I was not a calm Mom.
Ok, I had my oasis of happy now and then,
but as I remember it: no.
I was not a calm Mommy.
I grew up with a fairly clear image of The Way Things Had to Be.
The top of the refrigerator needed to be free from dust.
(A challenge when you are just over 5 feet tall, I promise you.
I mean, I never even THINK of the top of the refrigerator.)
Laundry had a simple progression of:
clean and in drawers,
to body,
to hamper,
to washer,
then dryer,
then folded,
then in drawers again.
No lagging in any one place during the process.
Children sat quietly in cars.
Toys were picked up at the end of the day.
Dinner was on the table as soon as Dad came home.
Everyone ate together.
Homework was done before playing.
Thank you notes
(heaven help me on this one)
had to be written before the gift was enjoyed.
Allowance was split into money to save and money to spend.
(The good old envelope system of budgeting.)
Please and Thank you.
Sit up straight.
Don’t talk back.
As my marriage frayed at the edges,
I was more and more strict with the rules.
The tension was so thick that ANYTHING could signal the End of the World.
Shouts,
and the even louder silences.
I blamed my daughters for every infraction.
I saw them as failures- causing their dad to be angry with me.
I forgot: we chose how we react.
We could have been parents first.
But, no.
Everything out of place was a potential landmine.
Could cause an unknown misstep and explosion.
I was exhausted trying to foresee and forestall the damage.
And in the end I caused damage myself.
Every small thing became impossibly difficult and important.
Every interaction had the potential for failure.
Thank heavens for jelly shoes.
Do you remember them?
Popular in the 80’s they were available almost everywhere.
I bought them for one or two dollars a pair at Woolworths and Hills.
(Two retail giants that dominated my shopping time in Pittsburgh.)
I bought them in bouquets of colors and sizes.
One of the two girls would eventually fit them,
it didn’t matter if they were the wrong size at the time of purchase.
Open and lacy,
colorful and cleanable.
Cheap and replaceable.
The perfect shoe.
My youngest daughter liked things the way she liked them.
Socks were one of the things that had clear guidelines.
Heel:cupping the back of her foot.
Cuff taut.
Toe seam: an even line.
Straight.
Dear heavens, I lost my witness over her socks more than once.
She would be dressed,
all of 5 years old,
almost ready to go out.
I’d line up the sock,
slip it over her foot.
We would agree it was perfectly straight.
I’d slip on her shoe and she would stand up.
And immediately crumple to the floor, wailing.
“Not STRAIIIIGGHT! NOT STTTRRRAAAIIIGGGHHHTTT!”
Remove.
Repeat.
Remove.
Repeat.
Boots were the worst.
(It may be impossible to put a boot on over a sock without dislodging the sock.
It should be an Olympic sport.
Separate the weak and the strong.)
I would sweat.
Plead.
Cajole.
Implore.
Threaten.
Cry.
Yell.
Discarded socks strewn around us.
Rejects in the battle.
Inferior warriors of nylon and cotton.
Then, the perfection that was the Jelly Shoe.
Day-glo.
Impervious to dirt, mud, and sand.
Molded to the foot, they required no lacing.
No Velcro.
No socks.
All three of us loved them.
It doesn’t take much to make a difference.
I thought about those shoes this weekend.
How the blessing of just the right thing,
at just the right moment,
gave a breath of sanity into our lives.
I’m thinking about all the moms
trying to pull off perfection for a family Thanksgiving this week.
The expectations of tradition and training,
the scripts running through their mind of just what ‘perfect’ looks like.
I KNOW that some of them will experience an explosion over their home.
Over the food.
Over their behavior.
What they said, or didn’t say.
How they looked at a person or didn’t look.
Too spicy.
Too cold.
The children.
The pie.
The centerpiece
(are centerpieces still a thing?
pinecone or handprint turkeys?
Saucy pilgrims?
Cornucopias?)
Over nothing at all.
Like my daughter,
someone will freak out because something is NOT STRAIGHT!
The mom’s breath will catch in her chest.
She’ll blink back tears.
Maybe duck a bit to the side to dodge a snarl.
Or a dish.
Or a fist.
She will try and try and try to get it right.
Sometimes.
Sometimes you can’t.
And this is what I have to say.
What I wish I had known then.
Back when the knowing would have made me a Nicer Mom.
When I could have known that not every crack would send the iceberg adrift.
When I could have known that the END of the World … wasn’t.
Take care of yourself.
(If you aren’t safe- tell someone and go.)
But, all rest?
Let it go.
Center on the people.
On your family.
On your friends.
Don’t worry about the top of the refrigerator.
If they can see it, they can clean it.
Buy a store-made pie.
Toss the socks.
Breathe.
Pocket Change 