learning-through-life

[learning-through-life]

Leaps of Faith for 2023

I originally wrote the following when my kids were 23 and 20 years old.  My son will soon be 38 and my daughter is 35.  It seems like yesterday I was holding them, rocking them and kissing their boo-boos away.  I thought I would share this again for Mother’s Day 2023.  I think many of you might relate.

Sometimes, taking a leap of faith means jumping out of a plane at 15 thousand feet in the air and believing you are going to not only survive, but you will have an amazing time.  Sometimes, taking a leap of faith comes when your children become “official” adults and want desperately to spread their wings and you know you have to let them go.  For me, that particular leap of faith is not really about having faith in them; but instead, it is more about believing in me.  It is trust I have provided a good foundation for them. Have I done enough?  Have I given them the right stuff?  Have I prepared them for the good, the bad and the ugly of the world? Yes, I jumped out of a plane, and yes, I had an amazing time, but, for me, that was indeed a far easier leap to take.  The other is scarier, petrifying in fact, and I fear, might require far more faith than I may have in me.

I never thought time would go so quickly.  From counting little fingers and tiny toes, to watching them play and run as fast as the wind blows. From nursing skinned knees and buying them toys, to surviving the years of their teenage noise!  From getting lots of kisses and coupon hugs, to seeing them through their first heartbreak after falling in love.  From teaching them to swim, and build sand castles, to watching my babies walk across the stage wearing graduation tassels.  Where did the time go?  It happened too fast.  

Never would I have believed that having and raising children would be the one journey in my life that would encompass such a wide range of energy and emotion.   BK (before kids), I, like so many others, thought it would be relatively simple.  I was and still am an intelligent woman with a college degree in educating children with a concentration in psychology.  I know and believe children need an emotional, physical, spiritual and intellectual foundation.  I know they need nurturing in all those areas.  I know they need to matter and be valued within the family. They need to count.  I know parents are suppose to stick together and be united on discipline, structure and routines as well as what would be allowed for TV and toys. I know parents should never argue in front of their children, especially about the children.  I know parents should never get into “power plays” and should always remember they are indeed the adults.  I know children should sleep in their own beds and pacifiers and security blankets are not really necessary.  Indeed, I knew all of this…still do.   I actually believed my knowledge and education coupled with marrying a man I loved as well as having the heart I knew I had would in fact make me the perfect mommy and us the perfect family.

Then they were born.

What clues should I have noticed that it was not going to be as easy as I had planned?  Perhaps when my beloved dad bought my newborn son (Only hours old mind you!) a “Roy Rogers”  toy gun and holster set after I distinctively made it clear MY kids were never going to play with guns.  Perhaps when I shoved the first pacifier in their mouth just to make it easier or when I allowed them to crawl in bed with us in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the first disagreement my husband and I had over whether or not they should be able to play with those toy guns.  Maybe, when we argued about letting them watch a show I thought was too violent or sexual. I do not know.  I just know what was once something I thought I would be so good at is now the one thing I question the most about myself, for all of the things listed above I have done either by choice or default, but none the less done during one time or another during the past 24 years.  

Having them was not hard. Raising them was not even hard only because you are in it and while you are in it, you do not know the difference. You are busy. You are doing. You are keeping schedules and making breakfasts, lunches and dinners, often on the run.   You are checking homework, filling out school forms and ones for sports.  You are going for check-ups, nursing sick kids, making play dates, planning activities and attending birthday parties.  Not to mention your job and career demands to boot. You are too busy to notice how tired you are or time slipping away.  You are immersed in it, so it doesn’t seem so hard. You don’t know the difference.  It is what you know at the time.

While you are in it, you try hard to enjoy it and you believe you are doing a good job of it and most likely you are. Then, at some point, perhaps between graduation day and leaving the nest, you start to question. You feel there just was not enough time and you long to savor it some more, enjoy it some more and embrace it for just a little longer.   You think maybe you could have cleaned or structured their lives less and just simply played more.  You wish you had rocked them a little longer, and allowed them to play in the mud on rainy days.  You certainly long to hold their hands, hug them tight and kiss them goodnight once again.  You cannot help but doubt yourself and question everything you have done as a parent.  

When we look back, we realize we have been on an enormous roller coaster type of journey and it leaves us with so many emotions. No, none of it was truly what I would call hard.  What is hard is the realization that no matter how much you did do, you are still left feeling it might not have been enough and there was just not enough time.  So now, here I am.  I miss the scents of my freshly bathed and powdered babies (Don’t use talc powder any more by the way!) and their delightful little baby breath. I miss watching them look up at me with pure and total innocence and so much trust.   I miss hearing their hardy belly laughs.    To tell the truth, I miss all of it.  I miss those days when I would hear their little feet scooting down the hall in the middle of the night and holding their hands up to get in.  How I loved the feel of their breath on my face and their tiny little hand holding just my finger!  I miss standing in their doorway and watching them sleep and thinking to myself… “They are such angels when they sleep”.  I would stand there and wait to see the rise and fall of their belly just letting me know they are still here with me and all is well with the world.  I miss it all. I miss them.  They grew so fast, too fast.  Yes, now they are adults and are anxious to fly on their own and I, as their mother, miss all of it.  As I watch them spread their wings, I wonder; did I do enough? Was I good enough?  Will my babies be ok? Can I reject fear and instead have faith.

Addendum- 

Have I had enough faith? Well, I have learned in those times when I thought I had a crises of faith in myself, God has shown me he has enough for us both, for all of us indeed. God has seen me through. Faith not fear.

What’s more, in experiencing my children, now as adults, I learn from them. I learn to trust… they are good and they are people of character.   In them, in their actions and words, they have given me answers.   In my mind, I hear their thoughts, “Fear not mom, all is right with the world.  We are good and our foundation is solid. We got this”… And then they say, “Mom, we know we are your happy place!” It will always be.

I am so proud of my children for so many reasons. They thrive.

I am a grandmother now, savoring, enjoying and being present in every second I get with my grandchildren. It’s a beautiful thing. I have no worry about the chores, the dinner, or career aspirations. Retirement rocks! My husband and I often watch our two grand daughters, one 6 and one only 4 months old.  I am present in those grandparent moments. I delight in their belly laughs, I play with them, I love  baby breath on my face and I watch the rise and fall of their little bellies as they sleep.  I am nostalgic as I think of my own two children as it seems like just  yesterday I was experiencing them at that age.  And, sometimes I have to swallow hard as I know a burst of emotion may come...

but, then I look into the eyes of those  little ones, those grandchildren of mine...and I am so very grateful that I have this new opportunity; that of being a grandparent.  And every single chance I get,  I am truly in their moment.  I am indeed blessed.

[learning-through-life]

Mother’s Day 2020

I’ve tested some of my writing out on you before, so here goes… This is a partial merge of sorts from stories I wrote several years ago about becoming a mother and the children I adore. For Mother’s Day this year, I thought I would share. Some of you may even be able to relate in some small way. Keep in mind that this is just my perspective based on my own experience(s) and my own level of crazy! I hope you enjoy it. I first became a mom in August of 1985 and I wrote the following in November of 2014. My desire is to write a book someday, but that’s a venture and vulnerability I’m not sure I’ll ever really take. Instead, I’m testing the waters by publishing to a blog and to my Facebook friends. My friends and family know me and know I wear my heart on my sleeve. I use to hate that. I don’t any longer. I am who I am. I’m a work in progress.

 AHHH… THAT THING CALLED MOTHERHOOD 

Becoming a Mother: They say there is no love like a mother’s love and at the expense of insulting all the “non moms” in the world; I have to say I believe it’s true. For most, something very internal happens when one becomes a mother. I think it has to be the most powerful thing in the world. I guess it’s like being overcome with a presence or a force that is all consuming and all encompassing. The invisible wings of protection spread out from inside of us and wrap around our children. Every fiber of our being goes into love mode, protection mode. Our body and mind fill with an intense sense of responsibility for this little human being and we feel we must meet their every single emotional, physical, spiritual and educational need. 

We are not even really consciously aware it happens. It becomes us. It just is. We don’t acknowledge it or say it, maybe we don’t really even know it, but internally, we believe we are the one and the only one who will be responsible for the grown men and women our children someday become. We don’t necessarily want or need credit when our children are successful in life, but certainly it's our internal make-up to take blame and feed the guilt that comes along when and if our children have problems or struggles in life. This fact distinguishes our title as “mother”. 

What complicates things even more is that fear sets in. We fear something happening to us, something happening to them, something happening to the world… basically we fear everything as we, as mothers, come to the realization that we actually may not be able to protect this little person who we love more than we ever thought possible. Thus, from the first child on, we embark on a roller coaster of emotions that simply, but not so simply, come with the territory of being a mom. A mother is a mother is a mother. We protect, we hover, we often smother, and we feel so deeply that there are times we feel our heart may just explode. It doesn’t even really matter the order in which they come, but there are indeed at least some distinct differences for birth order. At least in my experience. 

The First Born: 

A natural and very distinct phenomenon takes place and sets root with our first-born and as the highest in the sibling pecking order of family, they don’t have a chance! The “mother” in us takes flight and thereafter will soar until the last breath we take. And, because it’s all new to us and we don’t really know how to navigate this new adventure called motherhood, our first born gets the brunt of our “crazy”. Some of us learn to cope, deal and display our “mothering” a little “better” (for lack of another word) than others and with time. Or, at least we evolve enough so subsequent children are somewhat protected from the entire “first time mom” syndrome. But, yup, the first-born always seems to gets it the worse. 

The first-born is subjected to doctors’ visits with every scrape, cut, fever, complaint, or pale face. The first-born gets the panic- stricken mother who loses her cool when other children don’t play nice or when a teacher isn’t fair. And, God help the woman (or man) who breaks the heart of our first born because if we could, we would scratch their eyes out! The wrath of God may be easier than the wrath of a mother whose first born is wronged. The first-born gets all of the fear wrapped up in well intended over protection and a continuous hovering mama bird. The rest of the clan may get “if it’s not bleeding don’t bother me” or “fair is what we go to in the summer and the rest is life, so suck it up Little Buckaroo”. Which way is better? That remains to be seen as we watch our children grow from infants, to toddlers, to preschoolers, to teenagers and into adulthood. Could how they turn out and cope with life be a direct result of their birth order within the family and the mom they happen to be subjected to within that order? I don’t know. 

For me, I admit my first-born did indeed experience the worse of me in many ways. My beloved son has the distinction of being my first-born child and therefore, is cursed and honored at the same time, for I did indeed embody the epitome of that “first time mother” syndrome. I once rushed my son to the doctor’s office, sure he had lead poisoning and would certainly die, only to my embarrassment (but relief) when the pediatrician “washed” the dulled marker line off his arm and sent me on my way! Knowing I was a first- time mom, the doctor was kind and compassionate, but I have no doubt he didn’t have a laugh over it when I left. True story. My poor son! 

Conversely, I would like to think my son got the best of me too. He had the first and only spot for two and a half years, got the honor of my individual and undivided attention as I was able to establish a bond and rituals with him that included daily walks on the beach and Friday night dates at a local children’s play spot where he delighted in the pizza buffet and animated circus animals that sang songs. There was nowhere I would have wanted to be other than that loud, chaotic place with my beloved son each and every Friday night. He loved and received lengthy cuddle time and extra story time. And, he would contently lay in my arms as I held him, rocked him and sang to him which I was content to do until well after he would fall asleep. He was at peace in my arms and I was in my own little heaven on earth with him there. Did, by simply being the first born, set my son up for a life of tug of war between caution and compassion, sensitivity and restraint? Yes, indeed my first born got both the worst and the best of me sometimes intertwined with each other with consequences that may be to his detriment or his advantage or if lucky, both. 

The second child: The …… daughter! 

And then there were two! Truth be told, my daughter didn’t fare much better as the second child as she was the daughter, a protected species in its own right. Born on her daddy’s birthday, my second born, the last child I knew I would have, and my only daughter, all stacked the deck and set the tides in motion for her to be sentenced to excessive “mothering” far beyond her due. Did that in itself pave way for a daughter with a fighting spirit and a desire for independence that has made her into a woman to be reckoned with today? 

My daughter has always loved to feel loved and always wanted to know we were near, but she was never one who wanted an excess amount of demonstrative affection. Although her curse was to receive it in abundance. From me. To this day! 

As an infant, she would let me kiss her and hold her and rock her but only for a little while and always on her terms. When she was ready to sleep, or even when she just wanted to lay alone and explore her new world, she would fuss and squirm and fight until I would put her down. In her crib, and in her own space, she was free, she was content and she was at peace. And, as she grew, she had little time for cuddling and kissing and hugging. She was busy learning and growing in leaps and bounds. She had a big brother to keep up with and was not going to be left back in the dust. She learned fast. In a blink of an eye, she went from infancy to toddler to preschooler. Before I could catch my breath, she was talking, walking, swimming, running and playing. She did indeed keep up with her big brother for he was her best friend and she was his. 

And then there was always me. Running behind them both, holding my breath and desperately wanting to catch them if they fell. 

Just Breathe: 

Motherhood can actually be quite terrifying at times. No lie … It has been a journey that has encompassed the gamut of emotion including joy, happiness, pain, sorrow, confusion, loneliness, peace, contentment and satisfaction. Sometimes, all in one day! But, regardless of all that, becoming a mother was the best decision of my life. A decision I have never regretted, not once. 

They are adults now. When I look at my children as adults, I know that whether nature, or nurture, or birth order, or gender, or time or place of growing up, or a combination of all those factors, they are both good, solid human beings of character and integrity. They are different, yet very much alike. 

Now, I breathe a little easier. Just a little. My fears and over protectiveness may look somewhat different these days, but it’s still there. Admittedly, after all these years, I’m still not totally evolved. Still a mother bird who wants to wrap her arms around and protect my babies. 

It doesn’t matter much that they are grown adults, because when I look into their adult eyes, I can still see my first born who opened up my heart and my second born who together with her brother, made it complete. 

My happy place is knowing my children are safe, and happy and healthy. Yup, the “mother” in me took flight and thereafter will soar until the last breath I take.

[learning-through-life]

Richard – Only the Good Die Young

I believe that people who come into our world do so for a reason and touch our lives in one way or another. Through people we meet, there are lessons to be learned, whether the lesson is theirs or ours or both. Sometimes those lessons are realized right away, and sometimes not for years.  Yes, people we meet touch our lives, but only some touch our heart. And, so it was with Richard.

He was by far the most handsome of the brothers (no offense to my husband or his other brothers).  Richard had a Neanderthal kind of face with a square jaw line and a half-crooked smile that made him look somewhat mischievous.  That James Deen bad boy look of his gave him the advantage over his brothers in the good -looking department.

My arrival here in Florida found me jobless and living with my parents; a living arrangement I wanted to quickly rectify. I took an initial job at a small Indian reservation police department and there I met Richard who became my very first friend in the Sunshine State.

Richard was a cop working night shift until 3:00 am.  That’s when the officers went home leaving any calls coming in to be dispatched to the larger sheriff’s department. I was the dispatcher working the 11 to 7 am shift.  Twenty-one, just out of college, and new to the state, I hadn’t a clue.  What’s more, I had no experience.  But I was a quick study and soon learned the ins and the outs of the small police department and the reservation it served. 

When I met Richard, I was immediately drawn to his good looks and his friendly personality.  I never really got chance to wonder whether he was married or not because he was quick to include his wife and children in our conversations. I could tell immediately that he was a true and true family man who lived for his kids and saw himself as the provider and protector. 

Richard was the one officer who never forgot to call when he went to eat so that he could see if I wanted him to bring me anything.  It was then that I discovered the Charburger with cheese. He was the one I called when I needed someone to run to the store for the emergency “female” product.  And, he was the friend who would actually go!

Getting to know each other was easy and our talks lasted hours.   Richard was the guy who although he got off work at 3:00 am, he would stay at the station keeping me company until I finished my shift, or at least until the light of day began to show.  I think rather than leave this new young girl alone in an empty building in this strange city and state, he disguised his protective nature with easy flowing conversation until dawn. He never knew how much I appreciated those nights because indeed I was secretly a nervous wreck during the long and lonely nights when Richard wasn’t keeping me company. 

Richard quickly made it clear to me that I would be a perfect fix up for his brother and wouldn’t take no for an answer when he arranged a first date. Ok, so ultimately he was the best man at our wedding and my son’s breakfast companion on many a morning when he would stop by after work for a glass of “gator juice” or “bear juice” with his little nephew.

I eventually stopped working at the reservation and Richard went on to a bigger metro department and our talks were no more. Instead, we settled into a routine of a typical family. We saw each other occasionally as our lives gave way to our children and careers.

So, there it is. My first Florida friend became my brother in law and with that began several years of family fun and family fights.  We only had seven years of holidays, laughter, arguments, debates, disagreements and joy.  And then he was gone.

November 28, 1988 will mark the day that evil entered my world.  It would be my first adult experience with the death of a loved one and a reality check of the dangers of my husband’s chosen career as a police officer himself.   If I said that that night started out like every other, it wouldn’t be a lie.  But, later in the night was very different from every other.  My husband was off that night. We put our three- year old and our eight-month old to bed and went on to finish the nightly chores.  Then we went to bed.  For whatever reason, both of us were restless, tossing and turning and turning and tossing for hours.  We were up and down several times, sometimes with our daughter who was also restless, or just one of us was up and walking the halls, tired, but sleepless.

Anyone who is a police officer or who is married to one knows that when they come in two’s, it’s never good.  So, when at about 3:00 am, two high-ranking officers and one police chaplain knocked on our door, we knew something was very wrong.   And, so began the sick and twisted tale of the convicted felon who only ten days earlier was let out of jail early after serving eight years of a fifteen-year sentence for attempted murder.  On that early November morning two fine officers would pay the ultimate sacrifice at the hands of this felon who would execute them without hesitation.  Two families would be ripped apart at the seams and two families would unwillingly be thrown together in grief and the ties that would bind them would be set for life.

It was during this time that I came to feel a tremendous sense of empathy for people who grieve.  It was then that I truly saw grief in the eyes of a mother and father, in the eyes of siblings, in the eyes of two wives, in the eyes of children who lost a daddy and in the eyes of comrades whose looks were understandably saying: “there but for the grace of God go I”.  My own grief was all consuming and I started to realize that this thing called grief was bigger than I had thought.  It was bigger than me.  

The days and weeks that followed remain somewhat of a blur, although I can tell you that a police funeral is like no other.  It’s hard to describe the way they come in mass from departments far and near dressed in their finest uniforms to show reverence for officers that many didn’t even know.  And, the honor guard that stands vigilant by the casket are unwavering in their stance and attention and in their changing of the guard every thirty minutes or so. Most cry, but they try to hide it behind the sunglasses that they wear, even at night.

Then there was the media. Knocking at the door, calling the house, hunting for an interview with someone, anyone.  The community was shocked, the state was shocked.  This very high-profile case was news.  People were outraged at the story of the felon. What exactly was “gain time”?  Did you know that for every three days a convict spends in prison, they get a day off their sentence? It’s true, and thus, eight years of that fifteen- year sentence.

My heart ached for everyone. It ached for the wives, the parents, the comrades, the children, the siblings.  But my heart never ached so much as when for weeks I had to pull my three-year old off my husband’s leg each time he left for work.  My child would cry out “Daddy, don’t go, some bad man’s going to shoot you”.  How does one explain death to a three-year old? How does one explain evil?  How, when we don’t even understand it ourselves, do we explain all of this to children?  I don’t know how or why, but something tells me that Richard lifted me up during that time and I just managed.  I took care of my family, things that needed to be done, wrote thank you notes by the hundreds, and got through.  

The wounds were reopened over a year later when the subsequent murder trial got underway.  It was time consuming, grueling, and eye opening. There is nothing like a bunch of lawyers playing cat and mouse games and fighting for the spotlight and the score.  For months, my mother in law stayed with us and we not only attended the trial with her, but we tried to keep some semblance of normalcy in our lives with two young children who were too young to understand our absence or our pain. Not an easy task, but we do what we need to do in this life and we try to do those things without regret.  

The jury selection alone lasted twelve weeks, the trial another couple of months.  After each grueling day, my mother in law would cook and do laundry, my husband would go on to work and I would care for the kids. We went through each day, almost as if in slow motion until the days and weeks turned into a blur.  I have never admired my mother in law so much as she sat stoic in that courtroom listening to detail after detail unfold. She listened to tapes and heard her son’s voice. She looked his murderer in the eyes and she heard the gruesome story over and over and over again.  In our lives, we often think that we could never do something, get through something, or bear something, … but then somehow, we do.

The murderer, Charlie Street, was sentenced to two death penalties, several life sentences and many years in jail.  He was given enough to ensure that even with appeals, or potential overturns, he would never leave prison again.  He died several months later while on death row at the hands of another inmate with a shank (homemade knife).  To me it was street justice.

As for me, Richard’s death left me with fear.  Fear that evil would at any moment rear its ugly head once again. And, now over twenty years later I am learning that the worry, the attempts at controlling all situations and the over protectiveness I have lived with have been in vain.  For evil has indeed shown up at our doorstep even with my attempts to hold it back. Yes, some lessons take a very long time to learn.  But, as I think about Richard, I look around and I see families that have made it. I see smiles, successes, relationships, and people living life and smelling roses despite the thorns. I’m learning to do that too. I’m a work in progress still to this day.

There are many positive things that came from the death of Richard and his colleague, David.  First, their deaths were the catalysts for some very long overdue change in laws. Many of us from both families fought for and were witness to the signing of new laws affording more severe sentencing guidelines in our state.

There was “family” that was born from the ties that bound us with others who had also lost an officer.  They were there for us and we were there for them. There is a peace that comes from being with others that can relate to us.  I suppose that ‘s how the concept of support groups came about.  There is something solid that comes from grieving together and then learning to laugh again together.  People who have experienced something tragic understand that it is sometimes difficult to be around others, at least for a while.  People don’t know what to say to you. They don’t know if it’s ok to ask questions, speak of the tragedy, laugh about something, or carry on casual conversation.  So, when with others who have similar experiences, you know that all the above are ok and you’re not afraid to do any of them.  There is comfort in that. 

Losing Richard has also made me appreciate more.  The last time I saw Richard alive, I had a little disagreement with him.  It was one of our usual squabbles about something quite insignificant.  I think I accused him of becoming hardened, guarded and he accused me of being naive. Now, I try to count my blessings and show thankfulness for those in my life because I know there is no promise for tomorrow.  I know people leave us all too soon and so often we never get chance to say what we want to say to them.  I am learning to express my appreciation for others with abandon.  I tell people I love them. I give hugs and I kiss people and I apologize when it’s warranted.

I also have learned to not worry so much about saving for the future because it’s not guaranteed to us.  I have the usual savings, 401 and pension of course, but because of Richard, I’ve managed to save some and spend some with each paycheck. 

Sometimes I get an overwhelming sense of sadness when I think of Richard. I feel sad when I think of the pride he had in his family and the plans he had made for them after his retirement. I feel sad that he didn’t see his kids graduate from college or get to walk his daughter down the aisle on her wedding day.  And I feel sad when I think of what must have been going through his mind when he had been shot one, two, three, then four times as he struggled until that last fifth and fatal shot hit him.  I still long for a talk with him and even a squabble or two, and I get sad.  But then I picture his crooked smile and mischievous look, and I smile.

Once a tree- hugging and complete liberal, I now am much more conservative in my thoughts and the way I live my life. Ironically, I’m now a bit hardened and guarded.  I now believe in the death penalty and as a Catholic woman, that alone has been a somewhat conflicting change in belief for me.  None of the changes in me, however, stop me from occasionally wanting to hug that tree, but now I’m a lot more aware of the ugly beast that can be lurking around.  Although I now know I have no control over that beast, I keep a clear and watchful eye. And, I would like to think that Richard, looking all dashing in his uniform, is patrolling the streets of heaven and standing guard for us here on earth.

[learning-through-life]

Leaps of Faith

Preface:  About 10 years ago, during a difficult time in my life (death of parents, dreaded menopause, empty nesting…) someone very important to me suggested that I write. I love writing, and ultimately found that writing became cathartic for me.  The stories I write are true stories, my perspective about experiences and the lessons learned in my life.  Compiling my stories together into a book is a dream of mine.   That thought is quite scary and quite exciting at the same time.   I have always wore my heart on my sleeve, which has been a gift and a curse.  I hope that by my sharing, others will be able to relate and know they are not alone.    This Mother’s Day, I have decided to share one part of the first story I wrote about 10 years ago.  Mother’s Day is a perfect time for me to share this one.  

LEAPS OF FAITH

Sometimes, taking a leap of faith means jumping out of a plane at 15 thousand feet in the air and believing you are going to not only survive, but you will have an amazing time.  Sometimes, taking a leap of faith comes when your children become “official” adults and want desperately to spread their wings and you know you have to let them go. For me, that particular leap of faith is not really about having faith in them; but instead, it is more about believing in me.  It is trust I have provided a good foundation for them. Have I done enough?  Have I given them the right stuff?  Have I prepared them for the good, the bad and the ugly of the world? Yes, I jumped out of a plane, and yes, I had an amazing time, but, for me, that was indeed a far easier leap to take.  The other is scarier, petrifying in fact, and I fear, might require far more faith than I may have in me.

I never thought time would go so quickly.  From counting little fingers and tiny toes, to watching them play and run as fast as the wind blows. From nursing skinned knees and buying them toys, to surviving the years of their teenage noise!  From getting lots of kisses and coupon hugs, to seeing them through their first heartbreak after falling in love.  From teaching them to swim, and build sand castles, to watching my babies walk across the stage wearing graduation tassels.  Where did the time go?  It happened too fast.  

Never would I have believed that having and raising children would be the one journey in my life that would encompass such a wide range of energy and emotion.   BK (before kids), I, like so many others, thought it would be relatively simple.  I was and still am an intelligent woman with a college degree in educating children with a concentration in psychology.  I know and believe children need an emotional, physical, spiritual and intellectual foundation.  I know they need nurturing in all those areas.  I know they need to matter and be valued within the family. The need to count.  I know parents are suppose to stick together and be united on discipline, structure and routines as well as what would be allowed for TV and toys. I know parents should never argue in front of their children, especially about the children.  I know parents should never get into “power plays” and should always remember they are indeed the adults.  I know children should sleep in their own beds and pacifiers and security blankets are not really necessary.  Indeed, I knew all of this…still do.   I actually believed my knowledge and education coupled with marrying a man I loved as well as having the heart I knew I had would in fact make me the perfect mommy and us the perfect family.

Then they were born.

What clues should I have noticed that it was not going to be as easy as I had planned?  Perhaps when my beloved dad bought my newborn son (Only hours old mind you!) a “Roy Rogers”  toy gun and holster set after I distinctively made it clear MY kids were never going to play with guns.  Perhaps when I shoved the first pacifier in their mouth just to make it easier or when I allowed them to crawl in bed with us in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the first disagreement my husband and I had over whether or not they should be able to play with those toy guns.  Maybe, when we argued about letting them watch a show I thought was too violent or sexual. I do not know.  I just know what was once something I thought I would be so good at is now the one thing I question the most about myself, for all of the things listed above I have done either by choice or default, but none the less done during one time or another during the past 24 years. 

Having them was not hard. Raising them was not even hard only because you are in it and while you are in it, you do not know the difference. You are busy. You are doing. You are keeping schedules and making breakfasts, lunches and dinners, often on the run.   You are checking homework, filling out school forms and ones for sports.  You are going for check-ups, nursing sick kids, making play dates, planning activities and attending birthday parties. Not to mention your job and career demands to boot. You are too busy to notice how tired you are or time slipping away. You are immersed in it, so it doesn’t seem so hard. You don’t know the difference.  It is what you know at the time.

While you are in it, you try hard to enjoy it and you believe you are doing a good job of it and most likely you are. Then, at some point, perhaps between graduation day and leaving the nest, you start to question. You feel there just was not enough time and you long to savor it some more, enjoy it some more and embrace it for just a little longer.   You think maybe you could have cleaned or structured their lives less and just simply played more.  You wish you had rocked them a little longer, and allowed them to play in the mud on rainy days.  You certainly long to hold their hands, hug them tight and kiss them goodnight once again.  You cannot help but doubt yourself and question everything you have done as a parent.

When we look back, we realize we have been on an enormous roller coaster type of journey and it leaves us with so many emotions. No, none of it was truly what I would call hard.  What is hard is the realization that no matter how much you did do, you are still left feeling it might not have been enough and there was just not enough time. So now, here I am.  I miss the scents of my freshly bathed and powdered babies (Don’t use talc powder any more by the way!) and their delightful little baby breath. I miss watching them look up at me with pure and total innocence and so much trust.   I miss hearing their hardy belly laughs.    To tell the truth, I miss all of it.  I miss those days when I would hear their little feet scooting down the hall in the middle of the night and holding their hands up to get in.  How I loved the feel of their breath on my face and their tiny little hand holding just my finger!  I miss standing in their doorway and watching them sleep and thinking to myself… “They are such angels when they sleep”.  I would stand there and wait to see the rise and fall of their belly just letting me know they are still here with me and all is well with the world.  I miss it all. I miss them.  They grew so fast, too fast.  Yes, now they are adults and are anxious to fly on their own and I, as their mother, miss all of it.  As I watch them spread their wings, I wonder; did I do enough? Was I good enough?  Will my babies be ok? Can I reject fear and instead have faith.

Addendum- Added today, about 10 years after originally writing this first part of my first story.

My kids are now grown up, 33 and 30 years old. I am so proud of them for so many reasons. They thrive. I am a grandmother now, trying to savor, enjoy and be present in every second I get with her.  I have no worry about the chores, the dinner, or even career aspirations. I am present in her moment.  As for my fears about was I good enough, did I do enough, did I have enough faith.  Here are my thoughts today on that…

Have I had enough faith? Well, I have learned in those times when I thought I had a crises of faith in myself, God has shown me he has enough for us both, for all of us indeed. God has seen me through. Faith not fear.

What’s more, in experiencing my children, now as adults, I learn from them. I learn to trust… they are good and they are people of character.   In them, in their actions and words, they have given me answers.   In my mind, I hear their thoughts, “Fear not mom, all is right with the world.  We are good and our foundation is solid. We got this”…

Oh, and one more thing, I hear my kids also say, “Mom, we know we are your happy place!” It will always be.