Notes from the Hammock: Unscripted Childhood

After the "winter that would not end" and the "spring, what spring," summer has arrived in my part of the world, and it is glorious! For me this means that I can *finally* let my energetic Big Kidlet, who is now a newly self-sufficient three year old, putter around the backyard without (constantly) worrying that he will get himself injured by all manner of harmful hazards my first time mother brain has obsessed over since he first toddled away from me; although, he did learn this week that the water in his water/sand table is most definitely NOT for drinking, courtesy of an aching tummy. This also means introducing Little Kidlet to the joys of being lazy in the hammock, emphasis on "lazy."

I'm not one of those "go-go" mothers who ferries my kids to endless classes, preschool drop-offs, or even overly many playdates. I chose to stay home and find another professional path, and we make lots of sacrifices to be able to make that happen. Part of this is consciously reactionary to the culture I find myself raising my kids in, and partially it is just "what feels normal" to me.

I grew up in a small rural town, and was an only child. My mother stayed home with me while also pursuing her MBA. She didn't view motherhood as "cruise director." Often I would be away for the entire day, returning tired and dirty from my ramblings. I was bored ALOT. I was often lonely to. But I also developed an ability to just be in the moment, something I struggle to regain in adulthood. I would climb on the back of my horse grazing in the pasture and lay on his back and just listen. I developed an imagination. I was always happiest in the barn storage where my mom stored the artifacts of my parents' lives, and I imagined I could play the trumpet I found there like Chet Baker, or read my mother's Pippi Longstocking books written in Norwegian.

Today, the birds were singing in the sunshine we've waited months for, and I took some time with my boys to once again just listen, to not have an agenda for the experience or the learning I wanted them to have, and simply be with them. I lay in the hammock and watched what my boys were learning. Little Kidlet and I gently swayed with the trees above us as he attempted to grab anything he could get his hands on, and Big Kidlet attempted to coax the birds to the birdbath, with calls of "here birdie, come and take a break and have a drink."

The deck needs to be redone, my house doesn't keep up with the Jones', I am an oddity because my kid isn't going to preschool, and I clearly need a pedicure, but I am so so blessed to be able to be right where I want to be, giving my kids some measure of the wonder of an unscripted childhood that I was given.

My greatest pride is found in the small exchanges (endlessly peppered with questions) that I have with Big Kidlet as he asks me: "Can I be an animal rescuer mommy, can I...in my imagination?" To which I reply: "Yes, honey, in your imagination you can be anything."

A River Runs Through It

I never really think of myself as particularly "artistic," mainly because when I draw or paint with my three year old son, well let's just say I haven't progressed much in my rendering ability since my childhood. But, I've recently begun to realize I tend to think in pictures. When I'm having discussions with people, and I'm articulating my point, I usually have distinct metaphorical images in my mind.

Today as I was explaining the place that I now find myself in with my oldest child, images of water swirled in my brain. In the past, particularly while I have navigated post-partum depression, parenting has felt like the ocean for me: vast, unknowable, unending, with forceful waves relentlessly pursuing me at the shore, threatening to tug me under.

But, at the moment we have reached this place where things have evened out for both myself and my son, and parenting doesn't feel so much like the ocean, as it does a river: twisting, always surprising, where I will at times find roaring and frightening rapids with jagged unseen rocks to navigate, only to find just around the bend a serene and smooth stretch, where I regain a sense of wonder, and peace, and I can rest. Presently, I'm floating seemingly effortlessly along with the current. I'm blissfully in the moment, not fretting about what has come before, nor nervously anticipating the geography of the landscape ahead.

While an ocean indiscriminately covers and conceals the terrain, its depths largely unmapped, its tides powerful and unceasing, a river is a different force; a river changes the surface of the terrain. A river has a plan, that flexes to the land, but doggedly pursues its end to create a "wide, flat valley where it can flow smoothly towards the ocean."

In those moments of peace as I am carried by the smooth waters of motherhood, I appreciate the grooves and valleys that the River has carved, and marvel at the steady force that has reshaped the topography, leveling mountains in its wake. In those peaceful meanders I restore myself for the rougher waters ahead.

Photo by Jim's outside photos

The Stain of a Mother's Love

How do you view your stretch-marks? When my head is screwed on straight and I have proper appreciation for all of my blessings, I consider them a badge of motherhood honor. I try to think that they are the record of the amazing things my body has done, and tell a bit about the life this body has lived, sort of like the rings of a tree trunk.

Today I added another badge that mattered to me...egg dye stained hands from making Easter eggs for the first time with Big Kidlet. So what, families do it every year, what's the big deal? Well in my family, nope we didn't. I vaguely remember some Easter egg hunts attended as a child, but for the most part it was a non-holiday in my household. I remember when I started to spend significant time with my now husband's family, I just really didn't get all the hoopla about Easter. I understood the religious import in theory, but not in an applicable way.

There is one exception to this. I have a distinct memory from a time when I couldn't have been much older than Big Kidlet is now. It is a resonant memory of dyeing Easter eggs with a woman I called "Nana." She was a family friend, who basically adopted me as an honorary grandchild. At some point not long after, my parents decided that Nana had some issues with driving and chain smoking that made it not a good idea for me to hang out with her, and she disappeared from my life. But I distinctly remember having fun and feeling loved in that hazy memory of brightly colored eggs in an unknown kitchen.

I've felt like a giant mommy slacker when it comes to celebrating holidays because it just is abnormal to me from my upbringing. So, it was a big deal, this small thing of some dye and some hard boiled eggs.

I ran around town doing some errands after, and would catch sight of my natty stained fingers and feel the need to explain to the cashier that I had been dyeing eggs with my son that afternoon. I was the only one who really understood why I said that with a distinct note of pride. I knew I had expressed my love for my child and wore my badge of motherhood honor.

Photo by thisisbossi