corner view: out & about

Corner view is a weekly Wednesday gathering, originally hosted by Jane, now by Francesca. A topic is given and you can see impressions; be it photographic or writerly in form, from around the world. Come see the world’s corner view via the links on the sidebar!

Out & About is a pretty good description of our family activity level. We’re not really the sit home and read by the fire sort. We work hard during the week at our respective schools and jobs and come the weekend we play hard in turn. Our girls like to be on the go be it to a friends house, the local park, a birthday party or even just to market and dinner. This past holiday weekend we had a birthday party, a BBQ and a cartrip for fresh strawberries and ice cream and we were all happily exhausted come Monday evening.

corner view: flowers

Corner view is a weekly Wednesday gathering, originally hosted by Jane, now by Francesca. A topic is given and you can see impressions; be it photographic or writerly in form, from around the world. Come see the world’s corner view via the links on the sidebar!

This is one of those subjects that I could happily document daily. As for now, here is what is popping up around us since we posted on Spring 2 months ago.

five minute friday: comfort

…where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ‘em over here.

Go:

It would be so easy to trust the “experts”. After all, they’ve earned those accolades for a reason they tell me. They’ve studied and learned, and volunteered and worked and have been assured they know what to do. Nine times out of ten their expertise, it is spot on. Only I fear we are that tenth. No, I know that we are that tenth spot.

There is a certain level of comfort in being able to stand shoulder to shoulder with that someone who knows more than you. That someone, that with all of their expertise will take the lead. It takes stepping out of that comfort zone, putting one foot firmly in front of the other to step up and share your own knowledge, your heart, your mind, what you know- and to trust it is true enough for the day ahead.

And if I can’t trust what I know, how can I expect the others to do just that? I question myself day in, day out. I wonder if I know all I need to know to grow her, to educate her, to show her how to trust what she already knows about herself.

They came to me before she was even born to tell me what to expect, what to do, how to do it. To question my knowledge, my intuition, what I saw in her sameness, what I would see in the days ahead, how I would feel and how I would or would not know her. Then when she was born, they came to me again to tell me what I can expect- these experts with all their confident jargon and phrases. They tell me they’ve met others like her, that they’ve read all about her, that they know her and her special needs best.

Then she is born, she cries, she latches on to me and as she wakes her blue eyes sparkle while tracking me across the room. Her silent voice echos Momma in her heart, until it can no longer be silent, can no longer be contained there and it reverberates in all its impassioned righteous cries of “My Momma!!!” Each morning, she stands in front of the refrigerator stomping her own two strong feet crying “My Momma!!!” while I pry her small starfish hands again and again from my calves in the rush to leave for work, taking with her that essential piece of me she has always held.

Each evening I return as those same small hands fold into their home around my neck and she whispers our secret in my ear. “My momma.”, she tells me patting my cheeks, my back, welcoming me home. She shows me that she knows. That only she is the expert, she is who I will stand shoulder to shoulder with and she is who will bring me that comfort I crave.

Stop.

Momma tried: The Day

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There were flowers. There were pancakes. There was brunch with local fare.

And yet- there was not a single hour where I didn’t haul out my stern momma voice. There were tears, bleeding, complaining, whining, arguing and naps that were too short. There were chores undone and big deals made of the chores that were done on the heals of much too much nagging. There was a portrait drawn of me with a note that the six year old wishes she could give me time to myself. And there is the cringing mother wishing the kindergarten teacher hadn’t had the frown of reading that. Then there is the six year old in all her exuberance bursting into teary flames after she manages to rip my card clear in half in her desire to “help” me open it. The next morning that same six year old informed me that I wasn’t lame because I didn’t get to market to buy more of her breakfast cereal- after all- we had had a busy mother’s day where she “had to clean the entire house by 7:30pm”. Ahem. So yes, it could have gone better. I could have been kinder. I could have lowered what I already thought were pretty low expectations. God willing we’ll get a chance to do it all again next year. After all- that day right there- that’s the stuff isn’t it? That’s the stuff of motherhood.

five minute friday: brave

…where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ‘em over here.

Go:

In our home, right now, brave is:

It’s walking with Ms. Kip over to a group of bigger, older, stronger girls as she says with a hand on your shoulder, “Class, this is Zuzu, She’ll be joining us now.” It’s stretching back into the bridge even though you felt like the teachers helping you laughed as they called your name over your collapsing arms right as they lifted your legs up into a handstand. It’s holding it together until you can tell your Dad in the safety of silver car, on the way home from your new intermediate gymnastics class where you were the smallest girl there for the whole two hour period how hard it was. It’s laying your head into the crook of your momma’s arm and repeating the story in weepy tones while begging to not have to go back because it is just too hard for a six year old. It’s listening as your parents retell the story of your first semester in gymnastics 2 years ago when you cried and cried after each class because you had gotten in trouble for talking and fidgeting yet again and how you had insisted you were no good at it back then for weeks at a time until one day you decided by your ownself that it was more important to get to take part in the springtime annual gymnastics show then it was to worry about each individual class up until then. It’s listening as your parents reframe your self-talk from “I’m no good at gymnastics” and “those other girls are better than me”, to “you are good” and “you are so good your teachers said it was time to move up and challenge yourself on a whole new level” and instead of seeing those girls as “better than me” tring to remind yourself that you too will learn what those girls have and those girls are there to show you what you are to are capable of. It’s agreeing to go back and try again over a strawberry yogurt treat because maybe next time your arms will be stronger. It’s standing up seven times after falling down six times. It’s agreeing to try. Always agreeing to try, maybe just that one time more.

Stop.