The Empty Cup

As districts begin to announce their plans for the fall, I want to be angry at how miserably America has failed our kids. But after 4 months of parenting in isolation, I no longer have the stamina. I must ration any speck of sanity remaining for my family. If I spend even a moment in devastation, my reserves will deplete and that could be the last straw. And since Mothers are the carriers of the invisible load, I am not allowed a last straw. I will put my children on the boat first, even while I am drowning.

If you look into my eyes; no one could locate even a glimmer of smoke at this point, the burn out happened so long ago.

This circus has me spinning plates in the air, and then someone throws me a cup.  

“You cannot pour from an empty cup,” they say.

Watch me.

If it sounds ridiculous, I assure you, nothing is more ridiculous than the two scenarios for “school” parents have been given.

It is so tempting to blame; wag fingers towards an undeniably selfish population, because at least this is an action. But again, blame takes effort. Stomping and pouting isn’t going to put our kids safely into a classroom without the risk of one day attending their teacher’s virtual funeral.

If this sounds dramatic. I can assure you, it is nothing compared to the emotional toll 130 days of answering tiny cries for hugs and friendship with “I don’t know”.

I wish I had some crumbs to sprinkle for you, but even those we’d give away to everyone else.

If this sounds hopeless, it’s not. As long as I get to hold my babies in my arms, I will add glitter to this enormous pile of poop, and smile for them. Being angry and selfish isn’t going to help them learn empathy or how to write the sentence, “I miss hugging Grandma”.

If this sounds painfully honest, it is. That’s the least I can offer, after all we’ve been through.

An Important Distinction

My husband and I are sitting in bed, recounting the day. I jump straight to the point.

“So, I was thinking it would be fun for the girls, if we fostered some kittens during lockdown.”

Faster and more reactionary than a sneeze, “No. No, no way.”

“But it would be temporary and the girls would love it so much.”

In his defense, we have a dog who chases cats, 2 growing tadpoles, 10 newly-hatched butterflies, and 3 daughters under 6.

We went back and forth for a while. But one of his points made me pause.

“I’m worried that you are losing it a little bit. The fact that you think this is a good idea, is actually worrying me.”

Early on during shelter-in-place, a friend of mine with 4 kids under 7 adopted a puppy. I asked her why she felt the urge to add more feces into her life. She immediately played the insanity card.

I didn’t get it then, but I do now.

There is an important distinction to be made:

You cannot be placed in the insanity pool, if you willingly dive in.

I posted the following on a Mom’s Group Facebook page—being in AA, I’m no stranger to the healing nature of seeking support through strangers with similar struggles. Yes, I have a network of family and friends I am able to reach out to—however what’s exceptionally challenging about this time, is our inability to embrace one another. I stand just over 6-feet tall. Never did I ever think I’d have to use my own body as a measuring device to keep me separated from those I love. I have kept this distance from my own mom, even after the passing of my grandad, her father. Kneeled 6-feet from my best friend, as she endured a miscarriage. I am rendered helpless; unable to comfort either of them with anything but words. Even for me, words aren’t enough.

Sometimes by sharing out into the void, we can let down our defenses without expectation or agenda.

And so I shared this:

There were 3.8K likes and over 800 comments from women sharing the ways they are overwhelmed and various locations they choose to cry regularly, unabashedly or alone.

The explanation is simple:

Right now, mothers everywhere are not OK.

There, I said it.

We aren’t throwing in the towel, complaining, or presenting a problem asking for a solution—this too is an important distinction. The raw sentiments shared, had nothing to do with comparing war wounds; labeling someone’s experience or ranking sacrifices. Simply hundreds upon hundreds of mothers acknowledging their pain with no place to put it.

These past months have presented us with uncomfortable feelings of powerlessness and relinquishing control. Our lives are already upside down—whether it’s fostering kittens or crying in my car alone; these are at least things I am choosing. And right now, I am intentionally choosing to bring some joy into our house.  

There is power in admitting vulnerability and strength in solidarity.

As a collective we said,

“I know these feelings—we share them. We can carry this load together.”

These beautiful strangers and I, we didn’t try to solve this unsolvable problem, we simply acknowledged its existence, in order to allow ourselves grace.

Of course, we will rise from the closet floor and probably grab a laundry basket on our way out, because mothers are capable of all things, that’s just what we do.

The Space of a Year

My baby is turning 1 today. Of all my 35 years, this has undoubtedly moved the fastest. Our children are a visual representation of time passing. Sure, we notice deeper lines in the creases next to our eyes, however I care very little about slowing my own aging process.

But I’d give anything to slow theirs.  

I am unabashedly emotional watching these girls grow up. The older they get, the more important their own autonomy becomes--which is just a fancy word for, they don’t need us as much anymore.

It tastes bitter and unfair, because I need them the exact same amount, if not more every day.

With Josephine being my third, I knew the speed at which it all would pass and I’d whisper into my brain, savor her littleness. The laundry can wait.

And it did wait.

And I would cradle her in the crook of my arm, for I knew soon she would no longer fit. I cherished her tiny ten fingers and tiny ten toes. Those moments were golden and they belonged only to her and I.

Photo credit: Brian Cutter

We thrived in the days that were worthy of thriving and survived the days that warranted survival. I made every attempt to unblur the blur that encased us. This year was was intentional as a genuine smile.

But I’m still here 365 days into her life, just as baffled at our arrival at a place we all knew was coming.

There isn’t a solution or answer, as it isn’t actually a problem. Children get older-- that’s exactly what we want them to do. They will continually outgrow all the spaces provided: cribs, clothes, car seats.

But what gives me quiet solace is I, too, was once my mother’s baby, moving too quickly for her liking through all the stages of autonomy. Today I still fit wholly in her arms, Mother Nature’s wonderfully intentional design. Because no matter what our age, we never outgrow the spaces where we need our parents to fit.