So, I’ve been really quiet lately. No regular Wednesday knit updates. No birthday wishes, either for myself or for Maks as he turned five. No tearful posts about sending him off to kindergarten, or glowing reports about the charter school we decided to send him and his older brother to in lieu of their local elementary school. No blogs about how Domino and I are doing at home alone together for the first time, or the at home preschool we’ve set up. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
It’s not because I haven’t had anything to post. I have, as you can plainly read in the above sentences. But, like usual, I’ve been off living my life instead of blogging it. Normally, I would say that is a good thing. But I’ve noticed that when I do blog, I actually participate more in my life. It makes me think more about what I’m doing. How I’m interacting with my family. The past couple months, I haven’t been doing enough of that. In fact, I rarely do. I seem to spend most days in a fog, and by the time the day is over, I’m not even sure what, if anything was accomplished. I don’t spend enough time being with my kids, to engaged in trying to feel like I’m alive to actually live. That all sounds really depressing, doesn’t it? It is.
I whine; I yell; I scream; I throw things. I act like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Sadly, the kids have to put up with it and they have learned to respond in kind, which just makes me madder and perpetuates the cycle. I am not going to pretend I’m Super Mom. Most days I don’t think I’m even Average Mom. I have a nasty temper, and combine that with depression and it’s an explosion just waiting for someone to light the fuse.
But I aspire to be a super mom. I have some really good friends that are just that. I met them on Babycenter, when I was pregnant for the third time. I know most of you are going to laugh at that, but these women have become my bedrock. They are the best friends I could have ever asked for. They are there for me, no matter what. And they aren’t afraid to say what they think. If I’m blowing things out of proportion, they’ll let me know. We are all able to have spirited thoughtful debates about a variety of topics, and don’t have to worry that we’re going to offend the other. We have been there through the worst and had to help each other through issues I never would have imagined in my wildest dreams.
But they aren’t just amazing women, they truly are Super Moms. Each of them has so much to teach me about raising my children. They are the woman I want to be when I finally wake up and take control of my life. They inspire me to be a better woman, a better wife, and a better mother. One of these women has not one, but two children who have to live with Juvenile Diabetes. There is another whose son has Autism. Three of them work outside the home and yet manage to provide the most loving and caring environments for their children, even taking them to work when necessary. Two more of these women homeschool their children and make motherhood look easy, one of them while going through an unpleasant divorce. Yet another is pursuing her dreams to help others, while raising both a three year old and two teenagers. There are two more who stay at home with their kids, providing calm, stable, loving homes. And one more, who has been through so much hell in her life that it is unbelievable how she has managed to make it this far and retain her sanity.
I have learned so much from these women. I am so lucky and proud to be their friend. As I struggle with my day to day life, I need to remember the lessons I have learned from them. But more than that, I need to apply those lessons to my life. I need to be a woman and mother my children are proud of, not someone they just have to live with and pray that they get out of the way when the shit hits the fan. And it always does.
This morning, I screamed at my oldest for not doing enough to help out this morning. For not putting enough grapes in his brother’s lunch box when he was getting them ready. What is wrong with me? Instead of screaming that he didn’t do enough, I should have been praising him for making his brother’s lunch at all. That is something to be proud of and instead I complain that it’s not enough. When he was just a baby, I used to call him Angel Boy. He was so easy and sweet and caring and loving. He still is, and yet I can’t see it most days. Instead, I see a boy that does whatever he can to get out of his chores or his homework, a boy who screams at his brothers and mistreats them, a boy who thinks that nothing he does is good enough, so why bother doing it at all. I need to remember that he has learned from the best. I know that the sweet little angel that he was is still there, I see flashes of it everyday, some more than others. But he has learned my anger and my fear and my anxieties. It makes me sick to think of the lessons he has learned from me, instead of the lessons of love, self-confidence, inner strength, joy, and optimisim that I should be teaching him.
It seems like every morning I resolve to do better, to be better, to be the mother he deserves and every morning I fail in a thousand ways. I don’t know anymore how to find my way. I am asleep at the wheel in every way and I need wake up. I need a map to help me get back on course before I drive us all right over the edge of a cliff.