On Not Knowing Everything

Feb. 27, Feat of St. Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows, confessor, patron of clerics, students, and young people.

All I know is that I know nothing.

Said somebody important.

Really, it's true, and the more I am reminded of this, the better I feel about incorporating that philosophy into my child-rearing.  Except I do know something.  The Something I know is what God knows, what He reveals in his Sacred Word and in Holy Mother Church.  As for the rest of it, here's a little note to remind myself that, when in doubt, it's okay to simply say to my son, "Hm, I don't know."

And not to be ashamed that I don't know everything, either, even in parenting.  Especially in parenting.  It's a work in progress.

I don't know all the answers, and as a mother, I don't have to.  I catch myself in an attitude sometimes that if I am not able to provide my son with a logical, well-thought out explanation of the inner workings of the universe on various topics, from physics to we-have-four-Christmas-stockings-and-three-people-in-our-family-what-do-we-do-now?!?, it's going to be okay.  It's going to be better than okay, actually, because I'll be teaching my son a deference to and reliance on God.  He won't be able to place me in that idolatrous role that codependency demands, for a person to find someone who has all the answers.  That person doesn't exist, even among the saints and popes.  And when we are able to hold that knowledge close, then we won't be brokenhearted when we learn otherwise.

4/52

Jan. 26, Feast of Sts. Timothy and Titus.

"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2014."

HELP, I'm going out of my mind.  On a scale of one to ten, my anxiety level is at an 11.  Today, my almost-three-year-old flooded the kitchen from the kitchen tap, took off all his clothes and pooped all over himself and the carpet, drank a vial of blessed holy oil given to me by my godmother, pulled out all the clothes from the dresser, poured his pink medicine on the comforter, flushed God-knows-what down the toilet (by the  time I made it to look, whatever-it-was was long gone), somehow got hold of my energy drink (which I have to have to function due to an un/mis-diagnosed medical ailment--my body doesn't make energy, but doctors insist that there's nothing wrong--I've only lived in my body my entire life, but whatever), unscrewed all the knobs from every drawer and cabinet, and is generally a nuisance in every single way.

Oh wait, now he's just spilled milk all over the floor.  And yes, I do retreat to my computer, to writing poetry, to my books that take me out of the present because if I don't stop the anxiety with some sort of cork to absorb the impact, I think I will really. just. burst like so many cans of soda jumbled about in the shopping cart and then thrown into the trunk of the car, loose and rolling.

Um . . . one day I'll miss this?  This age?  This babyness?  Right?  It's just a bad day?  Do you ever get that dead-weight leaden feeling that you just weren't supposed to be a mom?  Like, you just don't have it in you?  Like, you're about good for making up an interesting story and writing it down in a pretty way but that's it?  Like introspective, powerfully sensitive and emotionally unstable artist types oughtn't procreate?  Don't get me wrong, I'm no Sylvia Plath.  But I seem to be detecting a pattern.

Saint Ann, pray for us!!

Letting Go of Perfection

I've been drawing closer and closer to the online Catholic mom community via blogging, and one thing underpins all my experiences and acquaintanceships--that is that most devout, loving, Catholic mamas are not self-described as the "domestic type."  Wonderful, intelligent, and resourceful moms like Leila, Angie, Jen, Simcha, and Melinda.

Before I had children, I had delusions of grandeur; of cultivating a quaint, thrifty home, with plenty of wildflowers, the aroma of bread baking, cucumbers and tomatoes fresh from the garden, scented candles, crafts for the children, and family prayer time.  Okay, to be fair, I knew that I wouldn't be able to perform all these things to perfection the way I wanted, but I thought that the disposition, the right ordering toward, or will to do so, would make me a noble and admirable mother.

While I still yearn for those things, I've come to realize that most, if not all of them, are not natural to me, and that that is okay.  Rather than feel guilty or defeated about my indisposition to ideal motherhood, I'm learning that being a good mom is as much about being genuine as it is about being my best.

I don't have to make excuses for not being the mom who jogs every morning with her toddler tucked in his stroller and regularly organizes playdates.  I'm not her.  I'm the absent-minded mom who never says no to reading one more story at bedtime, who counts her day a mild success if she manages to get some good food in all parties, and who teaches her son to appreciate mountains, different cultures, and the Catholic faith.

I have many valuable gifts to give my son.  The best part is, they're all from me.  His mama.

Being a mother has taught me to let go of perfection.  If I am always worrying about what I'm not rather than taking joy in my vocation, I'm doing both mother and child a disfavor.  God granted me motherhood, not a stereotype or an ideal: it is a real state of being in which I am called daily to sacrifice self-centeredness for the sake of another, to cultivate a soul for eternity.  Make this my center and all else should follow.

And so, in this spirit of cautious contentment, I gave the two-year-old his first drink of Coke last week.

Don't worry, this won't be a regular thing!

Catching Up

Having a baby forces me to live in the moment.

I don't have the luxury any more of languidly considering what I have to do for the day.  Every second is a precious opportunity wasted--even if the opportunity is to enjoy what I'm eating or thumb through a Pottery Barn catalog.

I am constantly having to remind myself that there is no abstract point in the near or distant future where I will kick back, sigh happily, and say, "Ah, yes.  Here at last.  Everything is DONE."  Not only is thinking like that going to make me miss the living that is happening right now, but it will discourage me with feelings of inadequacy because I cannot and never will catch up.

So what I have to do is to focus on what I am doing now.  When it is time to move on, move on.  Don't think about the fact that I haven't executed a task to perfection or to my liking.  Do it, do the best I can, then leave it.

My life unfolds in breathless gasps of activities--changing the baby, running to use the bathroom before he knocks over the bookshelf, fixing him breakfast while trying to take my daily vitamins, catching his bowl before it splatters oatmeal on the floor, holding him at arm's length and hosing him down in the bathtub, descending the stairs again with a huge toddler in one arm and a pile of library books in the other, printing worksheets for tutoring and dashing out the door to pick my husband up from work--and I just have to dive in.  Don't think.  Just do.  When done, move on to the next task.

As long as my baby is happy,  healthy, and feels loved, I can sleep well at night.  Even if it is in the midst of a minefield of discarded laundry.

Diving In

It's powerful to think that I am everything to somebody.

That is what I am to my son, who is one going on eternity.

I am mother, protector, provider; I feed him, dress him, bathe him; I know that his favorite song is "John the Rabbit" and that he likes to dance to the opening of The Big Bang Theory sitcom; that his favorite book is Goodnight Moon and that he doesn't like to wear hats but loves wearing my glasses; that it is my responsibility to affirm, enlighten, educate, and instill in him a sense of conscience.

("Scoot," about 11 mos.)

I'll have to do all these things as well as drive my husband to and from work, look desperately for ways to bring in money, tend to my hygiene, and try to keep up with the laundry.

Oh, and sleep?  For!  Get!  It!

Among my recurrent worries are:

• is he developing healthy eating habits?
• how do I nip bad behavior in the bud; I mean, is it like training a dog?
• will I be able to provide for him without abandoning him to be raised by my mother?
• do I spend enough time with him?
• will my own insecurities and weaknesses give him a complex?
• did I remember to put on his sunscreen?

I guess there is no concrete answer to any of these questions.

Except for the sunscreen.  The "truth is out there" regarding the sunscreen.

This is me diving into my vocation, with all my heart, and taking you along for the journey.  Parenting is one of those things that you can only learn by doing, like driving a car or learning how to swim.  No how-to manuals or simulations can adequately prepare someone for the inspiring and knee-trembling task of forming and fostering a tiny human soul.

I hope that when I am wringing my hands with worry, neglecting to savor the fleeting moments, or wondering what to make for dinner, this blog--and you, the reader--will keep me grounded.

Take a deep breath.  It's going to be okay.

Because I am also everything to Someone else.  God.  And that is a very comforting thought.