Things I've had to ignore this week:
- The fact that my jeans are too tight after a monthlong potato chip binge, each chip an attempt at distraction from the fact that Mark's been dead for four years.
- My friend pretending to shoot herself in the head to make a point about being frustrated.
- My heart squeezing upon hearing the laughter of my older kids home from college, their presence making it harder to ignore Mark's absence.
But I'm thankful. Thankful my potato chip fixation has diminished. Thankful for my friend despite her thoughtless attempt at humor. And so thankful for these kids of mine.
When your primary occupation for years and years has been mothering, and then when your child takes his life, you know people are judging your skill as a mother, and you know this because you did it yourself, before, with friends, speculated about why a child would take their own life, and always it came back to bad parenting. And as a mother whose primary occupation for years and years has been mothering, you feel defeated, and you act particularly upbeat out in public with your children, especially at their school, proving to the world over and over again that your son came from a good home with a loving mother. But you question yourself, your ability to mother, wondering if anything you do really makes a difference, exhausted by the most basic daily tasks, so that a simple trip to the dentist with your children feels like an accomplishment above and beyond what it should, because making the appointment, and getting everyone dressed and there on time requires monumental effort.
"See, I am a good mother," you say to no one in particular, and to everyone who might think you're not.
I used to be really uptight (yes, more uptight than I am now!). My older kids lived under the tyranny of having to have things "just so." After a few (or more) babies, and then when John was on chemo for three years, it was impossible to hold onto any kind of standard of cleanliness or neatness. And then John had liquid diarrhea for months on end. "There isn't poop on the floor? Great!"
Today as I stood in the bathroom drying off my hands, I noticed teeth marks on the white faux wood blinds hanging in the window, many well formed, half moon impressions. In the past I would have taken this as a personal insult. I would have hunted down the guilty child (and I know exactly who that child is based on the height of the marks) and dragged them into the bathroom for a serious talking to. But because there's been a considerable whittling down in the area of caring about such things, I just chuckled.
Don't get me wrong: I like my white faux wood blinds. I still like having nice things. And I will speak to the guilty child, but I know now that bite marks on my blinds aren't very important.
When my older kids were little, I'd hear other parents talk about the things their kids had done, and I'd marvel at their calm reactions. How did they know what was important way back then? Why didn't I figure this out a long time ago?
My house may be a mess, my nice things may not be so nice anymore, and I may have bite marks on the white faux wood blinds in my bathroom, but I'm a calmer, more loving mother who has been far happier with just OK than I ever was with just so.
