No one informed me about the onslaught of objects that would follow my children into our home. Living in their flotsom and jestsam can be tiresome, like a current of chaos I can’t escape. Four years ago I walked around our house and wrote the following poem. As I surveyed the state of things I was surprised by the gratitude I uncovered in the mess. Today, the mess remains. Roller skates lounge by the stairs, nerf bullets rest next to a lost tooth on the windowsill, a pile of cardboard scraps suffocate the air vent. Also, the gratitude remains, each object a reminder of our vibrancy, a reminder of the life we are living in these four walls.

Its Place

One fuzzy black mitten, one pink football, four bottles of bright nail polish scattered by the front door

One upside down white race car, two mermaid tails, four small garden tools relax on the built ins

One nose plug, one broken dino tooth necklace, five various sized green beads gather on the windowsill

One birthday candle, one smooth red rock, five mismatched buttons piled on the coffee mug shelf

One bejeweled crown, one mini homemade drink cooler, three tired Barbies rest by the air vent

One racoon nightlight, one blue kazoo, one rainbow hair bow displayed on the mantle

One copy of the Princess in Black, two microwaves stacked at the foot of the guest bed

One egg filled with jewels, one treasure box filled with one tooth and one blue stone balance on the edge of the stairs

One tiny airplane captain and one tiny paleontologist congregate in the empty bathtub

One pile of dried toothpaste and four bubble fruit toothpastes tubes (with zero caps) decorate the bathroom counter

One green sock with daisies, one heart patterned bookmark, one wooden “I Love You” sign wait patiently on the dryer

One soft brown blanket, one puppy dog pillow and nine stuffed animals cozy in the master bed

Two small hands in mine as we walk side by side

Everything in its place.

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What a ridiculous idea, who thought of this? These full and fragile beings, fragile (like me! like all of us!) entrusted completely to us. A big job, engulfing, often surprisingly easy to get, impossible to leave. A hard job, hard enough to bring many hard days, days that seem to shout this is simply too much. I can carry on with offerings of solidarity, displays of understanding from the others doing this job, those who are drenched by it, like me.

Today, on this one Sunday in May, I’ll gratefully receive every drop of delight and warmth wrapped in the sweet words and secret plans and colors on pages from my own little full and fragile beings. Also, I’ll lift my eyes outward to you, my dearest fellow workers, all you who are mothering today. Hear me say, I see you, me too. Carry on.

I see you, choosing to stay present to their pain, absorbing it into your body and heart and being. I’m choosing this too. The very first time she got shots, the doctor, a man, joked that I should wait in the hall, let her dad stay and be blamed for the hurt. The insinuation was I could and would want to separate myself from her pain. A mother knows this is not possible. I grabbed both her tiny hands, stationed my face inches from hers, soaked in her high pitched wails and said with every bit of my being I am here.

I see you, digging in, bearing down, standing by them instead of stepping out into the hallway of it all. Staying for tears of frustration, exhaustion, another scraped knee or the deep sting of being left out. I see you, absorbing their fear about the world, mingling it with your own, walking with them, hand and hand, into the harsh realities of our moment in time. I see you bearing witness to their hurt, to the multitude of destructions, big and small. I see you, choosing to stay and comfort, holding what remains after some fragile part crumbles.

I see the ways you’ve given your body to your work. My face wears exhaustion like a threadbare robe. The tiredness etched from exploits like musical-bed-swap or sleeping all night (again!) on a squishmellow instead of my own pillow. Ours is a job that brings permanent marks and changes, the pin from an ankle rolled when chasing a toddler, the coursing cortisol that steadily seeps into our muscles and cells, the scar from a complex hand surgery after falling on a bike ride. Even our hearts work differently now, they sink and twist and soar with theirs.

I see you, your presence you offer, the miracle it often is to pull out patience and calm. Years ago I witnessed a mother I didn’t know, stopping in the rain on the sidewalk to hug a tiny body, getting drenched but nowhere else to be. I’ve held that image of her, a familiar stranger. She is me, she is what I want to be, she is all of us. Present, patient, choosing to stay in the rain. As you carry on in this job, soaking from the downpour of it all, may you find steady ground in these words, I see you, me too.

May is like December, it’s Maycember!

I’m not in the mood to speculate on what got us here, the collective acceptance is that May is craziness. May is busy, full, the downward slope, the catapult into the summer, the acceleration of the school year. Hang on! Some choose to opt out, let’s talk in June! Respect. May is done, off limits, already busting at the seams. For me, May is hard. Not only do I absorb the buzzy-ness of many of the people I interact with, I have my own feelings swell and threaten to spill over. The school year ends and I face the unavoidable reality that each year these kids are a bit farther away from me.

This year is a specific landmark for those of us who sent our kindergarteners through the school doors for their first time in 2020. My daughter wore a pink mask to match her headband and dress. Her first day in the building came after six weeks of e-learning at home. I watched as her rainbow backpack was absorbed into the crowd going through the doors, and had to trust that someone on the other side would help her find her classroom since she had never set foot inside the school. Now these kindergarteners are headed to middle school and yes, I am a pile of emotions about it all. So much to celebrate and so much to grieve. I’m thrust into a highly specific parenting place that I loathe: having big feelings about something they’re going through whilst desperately wanting to be chill about that thing. In this case, it’s the heartswell and heartbreak of my kids getting older and becoming less attached to me. Or, in other words, change. I hear myself say it over and over again in May — change is hard — yet I am still floored, surprised, and honestly, irritated when the change is hard for me.

The reality is that life does not stop for May, for all of its craziness or for me to have a peaceful moment to process change. This is the month where: my husband will have a key member of his team resign thus creating extra work for him, our house is going to finally be ready for the basement to be painted and drywall dust to be tracked all over the floor by well meaning workers, our daughter and her friends are going to accidentally stain the front porch with loads of tie-dye (permanent) , the only follow-up appointment with a holistic doctor I’ve needed to see since forever is available, a beloved teacher at my kids’ school will announce she’s not coming back next year, and the piano recital that reliably triggers intense nervousness for my daughter will be held.

Projects will be due and teachers will need appreciation and Mother’s Day cards will need sending and dear god the soccer schedule will go on and on. I’ll still go to counseling and pilates and fight to get the kids to bed. I’ll still hear a bunch of no’s and be met with resistance from their strong hearts, I’ll still hear loads of unkind words and airing of the grievances between the siblings. I’ll have building anxiety about the summer, questioning if I added too much or not enough and yes, still checking on camp websites to see if lego building can be a backup plan (it cannot). And without fail, every year in May, the 22nd will come, a personally painful anniversary, a heavy day with a heavy lead up, our bodies remembering what it felt like, our hearts reenacting the cracking splinters of loss. Every year I’ll remember how fragile it all is, how little a mother can actually control, how mothering inevitably means choosing to stay with my children in their pain.

But May will also bring: selecting seeds with sweet faces and getting them into the ground, the annual block party, freedom in the street, celebrating and appreciating the people around us and many many many micro and macro and everything in between connections with friends who are also going through it all. The overlap is sustaining, a gift, a breath of fresh air. The coffee gathering at a friend’s house on the last day of school, the walk in the neighborhood, the art show and the playground, our fluffy dog begging for pets at pickup in the school parking lot, time in the sunshine or fresh air at the park, surprising connections and ideas and beautifully strong women around me. All around me.

Where I live people put out checkered flags in May to celebrate the race we are famous for. I’ve decided to use the emergence of the checkered flag decor as my own touch tree. The end of the race is coming!! I will quietly and cheerfully resist any need for speed or quickening of energy and will do the opposite. Tending to, quiet, stillness, sprinkling soft grace and patience wherever I can. Mostly for myself.