Sarah over at Momalom wrote this beautiful post last week. I mean, it’s really, really beautiful, I think. Anyway, I commented and she wrote me the loveliest email about thoughts my comment had stirred up for her. I’m never sure what to do when a blogger sends an email in response to my comment. Sometimes it’s really obvious, but other times not so much. Regardless, Sarah’s email has been milling about in my brain ever since, kept in rotation by this thought of my own that was stirred up while I read:
You’re the only person I can maintain eye contact with for an extended period of time without feeling uncomfortable.
Like, I could stare into your eyes, steady and unabashedly, for days probably.
And so, what is this?
What I’ve been thinking is that I’m not afraid of being seen by you. I’ve been thinking that I actually want you to know me so completely–to see the flicker of reserve in my smile, or the glimmer of delight in my frustration. I want you to see my own messiness that you might not resent yours and, in the process, I make peace with myself.
There is another component to all of this, though. There is the fact that, even in my crappiest parenting moments to date (of which there have been plenty), I have never acted in a way that has made me feel like I couldn’t look you in the eye. I would like this to be my measure. I have made mistakes and I’ll make more, but if I can remember my desire to be able to look you straight in the eye, and use this desire to offer parameters to my less pulled-together moments, then I’m pretty sure that no matter how this whole family experiment turns out, I’ll be able to find some solace around my foibles.
Or something like that.
***
I’ve been having a really hard time writing lately. I feel like I have nothing to say. This always happens when school ends. Sorry for the lapse here and I’ll try to post more regularly again, even if it’s just little lists and notes. You are, you know, almost one.
***
Maybe looking you in the eye feels so important because I’ve been a really crappy mom lately. You are frustrating and I am frustrated.
Ok, that’s too simple.
You have this new and intense will. You cling to my arms and make it impossible to put you down; you refuse to be held, jamming your legs into my ribs as you try to shimmy free from my grasp. You rub your eyes and request to be put in your crib, only to stand up and scream. You say you want something to eat, take a few bites, and then dump everything on the floor. And you cry. You cry and cry and cry sometimes, frustrated at not getting what you want for any number of reasons and in any number of ways. And you laugh, but only when I offer my sternest “no” when you try to cram your fingers into the electrical outlets. Then you laugh really hard.
Ok, it’s not this grim. There are huge chunks of the day that are giggly and cuddly and fun. But you’ve been offering some epic runs of disgruntled behavior lately, too, and when I’m home alone with you all day sometimes that only way I can find some footing is to remember that I always want to be able to meet your gaze.
***
I’m having a hard time focusing. It’s a time of blurry vision for me now that school’s over. This definitely adds to my propensity for frustration. You have all of these things you want to do but can’t quite execute and so do I.
We’re sort of perfect company for each other right now.
deardearmaxine.wordpress.com 
“You cling to my arms and make it impossible to put you down; you refuse to be held, jamming your legs into my ribs as you try to shimmy free from my grasp. You rub your eyes and request to be put in your crib, only to stand up and scream. You say you want something to eat, take a few bites, and then dump everything on the floor. And you cry.” I smiled all the while I was reading this because it is sooooo familiar.
It is familiar for me in the mom role and the Max role. I know both parts well. This is how my husband might describe me when I am playing Max: “You spread the entire bill basket out on the dining room table making it impossible for us to eat dinner there and you give yourself about an hour before you tire of that task and move to the mobile you’re making for our newest niece. Your beads get poured out on the rec room floor and you thread them until your interest fades there as well. You wander into your garden to pull weeds, then toss the ball for the dog. Your work beckons you inside for awhile and you sit, eyes glued to the computer then complain that you have a headache and the house is a DISASTER! Then you cry and cry because nothing is ever done.” Max and I we don’t know what we want. We start and we wander. We cling and meander, longing for something to hold us in place.
But life isn’t like that.
I am made to love many things. And that is what frustrates me.
So I’m trying to make friends with my mess.
All the while I’m genuinely glad to find people with whom I can share who I am, eye to eye and complete the gaze. Thank you Rachel. Your Truth is easy to see.
rebecca,
i so see myself in your description here of how you are like Max that it cracks me up! the crying because nothing is ever “done”–oh my, so familiar…i’ve often said i have ADD, but i like your explanation better…”I am made to love many things.” thank you for that!
tj
Not to copy Sarah, but this phrase is also the one that just sticks in my brain, my heart…
“I’ve been thinking that I actually want you to know me so completely–to see the flicker of reserve in my smile, or the glimmer of delight in my frustration. I want you to see my own messiness that you might not resent yours and, in the process, I make peace with myself.”
You’re moving into a new phase of motherhood–beyond the sleep-deprivation days brought on by baby to the scratch your head, pour another glass of wine days of toddlerhood! They must go through these stages of establishing themselves as individual little people, but it can be deliriously funny and agonizingly frustrating all in the same day…often in the same hour! And you are moving through big changes of finishing school to full-time motherhood. Give yourself time too. It’s tempting to spend all hours w/ Max, but you will remain in touch with your “self” if you can carve out some rachel time as well.
these words will help me through…a splendid way to measure ourselves as mothers if we can still look our children in the eye. yes, i think this goes for our other intimate relationships too. it bares our souls to those other people and says, here i am, i am doing the best i can.
Wow, Rachel. This was beautiful. There are about five lines I’d love to call attention to, and instead of choosing one (because that’s too hard) I’ll just go with the first one that caught my attention because it’s already been copied to my clipboard:
“I want you to see my own messiness that you might not resent yours and, in the process, I make peace with myself.”
The first part is important, and something I’ve paid attention to for many years of parenting, but the second part–the making peace part–that’s all new to me. I guess I mean that I’ve just never looked at it that way before. Making Peace. Yes. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Digging deep and getting vulnerable and sharing our messiness is a part of that path to peace. And when I’m not doing that, I’m generally disgruntled. When I’m trying to “play a part” or “keep up with the joneses” or focusing on some false ideal I am as far from peace as one can be, afraid of my messiness and shielding the soft sides of me for fear of being broken. It’s when I own up to it all, face the inner workings, spill the mud-stained thoughts and words from within that I am much closer to feeling that surreal sense of “oKAY” that not-often-enough comes.
One other thing, and then I swear I’ll shut up…
I have had many terrible moments as a mother. I have done things I regret. Said things, yelled things, screamed things I regret. But…I can say with confidence that I can still meet the gaze of my children because of those things. There is one thing, though, that makes me ashamed and makes me turn away and I never was able to recognize that clearly until you wrote “I’ve made this my measure.” Wow.
And now I can happily say…YOU made ME think.
Thanks, Rachel.