Broken heart

That term has taken on a whole new meaning since having children.  I used to think it only applied to love lost.  Now it feels like every time I turn around my is breaking sometimes just a crack and sometimes into a million tiny pieces.

My oldest son, who just turned 8, will run his first 5K today.  He is so nervous - he'd be more nervous running it with me I can tell you that!  He would have to be concerned with carrying his mother across the finish line.  But to see him break down as they left, he came back to bury his head in my chest and cry, has left me feeling so empty.  Crack, Crack, Crack.

He's also nervous about our summer trip and came down at 10:30 last Saturday night to tell us he had a bad dream.  He dreamt that he had to get on the plane by himself, then the world ended while he was on the plane, and well- sum it up to say it went on.  Shatter!

There is nothing more I want to do than to lean down, scoop him up, and tell him nothing bad will ever happen to him.  If I could wrap him in my arms and protect him forever, would that be long enough?  People warn you, that it just gets harder.  Rocking away colic, kissing skinned knees, mediating temper tantrums (well that really hasn't stopped yet) seems like so long ago.

I know that he will be fine. At least I hope, and wish, and pray as I sit here typing.
 
Dear God, please watch over my baby today.  Help him get through the nerves and the race without fighting with his dad.  Let him be light as air and not be weighed down because he didn't poop this morning.  Let him be agile like the gazelle and not trip and fall because his shoes are never tied properly.  Let him be fortified with your spirit because he didn't eat the special oatmeal I made at 10:00 last night and there is still a bowl of apples on the table.  Oh for goodness sake just let him cross the finish line!

See - this is why his mom stays home!

Right O Govner!

We have started a pattern lately, that Dad walks in after I've read to the children and said prayers -to lay down with them.  Well, it started as going in to lay down with them, then it was to say Greek prayers, then it was Greek prayers and five Greek words, and it has now morphed into a Greek words wrestling match giggle fest.

So much for getting to bed on time.

Tonight was no exception - we are reading book two in a series I highly recommend - The Incorrigibles: The Children of Ashton Place. (If your library has it, listen on CD, it is excellently read)
Since we listened to Book one, and it was read in a very proper British accent, I of course, have to read the book in my best Midwestern proper British accent.  Thank God no one but the children are listening.  However, I digress.

After reading a chapter and saying prayers with the children my husband walks in and my oldest son who has been laying very quietly the entire time I was reading announces - I think I have three boys.  Of course there are three boys I say counting my husband, and two sons.  No I have three BOYS, my son says.

We call their balls - their boys.

"Ah, Well", I said in my Best Midwestern proper British accent as I back out of the door, "This one is for you Ole Chap! RightO, I'll be going now - you can check for extra boys Gov'ner! Cherrio!"

Do as I say, not as I do.....

Why do we take a dip in the gene pool, only to get mad when the result is mini-me?  My husband and I were married eight years before we had children.  Once when a long time family friend asked me what we were waiting for I commented, "The government won't allow us to reproduce."  It became my husband's response for the next seven years.

Here we are eight years and two boys later.  Both boys are a combination of both of us, but unfortunately my husband and I are a lot alike.  So what did I expect?  I expect them to not act like me.  Really?!

At least I am not alone.  I've talked with other people who have an anxiety disorder and they've said the same thing - "Please don't let them be like me!"  We know it's insane, but yet hope that somehow we'll have children who are calm, cool, and collected.

I know that I have good qualities, I used to tell potential employers.  But living with an anxiety disorder all my life has been like being on an emotional roller coaster.  One minute life feels great and the next it feels like a total loss.  I remember feeling like this as young as five.  Somehow I was hoping that it wasn't genetic - or that at the least-I could fix it.

I can't fix it, I can't even fix myself.  Anxiety is something I struggle with everyday on some level.  Seeing my oldest son struggling right now is killing me.  This is not what I wanted when I took a leap of faith straight into the gene pool, but it isn't totally unexpected.  So I guess it's time to learn to swim - together.

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day

When I was younger Mother's Day meant a celebration of all that is glorious, because I went to a Catholic School named after the Virgin Mary.  We celebrated Spring and rebirth and flowers and Mom!  Mother's Day was construction paper cards with glitter, glue, dollies, and ribbon and a poem copied off the blackboard.

As a teenager, Mother's Day meant trying my hand at the magnificent Sunday morning breakfast my mother was famous for, but not without some help.  It meant taking a trip to the Hallmark store with Grandma to find the perfect card.

In early adulthood it meant taking time out of the selfishness that filled my days, to spend a little time doing whatever Mom wanted to do, even it it was cleaning up the basement, planting flowers, or getting out the deck furniture.

Now that I am a Mom, I have a whole new respect for those that came before me, for they are the reason I am here.  My Mother, Grandmothers, Great grandmothers, the stories are too many to mention, but yet essential to who I am.

They were immigrants, and pioneers, and workers, and trail blazers.  They raised families in whatever circumstances they were given.  They gave everything they could, asked for very little, and prayed that their children grow strong and happy.

I am a mother.  I can bring life into the world and have an uncontrollable urge to protect it.  I am a fighter and a nurturer.  I am a worker and a queen.  I am a survivor.  I am mad as a hatter one minute and as organized as the ant before winter the next.  I can sing a lullaby and scream like a banshee.  I am a mother.

On this Mother's Day I smile over the handmade cards and slightly crooked potted plants.  I tear up when tackled with hugs, kisses, and compliments.  And I give up a silent prayer of thanks, to those who made this possible.