On Saturday morning, I watched a beautiful, short film, The Years Are Short, produced by Gretchen Rubin, the blogger behind The Happiness Project. It's the story of riding the bus to school with her daughter, and how Gretchen changed her perspective of the morning ritual from one of dread to appreciation.
The video was made more poignant to me as I watched it while nursing my fourth child; the last baby I will ever bring to my breast. It had me reflecting about times in my own parenting journey when the fatigue of caring for a large family has kept me distanced from the present moment; when my drive to accomplish, to move onto the next thing, precluded me from mindfulness. When I'm overwhelmed, it's easy for me to get caught up in thinking, "I can't wait until this stage passes," neglecting to find the joy even in the busy, sometimes harried days of motherhood.
I remember when my son was two, and new to potty training. He went through this exasperating phase where he would not pee in any toilet except in our home bathroom. You can imagine that this little quirk brought a whole new level of fun to errand running and shopping, especially since he wouldn't go in his training pants or a pull-up, either. I finally found a solution to the problem: he could pee in the grass! So I spent six months peeing with my son in the grass outside Target, the grocery store, and Costco. There were days when I thought this peculiarity would drive me crazy, and I found myself grumbling, "I can't wait until he's through this stage."
Now he's through that stage. He's five, nearly six. I look at him, all lanky limbs, and miss that snuggly, tiny person. I would love to help that little toddler pee in the grass...one more time.
For the last nine months, I've been trying to night wean my other son, my baby, from my bed. And yet, every morning, he ends up in my bed, on my breast. Maybe it's not so much a lack of discipline on my part, as much as my reluctance to part with this last remnant of babyhood, that keeps him close. I want to cuddle him, as much as I can, to hold onto every snuggle and cuddle and suckle. To make what can't last forever, last a little bit longer.
Valerie, a reader from Puerto Rico, wrote and shared this story: "Last night my husband got home with a pack of beautiful pictures...our Christmas pictures. I tried very hard to make wonderful memories this season for my family. We had great family reunions, delicious family dinners. I baked with my daughters which I had never done before. I made a point of spending quality time with my beloved family. It was great. I felt and feel so happy. My hubby and I took pictures of every event.
I do not appear in any of the pictures. Not even one. I was so busy getting everybody included that I forgot about myself. There is no memory evidence that I participated in all these wonderful family activities...I have been thinking...who really wants me to have wonderful memories?"
It is up to us, each woman and mother and parent, to create these memories. I think of how I've focused on recording my children's childhoods, arranging the rituals and celebrations, collecting the memories into scrapbooks and journals, so that I, too, forget to play an active part. Am I chronicling these days, or living them?
In these stories, I can't help but see the paradox: how I can't be present with my children, and be in the moment, and appreciate the mommy stage with the messy house, the errand running, and the noisy cacophony of family life, if I'm so drained and frazzled that I'm wishing my children's lives away; longing for them to grow up.
So this serves as a reminder to nourish myself, to shelter some time for me, so that I can appreciate those tender moments, and be present in them: peeing in the grass; riding on the bus; baking cookies. It's a reminder to know when to put aside my planning tendencies, so that I can revel in my children's routines as an active participant, not a passive bystander. It's a reminder that my parenting days are numbered. They are a limited commodity. Every morning, my children grow a day older; another minute more independent. Everyday, they take one more step toward the door of adulthood.
This is my children's childhood. Will I savor it?
On Saturday morning, I watched a beautiful, short film, The Years Are Short, produced by Gretchen Rubin, the blogger behind The Happiness Project. It's the story of riding the bus to school with her daughter, and how Gretchen changed her perspective of the morning ritual from one of dread to appreciation.
The video was made more poignant to me as I watched it while nursing my fourth child; the last baby I will ever bring to my breast. It had me reflecting about times in my own parenting journey when the fatigue of caring for a large family has kept me distanced from the present moment; when my drive to accomplish, to move onto the next thing, precluded me from mindfulness. When I'm overwhelmed, it's easy for me to get caught up in thinking, "I can't wait until this stage passes," neglecting to find the joy even in the busy, sometimes harried days of motherhood.
I remember when my son was two, and new to potty training. He went through this exasperating phase where he would not pee in any toilet except in our home bathroom. You can imagine that this little quirk brought a whole new level of fun to errand running and shopping, especially since he wouldn't go in his training pants or a pull-up, either. I finally found a solution to the problem: he could pee in the grass! So I spent six months peeing with my son in the grass outside Target, the grocery store, and Costco. There were days when I thought this peculiarity would drive me crazy, and I found myself grumbling, "I can't wait until he's through this stage."
Now he's through that stage. He's five, nearly six. I look at him, all lanky limbs, and miss that snuggly, tiny person. I would love to help that little toddler pee in the grass...one more time.
For the last nine months, I've been trying to night wean my other son, my baby, from my bed. And yet, every morning, he ends up in my bed, on my breast. Maybe it's not so much a lack of discipline on my part, as much as my reluctance to part with this last remnant of babyhood, that keeps him close. I want to cuddle him, as much as I can, to hold onto every snuggle and cuddle and suckle. To make what can't last forever, last a little bit longer.
Valerie, a reader from Puerto Rico, wrote and shared this story: "Last night my husband got home with a pack of beautiful pictures...our Christmas pictures. I tried very hard to make wonderful memories this season for my family. We had great family reunions, delicious family dinners. I baked with my daughters which I had never done before. I made a point of spending quality time with my beloved family. It was great. I felt and feel so happy. My hubby and I took pictures of every event.
I do not appear in any of the pictures. Not even one. I was so busy getting everybody included that I forgot about myself. There is no memory evidence that I participated in all these wonderful family activities...I have been thinking...who really wants me to have wonderful memories?"
It is up to us, each woman and mother and parent, to create these memories. I think of how I've focused on recording my children's childhoods, arranging the rituals and celebrations, collecting the memories into scrapbooks and journals, so that I, too, forget to play an active part. Am I chronicling these days, or living them?
In these stories, I can't help but see the paradox: how I can't be present with my children, and be in the moment, and appreciate the mommy stage with the messy house, the errand running, and the noisy cacophony of family life, if I'm so drained and frazzled that I'm wishing my children's lives away; longing for them to grow up.
So this serves as a reminder to nourish myself, to shelter some time for me, so that I can appreciate those tender moments, and be present in them: peeing in the grass; riding on the bus; baking cookies. It's a reminder to know when to put aside my planning tendencies, so that I can revel in my children's routines as an active participant, not a passive bystander. It's a reminder that my parenting days are numbered. They are a limited commodity. Every morning, my children grow a day older; another minute more independent. Everyday, they take one more step toward the door of adulthood.
This is my children's childhood. Will I savor it?