The other day we ventured out to our old neighborhood. We visited with our favorite neighbor, who spoiled us with ice cream and cookies, and then made our way over to the local Trader Joe's.
While maneuvering down the frozen food aisle, a woman's voice called out, "Sherri!" I glanced around and stared straight at a very familiar blonde. My mind raced to recall who she was. She exclaimed, "Oh! You probably don't remember me..." But, I did. I walked over and opened my arms to hug her. I remembered the last time I'd hugged her. She gives the warmest, tightest hugs. It was at her baby daughter's funeral.
We stood in the aisle for a long while, recapping the past several years. Now, I could recall every detail of this woman's life, but I STILL can not recall her name. (That is truly another post... the inability to remember details.) Anyway, as we stood there, I remembered how much I'd admired her strength during her life tragedy. I remembered praying for her and her family, and watching her be such a good mama to her older daughter. She moved through life with dignity, and she still does.
We said our goodbyes, and I hurried through Trader Joe's to select the few items we needed. By the end of the excursion, I was anxious about getting to our next spot on time. My children were, well, being children, and happily looking at the Pet Wall and putting away their tiny shopping carts.
We made our way to the parking lot and the silliness from the children increased. It was hot. We were running late (per usual). I was annoyed. The children scrambled into their seats, and I tried to regroup, really, I did. They continued to laugh while they fumbled with their straps to click in. I snapped, "Hurry up and put your belts on." They whined about something, something silly and insignificant... at least to me.
Finally, my annoyance bubbled over, and I hollered, "Who friggin' cares, just click in already!"
I could feel the eyes on me, even before I finished the last syllable. Slowly, I turned to my left, and there she was, that old acquaintance, who'd I'd admired so much, but couldn't recall her name. She was loading her things into the back of her SUV, mid-load, standing like a stone, staring at me.
Like a dog with its tail between its legs, I jammed the car into reverse, and pulled out of the parking lot, completely exasperated with my true colors.
Since becoming an only parent... yes, only parent, as my ex is not available... I have realized many things about children and parenting. Children can suck the life right out of you. And, please, understand, I mean this in the best possible way. I adore my children, can not imagine life without them, but some days, my, oh my, they are draining. They make me tired and frustrated. So, I yell. My neighbors are probably blogging about it.
But, something that afternoon, in the Trader Joe's parking lot, shook me up. It shamed me. It weighed heavily on my mind, and I knew I needed to do something to alleviate some of the pressure, and frustration.
The next day, I received my Parents magazine in the mail. Casually flipping through the slick pages, I discovered an article entitled "Lessons From a Zen Mommy". Who couldn't use a little Zen? Some of us could use a lot.
The article was so inspiring to me, and really helped set me straight. After reading, I went straight to my computer and typed out the lessons. They are now taped to my refrigerator door. Let me share them now...
Do what you’re doing while you’re doing it.
Leave no trace.
Take just the right amount.
Practice patience.
Develop rituals.
Count your blessings.
Remember to breathe.
(Saltman 74-79)
Sometimes, we aren't ready for the lessons that life is going to give us. Sometimes, we are. I was perfectly ready for these. The way they've refocused me and taught me in just the short time they've been a part of me is remarkable.
The parking lot was mortifying at best, but you know, those worst parent moments can set you on a path for the best parent moments.
This post is dedicated to the woman whose name I still can't recall. You are a mommy hero.
Saltman, Bethany. "Lessons From a Zen Mommy." Parents. August 2011: 74-79. Print.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
My Ariel Moment
I hate Disney. World. Land. The conglomerate. The princesses. The mouse sans shirt. The duck with the speech impediment. The happiest place on Earth slogan.The fairy tales turned into blockbusters.
My most hated Disney blockbuster is The Little Mermaid. The gist of this story is girl meets boy. Girl doesn't fit into boy's world. Girl changes for boy. Boy reaps all the benefits. The moral is what exactly? Girls, go right ahead and change yourselves for a boy? What a fabulous moral to share with the youth of America. Yes, little princesses (an absolutely irritating thing to call all little girls under the age of five), by all means, when you meet that boy who is oh-so-dreamy, leave your world behind, sprout your legs and run into his. Feminists must wince each time they see a little girl decked out as Ariel for Halloween.
And yet, ten years ago, I found myself doing almost exactly what Ariel did. (Go ahead and shout hypocrite from the mountain top, it is only fair.)
Ten years ago, I was living with my sister in a fabulous Oak Park apartment. I loved Oak Park. If I could have acted as a spokesperson for the village, I would have. It had everything a twenty-something liberal could want...diversity, art, quaint shopping, hippies, and Erik's Deli. (Well, maybe the deli doesn't count, but good food is good food.) As a bonus, it was minutes away from the city, so I could easily enjoy all Chicago had to offer. Oak Park was home.
By the time I moved to Oak Park, I'd been dating my boyfriend (see the post The Degree I Didn't Earn in College) for five years. Couples were moving in together. Some were getting engaged, and a few were actually married. And, then there was us.
There was absolutely no promise of anything committal on the horizon. So, for a while, the word moving became part of my every day vocabulary. Moving... to... well, the place that was top on my list was Arizona.
The heat intrigued me the most. Oak Park pools were only open for a few short months, and in Illinois, tans fade too quickly. One night at a bar, over loud raucous music, I shouted to one of my best guy friends. I wondered if he'd visit me if such a move should happen. He tossed his head back and laughed. Peeved, I stomped my foot. He said, "Sure. You move, I'll visit, but you ain't moving." With arms crossed, I stomped away.
In the dark bar, only to myself, I admitted what he'd declared. He was right, deep down, I knew he was right. I wasn't leaving. There would be no U-Haul taking me across the country. There would be no move across the Great Plains, into the Wild West.
In fact, I moved. Just not across the country. I moved to my boyfriend's town, not far from Oak Park, but far enough from what was me, and right into what was him. I was Ariel.
Girl was leaving her world for boy's world, because he wasn't going to do it for her. Somehow, it was all justified in my head, though now, I couldn't explain it to you if I tried really, really hard.
Now, in that move, I did find many things and wonderful friends and a job I love.But, I also lost part of me, the part of me that felt settled.There weren't roots, and I am a person who longs for roots.
Nearly ten years later, I wonder if I'd summoned up all the courage inside me at that moment and walked out of the bar and packed my stuff, if things would have ended up differently for me. But, when you spent too much time thinking, "What if?" you forget what is.
What is is that I am a mother and a strong woman. Even with the lemons of life, and my Ariel decisions of the past, we still have what lies before us.
On that May day when my world fell away, I knew deep in my heart, it was my chance to come back to Oak Park. The absolute best thing of it all was that my children would be able to stake their roots there, and they would know it and love it as I once had.
Just recently, we moved back to Oak Park into an old house, converted into two apartments. We live in the "blue house", or "Mama's new house" now. My sister, my Claw, lives a few short steps away. There are tall, old trees lining every street and urban gardens and the sound of the "El" squealing day and night. There are people bustling, and new friends to meet, and Erik's Deli for lunch. There is life here, it is our life, not anyone's but ours. Life is good and getting settled. And no one around here is acting like Ariel anymore.
My most hated Disney blockbuster is The Little Mermaid. The gist of this story is girl meets boy. Girl doesn't fit into boy's world. Girl changes for boy. Boy reaps all the benefits. The moral is what exactly? Girls, go right ahead and change yourselves for a boy? What a fabulous moral to share with the youth of America. Yes, little princesses (an absolutely irritating thing to call all little girls under the age of five), by all means, when you meet that boy who is oh-so-dreamy, leave your world behind, sprout your legs and run into his. Feminists must wince each time they see a little girl decked out as Ariel for Halloween.
And yet, ten years ago, I found myself doing almost exactly what Ariel did. (Go ahead and shout hypocrite from the mountain top, it is only fair.)
Ten years ago, I was living with my sister in a fabulous Oak Park apartment. I loved Oak Park. If I could have acted as a spokesperson for the village, I would have. It had everything a twenty-something liberal could want...diversity, art, quaint shopping, hippies, and Erik's Deli. (Well, maybe the deli doesn't count, but good food is good food.) As a bonus, it was minutes away from the city, so I could easily enjoy all Chicago had to offer. Oak Park was home.
By the time I moved to Oak Park, I'd been dating my boyfriend (see the post The Degree I Didn't Earn in College) for five years. Couples were moving in together. Some were getting engaged, and a few were actually married. And, then there was us.
There was absolutely no promise of anything committal on the horizon. So, for a while, the word moving became part of my every day vocabulary. Moving... to... well, the place that was top on my list was Arizona.
The heat intrigued me the most. Oak Park pools were only open for a few short months, and in Illinois, tans fade too quickly. One night at a bar, over loud raucous music, I shouted to one of my best guy friends. I wondered if he'd visit me if such a move should happen. He tossed his head back and laughed. Peeved, I stomped my foot. He said, "Sure. You move, I'll visit, but you ain't moving." With arms crossed, I stomped away.
In the dark bar, only to myself, I admitted what he'd declared. He was right, deep down, I knew he was right. I wasn't leaving. There would be no U-Haul taking me across the country. There would be no move across the Great Plains, into the Wild West.
In fact, I moved. Just not across the country. I moved to my boyfriend's town, not far from Oak Park, but far enough from what was me, and right into what was him. I was Ariel.
Girl was leaving her world for boy's world, because he wasn't going to do it for her. Somehow, it was all justified in my head, though now, I couldn't explain it to you if I tried really, really hard.
Now, in that move, I did find many things and wonderful friends and a job I love.But, I also lost part of me, the part of me that felt settled.There weren't roots, and I am a person who longs for roots.
Nearly ten years later, I wonder if I'd summoned up all the courage inside me at that moment and walked out of the bar and packed my stuff, if things would have ended up differently for me. But, when you spent too much time thinking, "What if?" you forget what is.
What is is that I am a mother and a strong woman. Even with the lemons of life, and my Ariel decisions of the past, we still have what lies before us.
On that May day when my world fell away, I knew deep in my heart, it was my chance to come back to Oak Park. The absolute best thing of it all was that my children would be able to stake their roots there, and they would know it and love it as I once had.
Just recently, we moved back to Oak Park into an old house, converted into two apartments. We live in the "blue house", or "Mama's new house" now. My sister, my Claw, lives a few short steps away. There are tall, old trees lining every street and urban gardens and the sound of the "El" squealing day and night. There are people bustling, and new friends to meet, and Erik's Deli for lunch. There is life here, it is our life, not anyone's but ours. Life is good and getting settled. And no one around here is acting like Ariel anymore.
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