Tag: A Good Mother

Hello, I’m Spinning

I’m not ok. It’s taken a long time to admit to myself. Holly has been gone seven years.

It makes sense to admit it here. Where the wind howls around the dust-filled corners of this blog from lack of new words. Perhaps no one will read this. Do people even have blogs anymore? I don’t care. I’ve always written for myself.

I’m spinning. I have no coping mechanisms. I’ve been “saving” old books or buying depending on your perspective. But I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. No recreational drugs– too risky for me. I don’t drive my car recklessly or gamble. I guess maybe I’ve been overeating, that was my mother’s thing. But it’s more like the sedentary life is killing me. 

I don’t have “faith.” To me, I mean that I no longer live my life as if I need or believe in God. I’ve always been exceptionally hard on myself but this truth seems especially important to admit for some reason: My life is secular. I have not entered a church in more than a year before that it was before Covid. I have no relationship with discipleship. That’s just a church word for mentoring done by someone spiritually wise with someone who is less so but yearns to be worthy.

Unless you count my bookshelves and the authors who speak loudly and profoundly. The same goes for the influence of friends. Na da. Even my lovely partner is silent with me. I’m fairly convinced he loathes me, for I have felt angry, sullen, and isolated. I’m so judgemental that my adult son pointed it out to me more than once; I’ve embarrassed him. That humiliated me but in the best way. In the way that your heart knows already and wants to do better.   I tried a rubber band to stop my mouth, at least so that he wouldn’t hear what a terrible person I’d become.  This was hard to stick with. That snap hurts! Plus, what do I do with my head which won’t stop criticizing me? I lost my sister (a different sister than Holly) because she couldn’t hear my sarcasm, anger, and meanness any longer. She walked out of my life. I probably deserved it. It’s my penance for turning into my dad when I’m around her. I can’t say her name because her final straw was my talking about us on Facebook.

The last time I saw Holly, was in February 2018 in Couer d’Alene, ID
My mother and I de-boning the Thanksgiving turkey.
My kids.

I miss my parents. I never realized I’d miss them when they were dead. I think I hated my parents my whole life. There were many reasons, simplified it was for the control. And the neglect. “Emotional whiplash for breakfast, honey?” Lack of trust to make decisions, any decisions, from what to wear to what or if I’d attend college, to whether I could date a Black friend, have a lesbian roommate, or move overseas. I was not to: Be unique. Or be original.  Because there was a ” right way” to think,  to be, to believe, to live. 

Pick, pick, pick. Criticism. Correction. Outrage. Disappointment.  I’m fairly certain the only thing my father was proud of me for was the Urbana job. For my mother, it was marrying Tom. He’s “A good man” by which she meant not a controlling, angry, abusive bastard like my father. And I was a good mother, she thought.  But I was an alcoholic and workaholic, and I barely remember when my kids were little because of it– like her and my father.  I’ll never forgive myself.

So why do I miss them I wonder? Because childhood would bring Holly back to life. And I would protect her this time.

The Monster was Caged & Resting

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I asked my son to write about his depression. I am trying to save him.

I want to know what it is like to be inside him. Him specifically because every person’s suffering is different. I know the exercise of putting words down on paper heals.

But I know depression only too well. It chases me. It’s never far. Though it’s been a good long while. The monster has been resting.

It’s been glorious to wake without it heavy on my bones.

If I’m lucky enough to live a while in peace, I fill my mind with other things, books, music poetry, and people who tell a different story one of liberation from the destruction, heavy, crushing demolition.

When I slow down now to remember – for I told him I would write, too and put down the words of depression – it feels like letting a monster out of its cage to play a while. A dangerous game. The monster only wants to kill. But if I visit, like in the zoo, perhaps I can view it from a safe distance.

Depression is dogged, relentless. It won’t let me sleep well, and the more fitful the sleep, the longer the dark days awake. Depression hurts me in my bones. It’s a deep ache, heavy, as if I’m full of sand. Each step, each breath, each thought more difficult than the last.

Yesterday, I heard it knocking, I learned I’ll be seeing someone, a family member, who has declared me unfit, unworthy of their love (and time), and the monster came to sit on my chest. Instantly, I was immobilized by anxiety. Meanwhile, it laughed deeply and ironically and climbed on top of me.

As I drove through the Wisconsin countryside, fighting to stay awake from a long day, a great big, emorphous tonnage of a monster crept up and pounced. I feel it now, the next day. On my ribcage. I can’t see it, only I feel it make itself at home on my ribcage. I can’t fling it off, too heavy, but also like water between my fingers, shape-shifting, magical but hideous.

So I am in danger right now. I’m at risk if i keep it to myself. I’ve never achieved anything important by myself when it comes to this monster.

I can distract myself, but that’s a dangerous addiction for me. I can retell my worthiness to myself, but the monster on my chest is about my value, and I’m no match on my own.

But pride always keeps me from speaking. I’m mute against the danger, the suffering which I know will come in the days ahead if I don’t speak aloud. “I am in danger.”

As I chase something truer than her lies, I’m already tired.

I’m already afraid.

I’m already beaten.

I know one of these times the monster will win.

Do I fight?

For now, she settles in. Ignores me. That is her superpower satisfied with scaring me close to death then slowly crushing the air from my lungs. I know if I don’t fight, she’ll more than ravage. Or maim. More than lay waste.

She will consume and kill me slowly, as asphyxiation finishes the job.

Right here, in this moment, being tired already, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll go sit in the sunshine. That’s a microchoice toward life.

{A Good Mother}

What does it mean
to be a good mother?
Limits, but it’s also that tender balance of sweet
unconditional grace,
even total acceptance and then, the hard core follow through
that is so tough for me to do.
Rules, limits, follow through. You can’t let them
totally fail,
but falling down every once in a while, just a little
is a part of life. Skinned knees
no matter how much it hurts to watch must be okay, even good.
You will wipe the blood dripping, clean the gravel from their wounds,
place a band aid on their broken heart. Consequences are important.
But how to offer, even allow that
and also confirm, that no matter what
you are holding a safety net.
You want your kids to jump high, even fly
but then there’s the risk.  They may fall, or even fail
or they may fly away.
That’s what it means
to be a good mother – to know the end of the story
is written before you
began with that first suck of life’s breast milk you offered, tender and sweet.
That one day they will go and that’s the aim you always knew,
to set them free.

There is a Woman: Reflections on Motherhood

There is a woman who makes raising up children and being at-home seem the most gratifying and beautiful tasks in the whole world. I want to believe it is a noble task and I read her blog, if a bit unfaithfully.  When I remember again, I go there and I seem to gorge on her simple, profound theological insights and humble, breathtaking photography.  She reminded me today of Henri Nouwen’s words suggesting that:

“[t]he word patience means willingness to stay where we are and live out the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.”

How can I be so frustrated and impatient in my circumstances?

If there was a sub-theme to my blog it would be that!  If there was a lesson (and there have been so many) I feel I have been supposed to learn from the last decade of life at home it has been to believe that I am where God wants me.  Also, that who I am is more important than what I am doing.  For more than a year, I sought God’s will; I cried and prayed and wanted to know if I should quit my job.  I sought insight from wise people.  I asked myself in my heart of hearts what I should do and then finally made a decision. This is his desire for me right now until he clearly presents the next thing. (And I think he has, but that’s another post.)

I need to ask what is God manifesting today and be humbled by the knowledge of God’s sovereignty.  But even as I do, I can celebrate all that I have learned.  And continue to be a good mother, as best I can. (Now the best homemaker, not so much.)

What makes a good mother is a question all mothers ask ourselves.  Only you can sort that out for yourself.  Every circumstance, each child, individual women and men, make each experience of parenting different.

These are a few things I have learned along the way … about being a Good Mother.   A good mother …

  • Loves always and in everything.  (I cling to 1 Corinthians 13.)
  • Tells her children often and in specific ways how they are unique.
  • Thinks before she speaks and if necessary gives herself a time out.  (I have been told it takes ten positive remarks to “do away” with one negative comment.  Teachers should also realize this.)
  • Admits when she is wrong.  Just do it.  The #1 best thing you could do for your kids.
  • Is accountable to others in her parenting.  I laugh because when heat of summer comes along and the windows are thrown open, the neighbors can hear you yelling at your kids.  That’s accountability.
  • Should be less lazy in keeping kids accountable to their commitments.  (I’m preaching to myself here.)
  • Speaks biblical truth into her kids lives. We are all theologians.
  • Forgives herself for being imperfect.
  • Forgives her kids for being imperfect little beings.
  • Lets her kids see her affection for her spouse.  (I am not a touchy-feely type, but it’s no matter.  My husband and my kids need me to hug my husband more often!)
  • Has her own goals.  (Woops.  But this is important and I’ll have to put aside a whole blog post to it sometime soon.  You cannot set aside all of your personal goals for your kids.  Think of your intellectual and career needs.)
  • And from Ann, “even when you sin and fall, cling to grace.”  And I would add, let your kids see it.

What are you learning? Who are you learning from?  Who inspires you today?

And thank you Ann. Below is a link to her blog.

holy experience