, “it’s ginormous.”

He and I wandered the store after I pulled a coat from the Clearance rack. We discovered tent chairs in the center of the store and made ourselves at home.

I wasn’t in a rush, and neither was he.

He pulled out one of his brochures and handed it to me.

“Here Mom,” he said, “you can read this one and I’ll read this one.”

He expanded his brochure into a map and leaned back into his chair. I loved this moment with him. It is one of the many reasons I chose to stay home. Because sometimes it’s nice to stay a little while in a moment with your children. Eventually we would need to eat lunch. Eventually we would need to pick up the older boys. Eventually. But sometimes we get moments we can rest in.

Like in a tent chair, with maps spread wide, at REI.

This has been a hard day.

It started off well enough. The sunrise filtered through our brushed curtains. Trees waving calmly back and forth. A woodpecker tapping.

I suspect it was when I smooshed two lady bugs on our indoor windowsill that the day turned.

I got the boys to Church a little late but they were well behaved. I looked at the woman sitting behind us and hoped she’d give me a kind word, I needed one then. At the end of the service I looked again but she had left already.

I took the boys to a restaurant because I’d made all the things the day before and wanted one meal I didn’t have to cook or clean for – the oldest chose to stay in the van. My anxiety revved around what the right choice was. He’s 9, was that okay if I could see him from the restaurant? Was I wrong to let him go instead of let his salty attitude ruin our meal?

The middle knocked over his plate of pancakes and syrup and they smothered his seat and the floor.

“Do you have a rag?” I asked the harried employee.

He pointed and I walked over to the bucket of warm water and reached in for the rag.

After I cleaned most of it up (I wasn’t sure if wiping the floor with the rag was the right plan) I grabbed the attention of the employee again.

“Is there anyway we can replace my son’s pancakes?” I asked.

“Um…okay,” he said.

He walked back to the chef and returned to me.

“You’ll have to pay for another order,” he said.

I had already paid $45 for this order. A third of which was on the floor. I looked at my middle. I knew waiting for another order meant more minutes my oldest would remain in the van.

“Can you wait until we get home for something more?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“I guess I’m full,” he said.

My heart hurt. He made a mistake. Mistakes happen. But I guess we learned a clear lesson – sometimes we have to pay for mistakes.

At home I collapsed, fully clothed, in bed. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon. The boys played well. Two of them read.

I attempted to feed the oldest several times, trying to work with the advice that “kids eat when they’re hungry” in conjunction with my knowledge that he was going to be a grumpy child if he didn’t eat and then played football. Finally I said he had to at least eat a cheese stick before his first practice.

“I was hungry before you made me go to that restaurant,” he said, “but then I stopped being hungry.”

My wheels began to spin again. Sorry. Anxiety. How do I fix this? How do I fix him? What am I doing wrong??

We made it to football practice and the rain became snow and then to a pleasant sleet snow (this is midwestern sarcasm folks).

I’d gotten the time wrong and we were a half hour early. It is rare that I’m early and this was a reminder why being early is NOT a good thing. By the time an hour had passed and he had only accomplished a half hour of practice, my oldest met me on the sidelines.

“I want to go home,” he said, “I’m freezing.”

I could have gotten on a pedestal and reminded him of the coat in the car and the extra pair of gloves I had brought for him but I had spent the first half of our time on the field trying to figure out what on earth was going on and where the coach was while also telling our youngest, no you can’t go up on that metal ramp, over and over again. The second half of my time on the field was split between realizing we had arrived early and chasing my two younger boys back to the van so we could wait in relative warmth for this football to be over.

I had no more energy for another fight.

“Fine.”

But I took that as another opportunity to beat myself up the whole way home.

You gave in. What happened to, we don’t quit??

When we pulled into the garage I said, “I am not in a good space boys. It is best for you to give me an hour so I can be better.”

They lasted a half hour. I was in the bath, taking long cleansing breaths when my youngest screamed out then entered the bathroom.

“He dragged me out of the room!”

“Who did?”

His oldest brother.

I sighed. The threads of energy I had started to reclaim drained from me. A realization that nothing will go right today no matter how hard I try to decompress and be better for my boys. They feel it.

“I’m sorry you’re having a bad day Mama,” my middle said.

I blew my nose. Maybe it’s my cold. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s being the only parent while my husband travels. But the day that started off promising has turned into a slog.

I headed downstairs and chopped carrots and celery for homemade chicken noodle soup. Another attempt to bring a little hope and healing into the day, I thought. The two younger boys snitched carrots and celery and I started to catch my breath.

But then the day turned again.

And again.

And again.

Until I ended up on my recliner with my hand in a box of Golden Grahams.

“Can you save some for me to have for my breakfast tomorrow morning?” My oldest said, his eyes locked in on the box.

“I’m a terrible role model,” I said, “I’m doing the exact opposite of what I want you to do right now.”

“No you’re not,” he said fiercely.

And I remembered how my older sister said I should never bash myself in front of my boys. Here I am, doing the exact opposite of that.

“This modeling,” I said, “is poor. I am often a good role model. But in this moment, what I am doing, is not what I want for you.”

His shoulders relaxed.

But the night didn’t let up. It wouldn’t let go.

Somedays I firmly believe there are angels living among us. Today, I couldn’t find one.

At some point in the evening the middle called us altogether and said, “listen up. I need all of us to hear this. Today has not been a good day. Tomorrow will be much better.”

He is my angel in this story, isn’t he? But I’ve been so beaten up by this day I tend to believe there were many angels along the way – I just wasn’t able to see them.

I didn’t run today. Or go for a walk. Or lift any weights. I didn’t do yoga. I didn’t even attempt a plank.

I am someone who appreciates the value of self care. Sometimes it’s in the dose of a massage or a daily latte (yes, I know) but lately it’s simply been in caring for my body by moving it, lifting weights to strengthen it, attempting to get back into running because it feels so darn good to do it. My body does better when I move it.

There wasn’t time for that kind of self care today, though, or yesterday. Some days the self care I get is sitting and popping my feet up for a few minutes. Sometimes I ask for an extra hug from one of my boys because that takes only seconds and serves us both so well.

I did move today, though. I went up the stairs to the two older boys’ piano recitals and applauded delightedly when they were done. I walked through the lanes in Big Target with the two younger boys searching for pink lemonade and cookies. I baked Irish Soda Bread for my oldest because he wanted to sell that at their Lemonade stand. I went back and forth to the Lemonade Stand to our home with slices of Irish Soda Bread, extra napkins, and cups that flew away. I made dinner. I cleaned. I panicked and my heartbeat made its way up when my youngest called out and cried. I snuggled with the boys, rubbed their backs, and called my husband to see how his flight went.

Then I put my feet up again.

Tomorrow is another day. Another opportunity for running, strengthening, yoga, a walk outside, or at least a plank (maybe a side plank!). But today was a different kind of care day – and those are just as important.

When I started this blog I had a goal. 22 posts every single month. February was tough. There are only 28 days in a regular year which means I only had 6 days to pass on writing my blog.

Guess what? Life always gets in the way of writing. My writing, anyway.

There was a period of time when I put my nose to the page and wrote furiously. That’s all I did – write. And what unfurled from my wrist was banal because I was 23 and while I certainly lived through more than your average 23 year old, I also experienced less than others.

I met a woman, thirty years my senior and she said, “maybe you can’t write because you aren’t living life?”

You can agree or disagree with her, that doesn’t matter here, what matters is how it impacted me. Do I want to live my life through the page or do I want to experience all of life first hand and snatch moments to write about?

I chose the latter.

I won’t make much money writing. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. But then I go back to, I write because I love it. I love weaving the words together and creating a picture for others and even myself to see later on. The clearer I describe the moment, the better it will sink in and remain.

Even though I am living fully and entirely the way that works best for me, it doesn’t belittle others and how they approach their own creative pursuits and careers. We just need to find where we thrive.

I thrive here, in the fleeting moments on the page. I thrive with my kids, my friends, my husband, my family, strangers in the present.

The balance works for now. Maybe someday it will be time for me to dive back into the pages with all the life that I have lived. But for now, the snatches of words on the page are enough.

And the 22 blog posts a month? Some failures weren’t meant to be successes anyway.

I’m not a big “stuff” person. I have my journals from years and years of writing and that’s about it. They are precious to me even though the many years of writing are mostly self indulgent and, at times, annoying to glance through.

But, I finally decided it was time to invest in a real, beautiful desk. Something that might inspire me more in my writing room than the random wobbly legged desk my husband found on Craigslist. At the time I didn’t want to invest too much money in myself and in a piece of furniture that might be used only sporadically.

Now I write more often. I think about writing. I have a tiny bit more time to invest in writing (not this week, good gracious, not this week).

I walked with my husband into a real store and as we walked around I touched the wood, the metal, the plastic of every desk. I sat in front of the desks. I contemplated whether or not this could be a desk I could spend hours in front of and be inspired by.

Then I spotted the one. They call it a sugar berry wood but it is the wood of a Mulberry tree that had to be chopped down because it was diseased. It’s environmental, they said. Using the wood of a tree that had no choice but be turned into something else. This one became a desk. Others might have become paper. This one is a desk and a piece of art.

We bought it.

We had to wait months for it to be delivered. Each day I sat in front of my wobbling desk I daydreamed about the sugar berry desk. The veins in the wood, the disease creating a unique beauty carved throughout.

It reminded me of my own writing. Some pages and lines are terrible. Some chapters need to be redone over and over again. Some are deleted altogether because they add nothing to the main story. Some areas need work but eventually result in a line or paragraph that I want to read again and again, disbelieving I wrote such a thing when it started off so poorly.

It reminded me of life. How all of us struggle to fight a disease of our own. Maybe poor self image, economic conditions, dysfunctional families, or yes – actual disease. But when we rise again, we are something new, something beautiful because of what we’ve gone through.

It is just a desk. But to me, it is much more.

When the sugar berry desk arrived I spent a long time admiring the wood. I danced my fingers along the top of it, beside the edges. I told everyone who stumbled into my writing room – it’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Today my middle drew on the desk with permanent marker. He didn’t mean too. He was drawing on a paper and it bled through. He loves to create and design and he was bored when I left him. A part of me took solace in the fact that he found a lovely way to entertain himself (you know, drawing a picture of war scene).

But initially all I could see was my piece of art, splattered. Ruined.

How could you…

Tears leapt to my eyes.

It’s just stuff.

I left to pick up the littlest of the three and because I didn’t want to say anything to my middle I might regret.

When I returned my fumes were still burning. I couldn’t shake the anger.

Can’t I have ANYTHING??

“No one. No one is allowed to use my desk. Understand?” I said.

The three nodded. The littlest one raised his hand.

“Even me?”

“Even you,” I said, “this desk is Mama’s.”

My throat choked with tears. All the things that were once mine are now theirs. My foam roller with punctures in it. The yoga block with finger nail impressions. The glasses that shattered. The peach chair with ink stains on it. The couch with a sunken area due to too much jumping. All of it I let go. It’s just stuff, I’d shrug. But this. This was beautiful, and now there are blue and red smudges in between the wood veins.

We’ve had the desk a month.

I will move on. It will become part of the background of the desk. It will be a memory someday we will share and laugh about.

But right now, I get a moment, a long moment, to grieve what it once was.

All is not calm here in our home. I mean, with three boys it’s never calm, but perhaps a better way to describe it is all is even more chaotic than our usual fare. Sickness, parties, future gatherings and trips to plan for, business travel for my husband…all is crazy on top of chaos.

But among the craziness there was a moment of work, dedication, and peace. My middle loves to create so earlier tonight I paused to watch him. (In between scramblings to find all the tax documents for 2021.) He sorted papers and began to fold. I drew closer.

“Can you help me with this Mom?”

There are a million and a million different other things I’d rather be doing or should be doing than learning how to make a paper airplane. That’s what my husband knows. He’s rather good at it. But there’s a new realization I shared with my husband recently…

I once could do so many things or I was willing to learn – then you came into my life and made my life better, easier. But also, maybe I gave away too much. I can still learn. I can still try.

I knelt down beside my middle and started working with the paper. The instructions were long ago lost so I had a reason to bail.

“Shoot,” I said, “I really don’t know how to make these buddy.”

“You can do it Mom,” he said.

I flipped the paper this way and that. Coaxing a long lost memory of when I most certainly must have learned how to make these?

Nothing came. How silly, I can’t make a paper airplane.

I have recently told my husband our oldest reminds me of me. I get frustrated and more often than not give up. At least, that was me in my youth when it came to something I didn’t want to do – like math.

Here was another moment. Did I have a passion for paper airplanes? No. But looking into the eyes of my son I saw I different motivation, a passion for my children.

“I bet Google knows how!” I said.

“Good idea!”

Wikihow and I got to work. Fold, crease, turn over, fold again. Boom!

“You did it Mom!!”

Phew. I did it!!

“Now how about a paper boat. I’m making a whole crew,” he said.

I wasn’t planning on a boat but okay, we’re moving and grooving. We’ve got this.

I scrolled to find another wikihow and started to fold all over again. Fold, crease, flip, tuck. Fold, crease, turn, tuck. Son of a…

I fell onto my back. Can I call a mulligan? I gave him an airplane. But that isn’t what I want to teach him, is it? Give up when it gets hard?

“It’s okay Mom,” he said, “it sort of looks like a boat.”

I rose back onto my knees and rolled my sore neck.

“I think we can do better,” I said.

Fold, crease, tuck…

My oldest joined us on the floor. He pulled his own papers out and started to fold as well. Upstairs my youngest was playing – not quietly getting into trouble but actually creating – and I took it all in as I folded, creased and tucked my way through my own frustration.

And in that eventual peace I placed a paper boat.

“You did it Mom!” My oldest said.

“I did it!”

“Great Mom!” My middle said, “now onto the watch tower!”

I was supposed to be in bed. I knew it, she knew it, but I had written a poem and a poem can’t stay trapped on the page. It has to be heard.

So I sprinted to my parent’s room, the door opened a crack with warm lamp light and the glow from the master bathroom letting me know Mom was there and washing her face or brushing her teeth or somehow awake and getting ready for bed.

“Mom!” I said, praying she would ignore what we both knew I was avoiding, “I wrote a poem. Can I share it with you?”

I saw the eyebrows raise as she contemplated her choices. There was a tentative air of waiting as she thought and acted like there was nothing but my poem to think about.

When you are raising five children, bedtime is finally the time, the only time, you get to yourself.

Her eyebrows crackled as she allowed her face to open into a smile.

She sat down on her bed and patted the space next to her.

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

I don’t remember if she raved about my poem or offered kind criticism. All I remember is she let me in, it was my writing she was willing to bend for. Or maybe it was my passion, my excitement, my joy.

I don’t remember the poem either but I remember that I was certain it was beautiful. Important enough to break the bedtime rules and hope my vulnerability would be met with acceptance.

Sometimes it isn’t about the words at all.

It’s about the feelings you are left with.

I am a responsible adult. If I’m not the world around me falls apart and it isn’t pretty. Food sits out and spoils. The boys get into fights that end with someone injured. Dust collects. Laundry piles up in heaps on our floor. My husband feels overwhelmed. Very little is moved along.

But. Every once and awhile, I decide to break a self imposed rule.

The other night my anxiety got to me and I laid in bed wide awake. Instead of suffering I decided to get up. I slipped out of the sheets, doing my best not to disturb my husband’s sleep (breaking rules is only possible if one of the two responsible adults is able to function) and I crawled onto the couch in the family room with my phone, a book, and a journal.

Decision made. I was going to steal the night time hours for me. I knew the next day we’d have four hours in the car for our return trip home so I could nap, while the children were trapped, and I wouldn’t have to worry all hell might break loose.

I wrote in my journal, scrolled through my phone, flipped open my book, and finally settled into a rare non-stop session of Netflix.

I never get non-stop sessions in Netflix.

My eyes dried up, I sped the shows along, and my body twitched from exhaustion. Eventually, I dropped my journal, my book, and my phone on the bedside table and snuck back under the covers.

The next day I was tired. The bags beneath my eyes aged me and my zombie walk in the morning startled the boys.

But I was unexpectedly relaxed, happy.

Sometimes breaking rules, bending the way we always do things for survival and sanity, adds a rare bit of whimsy.

Turns out, that is essential too.