CBC defines my days

I heard someone on CBC radio yesterday saying that watching athletes perform at the Olympic Games was like watching 'the result of love'. The idea was that one cannot get to that level in a sport without truly loving it. I thought that was a beautiful thing to say. I don't know if it's true. I imagine that many mixed emotions go into training and competition: love and hate and fear, agony and joy, to name a few.

I do know that I get to watch the result of love, here in my house, every day.




And yes, I recognize the ridiculousness of these photographs. I thought that it might temper the maudlin sentimentality that seems to have come over me this Valentines Day.

All in one bed

We recently bought bunk beds with the idea that Aidan and Leo would share them at first and then, in a few years, Leo and Russell could share. Aidan is on the top, Leo is on the bottom.



But Russell wasn't willing to wait.

find my way...back home

So, maybe you've noticed, I'm a mom. I stay at home. I devote most of my energy throughout the day to changing diapers, adjusting cookie recipes so that they're healthier, building train tracks and 48 piece puzzles (why do they make puzzles with 48 pieces? Seems like a random number to me. Why not 50?)and cleaning. Although, to be fair, I don't actually spend much of my time cleaning. There's a dirty frying pan in my sink that was last used three days ago.

I make space in myself for other people's things. I make space for interminable games of superheroes, the same nursery rhyme sung a thousand times, lengthy discussions about video games I've never played, science projects and silk pajamas. (This is a pg rated blog so I'm going to use the phrase 'silk pajamas' to refer to many of the things that I give to my husband that probably shouldn't be thought of as responsibilities but, let's face it, sometimes are.)

I know lots of women. This is a common complaint. Being the mother is the most rewarding job in the world. Paradoxically, it's also the most mind numbing, least rewarding job that there is. We wipe noses. We zip zippers. We reassure. We give ourselves away in lunch bags and cookie tins and sometimes we lose sight of ourselves amidst the clutter.

Every once in a while, I need to let loose. I'm lucky that I have an outlet. I have women that I sing with and who sometimes take me to bars and force me to drink and laugh and sing songs about drinking and laughing and make me feel like I exist outside of my home and motherhood. I have books. I have words to write, although not very often.

But I wonder. Every time I do something for myself, I want more. If I spend a day in singing rehearsal, I want to do it again. If I take an hour to write one day, I want an hour every day or two or three. I have a friend who tells me that I will be a better mom, a better wife, if I do more things for myself but I don't know that that's true. Because the more I look around outside my house, the harder it gets to walk back in and focus on the cookies and the laundry again. What do you think? Is it a case of the grass is always greener? Obviously, the love in my house is not unappealing to me, Just the clutter, the repetitive tasks, the hours and hours of the same nine picture books, the monotony from day to day. Does everyone feel this way? Just the general malaise of certain times in our lives, the burden of responsibility?

I have a fantasy that involves running away to Indiana and working in a library. (Don't ask why Indiana, I think it has something to do with repeated exposure to the Music Man as a child.)I don't feel guilty about it. Kurtis has a fantasy about New Zealand. But sometimes I wonder if I go to that library too often in my mind, will I ever find my way back home again?

A few years ago, Kurtis was really interested in astral travel. I used to tie a lavender ribbon around his wrist because it was supposed to help ensure that your astral body could always find its way home to your physical self. I'm not sure that I believe in astral travel but sometimes I think I need a lavender ribbon anyway.

On Friday, during the homework struggle, Aidan told me that he hated me. Leo quickly followed suit.

"I hate you, Mommy."

"No you don't, Leo."

"No, seriously, I do. I mean it."

"No. You don't, honey."

At this point he walked over and gave me a hug and whispered "Actually, I love you. I was just joking."

Aidan folded up his French book, walked over and jumped on us both, punching me in the arm and tying little ribbons, with his brother, with their little boy hands, around me.



But then, that's the easy answer isn't it? The problem is actually much more difficult than that.