Yesterday, I stood behind my daughter, as she faced the long bathroom mirror in front of us. Her hair was freshly washed and descended down the length of her back. I had a comb in one hand and scissors in my other, as she posed a few times and awkwardly shimmied her hair into different lengths, trying to find the best one.
My five year old daughter hasn't had an actual haircut yet. I have however, cut a few wispy pieces here and there over the years. And that time she got play-doh stuck in her ends. But, her original mane is still fully intact.
She wanted to cut her longer than tailbone length hair all the way up to her chin. However, when it came time to snip, I panicked and just wasn't ready for that much change in one sitting. So after negotiations ensued, I started by cutting off about 3 inches in one movement, then snipped a few more in passing, ending with about 7 inches removed total.
She twirled around in the mirror with delight smeared all over her face. She loved the new length and forgot about wanting to cut it even shorter. Even after the cut, it still hangs almost mid way down her back, below her shoulder blades. She hopped off the stool, quickly hugging me, before running off to show her daddy and brother the new do.
The bulk of her former hair rested in one heap on the bathroom floor. I scooped it up and gently held it in my hand. In that moment, I was holding some of her original baby hair. The same hair that I used to kiss upon her little head, or wipe out of her tearful eyes. The same hair that would be covered in baby food when she was learning to self feed. Or, draped in her eyes when she would sit among of pile of her favorite books when she pretended to read.
One little clump, that held so many stories.
I feel like motherhood is one constant change. And cutting off a whole mane of hair that took 5 years to grow, just wasn't one of my strength skills. And apparently, cutting the hair isn't really my thing either. After my daughter's hair dried, I had to call my step mother in law to come over and even the length out... By the time she was done, about 3 more inches were removed and it looked professional. So, when my daughter wants another hair cut, I know who I'll call first this time.
After awhile, I'll become adjusted to the change in length and maybe by summer time, when she spends her days swimming, I'll be able to have it cut to her chin length that she wanted. By then, it won't seem so drastic.
It amazes me how music, clothes, places, and various items each hold so many memories for us. How one little strand of hair can retain so much. And, be able to overpower us with emotions.
I know with my son, I didn't have a problem with his hair because, I have cut it so frequently. His hair grows like a weed, and even though I have his hair shaped like a 1970's bowl cut with a hint of curly wild hair, it still requires constant trimming. So when I stood behind my daughter, ready to snip that first strand, I wasn't prepared for the emotions that would come flooding back. To me, it felt like cutting that little wisp of hair was cutting away memories that I wasn't ready to let go of.
But as life has it, we are constantly changing and evolving. We are never stationary and nothing in life is permanent. In 10 years from now, she may very well pass by me with her hair cascading down past her tailbone once again. And I'm sure when I see it, I'll stop and do some awkward Beverly Goldberg (from the TV show The Goldbergs) mom stuff that will make her cringe.
So I have to chalk this experience up to growth and accepting that my children are moving creatures in this evolving world. And I'm sure, there will be many more moments that make me hesitate and long to retain just one more memory... But, that is all part of growing up.
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The generation gap begins with me having to call Amazon just so they can walk me through the steps to set up parental controls on my son's kindle. Only to have my 3 year old figure them out in the first try. In hindsight, maybe the password, 1234, wasn't such a great idea... However, since then, the new password was submitted to contain a numerical symbol, a capital letter, the blood from a goat, and stardust... We should be fine now.
Today was just one of those days... I know I usually only write about finding the silver lining in all your days, no matter how negative the outcome. While I still hold true to that belief, sometimes, I like to throw in a story that makes me seem more human behind my words.
Today, I was awaken to the sounds of Lego Batman seeping through the baby monitor at 3:02 am. Once my brain caught up to what I was hearing, I looked over at my tiny picture screen to see my son sitting up in his bed with his kindle rested on his legs. I immediately pulled myself from the warmth of my bed to his room and removed the kindle from his possession with very little words. Only, to have him shush me for walking too loudly. I kindly lied down beside him to help him fall back to sleep, only to be woke again, 3 hours later, by my daughter asking for chocolate milk.
3 cups of coffee later...
Being a school day, I rushed breakfast, did homework, packed a snack, and dressed all three of us before walking out the door for kindergarten drop off.
After drop off, my son and I went to the grocery store for milk and bread, only to be halted in the store for a half hour waiting in line with only one register open and a lady with a book of coupons.
I finally get home and trouble shoot with Amazon on how to set up parental controls on my son's kindle to prevent him from buying every known app on their online store.
Then with my one free hand, I make a cake for dinner at my in-laws later in the evening.
Once I'm off the phone with Amazon and the cake is nicely baking, I finally hear back from my local post office and they found my package that was missing for three days, because my mailman didn't want to get out of his truck and instead, left a "sorry we missed you" ticket in my mailbox, while I was home. The missing package ended up being at a completely different post office and that post office was closing in a half hour. Obviously, it wasn't going to be redelivered today.
By this time, I had 45 minutes to pull the cake out of the oven, get my son ready, run to a post office that was 15 minutes away, and get to my daughter's school for pick up that was 20 minutes away from the post office.
Are you following along?
Then, when I did arrived at the post office, there were 9 people in line, all with boxes and envelopes in their hands, with one register opened -once again. I paced for a few seconds, while my son chatted about all the mail trucks that were parked out front, before walking up to another woman who was sitting off to the side, eating a bag of chips. I told her about my package debacle and thankfully, she knew who I was and offered to scan my package separately to send me on my way.
By the time I arrived at my daughter's school, my son was softly sleeping in the back seat, with fragments of peanut butter embedded around the corners of his mouth from his snack on the go. My hands and fingers were still tightly gripped around the steering wheel and my brain was still reeling with my to do list that needed to be done in such a short amount of time. I eventually, let out a sigh of relief that I was able to sit for a second without having to run to another place.
These type of days are my constant as a stay at home mom. While my husband is at work, it is my responsibility to tend to everything else that needs tending. I am not only the full time caretaker of my children, I am also a full time homemaker and all of it's entity as well. However, some days, I handle the tasks more gracefully than others. This day in particular, I wanted to cry into my steering wheel.
The silver lining?
Well, the silver lining is, when I look back upon my motherhood days, I want to remember my peaceful sleeping son in the backseat of my car or my overly happy daughter running into my arms after she steps off the bus. I want to remember my son singing Baa Baa Black Sheep at the highest possible volume, while I was chomping at the bit, trying get to the post office. Not the crazy moments that lead up to that.
Because, quite frankly, children don't care about your stressful, chaotic, hair pulling moments. They care about how much love they're getting or how special you make them feel. They crave stability and time. As a parent, I try my best to drown out the complicated life around me and look at them with a big confident smile, even if some days, I cry behind closed doors.
So, my process to obtaining the silver lining during a less than stellar day is to absorb the happiness my children exude. To live in the moment and not speculate what tomorrow will bring. I also reflect on the best moment of the day, even if they were quick little blips that were barely noticeable. I'll sometimes pull myself away from the adult baggage that needs to be done and have an uncomplicated conversation with my 5&3 year old. Because children are singular and rarely think to a deeper level that adults do. And to them, everything in life is simple and fixable and the sun always rises again tomorrow... A cue that even adults need to hear every now and then.
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It amazes me how my daughter will organize all her craft items a thousand times a day if they're messy or not to her liking... However, she becomes incapacitated and "unable" to help if mommy asks her to clean up any other mess that she has made throughout the day... Motherhood, apparently the only one with the superpower ability to clean up messes in the household.
The snow less winter has sprouted life once again. As I look out my kitchen window, I see our barron winter grass is now blanketed with thick white snow. Outside, the snowflakes are falling at a rapid speed and our unbearable below zero temperatures have soared to above freezing. I stand in my warm kitchen, with a family-made soup simmering on the stove and the sounds of my children playing in the background. My home is temporarily still and quiet, like the world outside.
My birthday came and went, leaving with it, these beautiful vintage sun catchers that were a gift from my children. These lay rested against the cold glass, reflecting a colorful hue from the little light that penetrates through the gray skies. Even on the coldest snowy days, these lovely intricate glass pieces brighten and warm my kitchen with all the love that came from choosing them.
I could imagine how vibrant these sun catchers once were when they were newly hand painted. They must have rested against the drafty glass of a house in the similar era of my 1930's home. I could imagine a mother standing alone in her kitchen, baking bread for the week or pie for today's dinner. And also hearing her children off playing in another room in the home -Mimicking the very sequential steps that I am. These very sun catchers would have brought the same colorful hue to her winter days, as they do to mine.
The lovely fact about all elements vintage is the intertwined connection we all feel. Every item holds a story and once you partake on the journey, you have the ability to add another piece to the history. I'm not sure what the first story was, I'd like to think they held as much joy for the original owners, as they do for me. But, I know what my story will be, and hopefully one day, my children will have these sun catchers hung in their home and continue their story for their children...
I have never worn make up, not even on my wedding day. It just never fit into my "tomboy" persona. I have always been like the son my dad never had. I was taught how to change a tire, how to change the oil in an old car, and I know what ever tool is used for. I was taught how to hit a ball with the back end of a broom handle and I grew up playing backyard football and baseball with all the neighborhood boys. I was usually picked in the top among the boys at gym class to play flag football and kickball. And, I was a varsity athlete and a division III college field hockey record setter. Being a woman the way society pushed, just wasn't me.
I didn't have that girly edge. I usually felt out of place, but I always felt comfortable as being one of the guys. It seemed like there were two categories in life, one, you loved shopping and two, you loved make-up. And neither phased me. I didn't relate to girls. What would we even talk about? I also wasn't into the drama that accompanied being around them. I disliked heels and frilly dresses and getting "dolled up" and my clothes were usually two sizes too big. I'm a simple girl who is low maintenance. And in my 34 years around the sun, I've never tried to be something I'm not.
Motherhood was the only moment in my life that connected me to a woman's life. But it didn't happen overnight. I went from being a pregnant first time mom who knew it all, to a woman living a life that was perfect for her. I swore it wouldn't change me and I wasn't going to let it soften me. I used to think I would parent like Robert De Niro's character in Meet the Fockers (never holding my child out of comfort, only for need). Basically, I thought I would parent like a typical guy. But once my daughter graced my life, all squishy and small, something changed. The change happened so naturally that I didn't even notice, until I reflected back. The first week or so, I was robotic through all the motions and only focused on her needs. Then, all of the sudden, I found myself staying up all hours rocking and singing to my baby, never letting her cry unnecessarily. I effortlessly accommodated all her wants, instead of only her needs. I was so willing to hold her for pure comfort. And just like that, this motherhood experience went from being foreign to something as natural as breathing... Before I knew it, I was babywearing and practicing attachment parenting and gentle parenting... And turned into a total peace loving hippie.
Motherhood not only softened me... It completely changed me.
From that moment, I felt like I finally fit into a category. Each year I age as a mother, I become more and more comfortable in my own skin. Here I am, now 34 years old, and about 35 lbs of extra weight pulls on my body, dark circles lay under my tired eyes, my hair is speckled and streaked with gray, and my favorite attire is sweats. However, I have never felt more myself. Because, it's no longer about appearance, but more about my role as a mother and my empowerment as a woman.
The empowerment sprouted from the ability to grow a baby, birth a baby, and feed a baby without any assistance from the outside world. Being a woman is a remarkable experience.
After motherhood, I fit in with more women and have much more to talk about. Since blogging, I have met many other cyber mommies who have similar lifestyles and beliefs, and even though I have never met most of these women in real life, I feel as if I have befriended them. And I no longer feel so out of place in this woman world anymore.
With motherhood, there isn't a one size fits all. There isn't a perfect picture of what motherhood is, and everyone does it differently and from all walks of life. You could be anyone and raise your child however you deem fit. No rules (other than basic human rules), no attire, no category, nothing... Just mothering.
Prior to motherhood, I felt as if I would never fit in anywhere. I was is limbo between worlds, not knowing the place for me. Until, something so natural occurred which changed my life forever and united me among the elite group of motherhood. A place that I not only belong in, but fit perfectly in. Turns out, I wasn't out of place all this time, I was just waiting to be a mother.
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I carried my sleeping son over the threshold, into my quiet home. His once shorten legs now dangle well past my thighs and his weight is noticeably heavier, as I shift his sleeping body in my arms. We just returned from dropping my daughter off at school. I placed my son in his superheroes bed, with his favorite doggy and blanket nestled beside him. He stirred once and rolled onto his side, resting with a smile engraved on his face. I stand and stare, like all parents do when they admire the beauty and peace their sleeping child exudes. I kissed him gently on his little chubby cheek before I go about my next two hours of cleaning and straightening up from our morning.
I do a quick sweep of the house, but then I stop and admire some of the random misplaced belongings I find along the way. Within seconds, I'm immediately transported. I sit back onto my couch, holding my daughter's favorite doll, Curly Shirley, that I found on my sitting room floor. Her once vibrant colors are now faded with a gray hue from no doubt, the numerous washer machine trips. I could remember my daughter laying in her moses basket, with her one month old arm draped snugly around this doll. Curly Shirley has been there for late nights and early mornings and everything in between. It brings me back to a time when she was so little and yearning for all the comforts of mom. A time that doesn't feel that long ago, but long enough that the images displayed in my mind are becoming blurry.
When my home is quiet, I become restless from the memories that run through my open thoughts. I become nostalgic from all the memories that are so quickly fleeting in my motherhood journey. I find myself sitting and counting the minutes away until my son wakes from his nap, or when my high energy daughter runs to me once again.
She'll burst through that door, chattering like an auctioneer, all about her day. I'll sit and listen and admire how grown up she is, from only a short time ago. Then she'll leave me to roller skate around our home a few dozen times, while pretending she's at a skating party with all her friends. Then she'll loop back around to tell me something that she forgot. My son will randomly unearth from the playroom to tell me about his batman guys and what adventures he's partaking on. He'll tell me how the Joker is creating havoc around Gotham City, but thankfully the Justice League is there to put him in jail...
...And both children will talk over each other to see who could reach the highest volume, the quickest. And just like that, my temporary quiet home is once again filled with the calming chatter of noise and conversations. These are the sounds that comfort my soul and set my mind at ease. Without these sounds, my mind would continue to wander without bounds, never finding a destination that satisfies. Its reins are bounded by my children... They are and will forever be, my identity.
**Once again, if you enjoy reading my stories, please vote for The Happy Days by going onto my main page www.jackyhappydays.blogspot.com and clicking the Top Mommy Blogs icon in the right side column. More votes equals more traffic. As always, thank you again for your continued support.**
I sat on my sitting room floor, with my back rested against the bottom of the couch. The somber colored lights still glisten from my Christmas tree and the drafty floor didn't seem to disturb me. The room was quiet, with only the sounds of music transmitting from my Crosley record player. My children were off in their playroom, indulging in their childhood duties of play. My feet were stretched out onto my carpet as I was reading the back of my Rubber Soul album. I had about a dozen British Invasion records scattered on the floor before me, while my mind drifted off to the 60s. There's something magical about the sound of the needle grazing the grooves of a record. The low tones are more noticeable and the music is hazy. It's almost a feeling as if you're trying to remember your past memories from an era, that never really existed.
The music takes me back to a time when I was 13 years old. I was dressed in 90s grunge attire and I always wore my John Lennon hat. My hair was curly and just about grazed my tailbone. My Birkenstocks were completely broken in and on sunny days, I had my round sunglasses donned. I wanted so badly to be a hippie out of the 60s. On my down time, I would play pool in our game room for hours on end, while listening to the Beatles on vinyl from my parent's record player. I always had a playlist that was routine and I was just about professional status with landing the needle perfectly onto the groove of the next track.
Like most people, music has always been a intricate part of my life. But for me, it's not current music as most would perceive. I was lucky to grow up with parents that were much cooler than I could ever dream of being in my lifetime. They were rock and roll band managers through the 70s-80s -In northern NJ and NY. So when I was a child, all I ever heard playing was 60s,70s, and 80s music.
Those songs resonated within myself and became a part of me. I then became a part of a simpler time and a time of great music.
Growing up, it was nothing to have musicians in and out of our home; playing guitars and singing songs well into the night. Or us getting backstage passes to top bands. Or even me celebrating my 7th birthday on stage with one of my favorite local bands. It was so normal for me that I sometimes saw it as an inconvenience. I could remember being bored standing backstage at a Firehouse concert -Can you imagine that?
So, when I listen to 60s, 70s and 80s songs on my record player, it brings me back to a time where I actually feel like I lived. It makes me feel as if I almost have memories of myself sauntering through a meadow, wearing my flowy flowery dress, barefoot, with my VW bus parked alongside us. It makes me think of myself as a child, spinning and twirling around the living floor to the Rolling Stones. Or my dad and I going to the venues to hang posters during the day, while guns and roses played on the jukebox. A time when I wasn't in charge of my own life...
Now, when I play these songs, my children hurry out of the playroom and sit right beside me and ask questions about the album I'm holding. I tell them stories about their Poppy and Nana and about my memories these songs conjure up. My daughter randomly requests Herman Hermits, Henry the VIII and my son dances wildly to the Rolling Stones.
I'm hoping when my children are older and they hear these songs, they'll have similar memories. I realize they won't have the same stories that I have from my parent's cooler days, but, I hope my daughter remembers me rocking her back and forth during her colic hours, softly singing The Animals, House of the Rising Sun. Or our memories of dancing around the kitchen to Joan Jett and Suzie Quatro, with her playing pretend drums and myself playing the air guitar. And, I hope my son smiles when Rolling Stones, Satisfaction clicks on.
I want them to have an outlet where when they hear a certain song, it'll reminds them of a simpler time. Hopefully, it will remind them of a specific moment in their lives that brought them so much joy and happiness. It will always be a connection between all of us, that no matter how far apart we are, or whatever life has planned for us, our souls will all be intertwined through music and the memories that come along with it.
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