misplaced mama

Constant scrutiny. Every last drop of my being is under watch. All those eyes rarely leave me; they hear all, see all, feel all. I am followed and questioned and mimicked. My children watch. Twenty-four-seven, three-hundred and sixty five, infinity symbol. They need to know how to be in this world. I’m where they first turn. The cosmos spun them round and round and tossed them onto my lap. The first time they opened their eyes it was me they looked straight into. And they haven’t looked away since. Everywhere I look, walk, turn-around in shame or guilt, there they are. Looking. Watching. Waiting.

Did I sign up for this? This seriousness of uncovering my truths and scouring away the caked on, greased on goo of a person I had become? All those the years of being pretty sure nobody was interested in The Real Me, especially myself,  gathered up a bit of denial chickenshit crust around my being. This is a big job; you make a kid and all of sudden you’re the center of their lives, they’re down there so tiny looking up at you and you are up there so tiny looking down at them (or maybe squatting at eye level-it’s only polite) and they’re like, huh? and you’re like, what? and on top of that you have to keep them feed and dry and hopefully free of arsenic infested drinking water. And the whole time they keep looking at you like you know what you are doing.  And then what if, you don’t?

I knew that authority was something I had to dig a bit to mine, but authenticity? You can’t just whip that up in a night. It’s like I woke up one day and all of a sudden I realized I had to practice being the person trapped underneath the thick peel, and while I uncurled each layer of skin to reveal some sort of core, getting into each stage of myself, I realized, oh shit.  I’m being watched. Not only am I trying to become this true kind of person, but other people are taking notes. Not just random people, but by my children, they are the people I am made of, who are made of me. I hear my childless friends speak of the their transformations and epiphanies and shifts and it’s all well and good and I give great honor, but when you have a migraine after a tantrum after a long walk alone in the dark after all the soul-searching you can pop a aspirin and hit the pillow. I have to look into 6 dark brown and sometimes flecks of green big as the world eyes and say so what about some carrot sticks and creamy dill dip? Or a smoothie? Do you have underwear on? NO! I won’t stop the car for you sippy cup. And okay, there’s room for three on my lap, sure. grunt, moan, groan, sigh. My head is pounding. Mercury is in retrograde. My venus is in mercury. My temperature feels high. I need a drink. I AM A PERSON TOO. God, at least I trying to be.

I’ve exchanged breath with them. We held each others hearts under flesh together and pumped the same blood. My muscles hugged them out as they somehow fit their bones through mine and while my flesh tore their eyes opened to this light and still, for a long time afterward, we were connected by material matter and even after that was cut off, the cord pulsed, still does. If I am unveiling, revealing, becoming. So are they.

Always.

I am walking away from motherhood for moments, trying out different hats, standing with my hip stuck out to the right and then to the left, my arms empty, talking business or art, trading this service for that, creating professional relations outside the safety net of my family. And in this process I struggle, strangle, gag, spit-out regurgitated ideas about what I’m suppose to be doing and what I have no time for and what I always thought I’d be doing with kids and without kids, what I should keep doing and what I should put the breaks on. I walk away and then back, away and then back and in between I wonder howthehelligotintothisstayathomemomgig and then one second later I am reminded of howutterlyfuckingblessediamtobehererightnowwiththem. (Both of those 2 sentences much too hard for me to write out normally). Because I am both of them. Always will be.

And as live this,  looping myself in and out of making mush with milk and honey and making it to school on time and calling my mother at the right moment as to not catch her in too much pain and trying to be a lover and a partner and a creative and rhythmic mama of three girls, clean and yet not obsessively so [nobody likes a mom who walks around with a rag and sprayer bottle all. day. long.] they watch. They watch. They watch. Even when the are playing and coloring and squirting the hose on one another, I am nearby, and they watch. With their eyes, but even more: they monitor me with their hearts. After all, we have a cord running from one to another, big and thick, it transmits me to them and them to me.

Regardless if our children are relative reflections of ourselves in some sort of abstract or literal way, how I maneuver as this woman, this mother, this friend, this lover, this teacher matters. It matters. They hear me speak of things, I see M’s ears perk up as I speak of a necessary future of veganism and then they watch me stuff bread smothered in brie and the tops of two chocolate cream cheese cupcakes (the tops only of course) in my mouth. They listen as I help a friend through some inflexible times, aches and pains and emotional winces; I teach her some yoga through body and words and then the next day on the verge of a broken heart they see me not on the mat, but on the couch, staring into space, tears running down my face, silent curses under my breath. Mama, why are you sad? And do I scream at them how can I be a mom TO YOU when I might be loosing my own? WHO WILL TAKE CARE OF ME? No, I don’t scream that {out loud} but I sit there, stiff. I know what I want to be doing: breathing and taking up child’s pose, opening my heart to warrior, lifting my legs and opening my hips in dead bug/happy baby and sitting for long stretches in full pigeon. But I don’t and so they don’t see me doing what I really want. They hear me when I talk to them about sharing with each other and their friends and yet they hear me scold their dad, NEVER AGAIN USE MY TEEZERS TO PLUCK YOUR NOSE HAIRS. GET YOUR OWN DAMN TEEZERS. And to them: NO YOU CANNOT USE MY COMPUTER TO WRITE LOVE NOTES TO CODY [maverick of surf’s up].