Universal Mother

A bird made a nest in the tree outside out front door. It is the most picture perfect round, twigged nest. The type to be found in children's story books. I peeked inside. She had even lined it with some soft, fluffy material that looked exactly like felt roving. A few days later I peeked again and found four little blue eggs in there.

It's about now you should have a warm fuzzy, ahhh Spring, type of feeling in your tummy. Emphasis on should. I chose to go straight to fretting. The nest didn't look so sturdy on closer examination. The tree is right next to our deck rail - a perfect launching point for cats or raccoons. What should I do?

"Nothing," exclaimed the husband in a perfectly pragmatic way "let nature do it's thing."

Easy for him to say. He's not a mother. If I had let mother nature do it's thing - my own offspring would be missing limbs and teeth by now. They would also be hungry, thirsty and considerably sun burned.

I tried, I really did. I stopped climbing up on a stool to peek in (in case I startled the momma bird) and instead shoved my camera lens in to investigate for me. One day I was rewarded by a nest full of fuzz. One little yellow beak sticking up. I should have been delighted but instead I developed full mania. Were they warm enough? Should I rig up a cat deterrent? Not that I had seen any cats but you never know.....
I took to leaving my house through the garage as opening the front door made momma bird fly away in fright.

After several days I settled down. No predators came and both momma and poppa bird took turns minding the nest and feeding their young. Then, the wind picked up. My thin little pine tree swayed about. The nest began to crumble. I came home one day to find one of the little birds hanging out. I rushed for my stool and popped him back in. There were two chicks in there (I tried not to think about the four eggs and the math.) The chick I helped back in was considerably smaller than it's sibling and looked much frailer.

Mother Nature tested me for the next few nights. The temperature dipped to unseasonal lows and the winds lashed my tree around. I got up during the night to check on the birds. Told anyone I met about my concerns and goolgled the heck out of every possible scenario. I learned that touching baby birds does not make their mothers reject them. I learned that you can provide material support. I learned you should not try to feed them, no matter how much my heart strings twanged every time I peeked in on little Wilbur Bird. I made them some bedding with tissues and tucked them up against the cold.

The next day after school pick up the nine year old screamed on arrival at the door step. There was Wilbur Bird lying splayed on the wood. I scooped him up before the four year old could see. He rewarded me by sticking his little yellow beak in the air to demand food. He was alive! Team Bird went into full operation. On inspection we found the nest had torn apart in the last nights wind. I dispatched the girls off in search of a basket. They were so intent on their task it was tear inducing. Several baskets were produced and we discussed the merits of each before selecting Nest2. We lined it with roving and tissues. I then plucked the remains of the nest from the tree and popped it into the basket. Big Bird was still happily inside. We added Wilbur Bird and set about securing the basket back in the tree. Momma and poppa bird took to the new nest apparently without issue and resumed feeding duties.

Big and Wilbur are now open eyed, tweeting little guys, who are beginning to flap their wings. I am beginning to prepare myself for their departure. I could explain, at length, my obsession towards two of thousands of garden finches. I know there are many reasons but I will just settle on this. The mothering instinct is strong and all encompassing and a beautiful, distressing and rewarding thing.

Am I Your Favorite?

So we all know the correct answer to this right?
I used to think so but as with all things in this tell all culture - the rule on this one is bending.

Maybe you had the grandparent that secretly whispered in each of their grandchildren's ear - "You know you're my favorite."
Maybe you still think it was just you they said it to. Maybe you felt sure that your sibling was the favorite and you resent them for it. Maybe you 'knew' you were the favored one and reigned smugly in your knowledge.
Either way - I think the party line for parents, up until this point, has been - "I love you both the same."

Why have we now decided to shatter that illusion? I say illusion because I don't think we can love them just the same.
We may love them equally but surely the things about them that make them individuals we feel differently about.
I have always chosen to tell my girls what it is about them that I love because the standard response never felt authentic to me when I was a kid. The nine year old pleads with me to give her the edge because she was first. I feed her the line guaranteed to make her crazy "It's not possible for mommy to love one of you more - when you are a mom, you'll understand."

Perhaps her need for re-assurance comes from the fact that parent's are now publicly stating their preference. In an attempt not to judge - I can see how they get there. My sweet, cute, funny three year old is more appealing than a sassy, rude nine year old at several times during the day. Does it mean I favor the three year old in my affections - ask me ten times a day and you might get a different answer each time. If the nine year old asks she will get the same answer every time. In my view no good can come from allowing one child to feel favored over another - a large amount of harm can though.

I was once told a story by a mom who decided to make sure her son felt equally loved after his baby brother arrived. She fretted he might mistake all the extra care and attention a newborn needs as a sign his sibling was now favored. She snuggle up to him and sweetly told him that she loved him every bit as much as his brother. He burst into tears and sobbed "But I thought you loved me more!" Never prod where the ego may be reigning.

My point is this - in this increasing culture of speaking our deepest secrets - some things are never to be told.

Post Show.

Sitting backstage in a room full of mirrors and lightbulbs I was instantly transported to high school. My high school had a theatre. A full theatre with curtains, wings and tiered seating. It was my haven. The place where I felt most comfortable. A place of safety. When I was in the drama block I felt at home. My loud, exuberant personality was welcome here. My habit of bursting into song was encouraged and applauded. My tribe lived here. So despite my nerves and fears - sitting in this room full of possibility I became calm and excited and just a little sad.

Walking into the theatre I noticed the sadness creeping in. It felt that this glorious experience was already over. Despite the fact we still had the show to do, I felt the bittersweet of the end. Pushing those feelings aside I busied myself with the run through. Walking out onto the stage, setting the microphone, completing the soundcheck - it was thrilling because of the safety of 400 empty seats.

We girls got girlie. Applying make up, curls, dresses. Comparing shoes. Let's face it the shoes were fantastic. If the shoes were the only take away from this experience - I'd be happy. Lucky for me - the shoes were the cherry. We got nervous together. We got loud. Our laughter had an edge. We were a group giddy with possibility. We obsessed over earring choices and distracted ourselves as the theatre filled.

I took myself off for some quiet and found an empty dressing room. Sitting in it I allowed my confidence to come. I gave myself permission to feel good about my piece. Sure, there was still a huge part of me that wished I was bringing the house down with humor but I knew that I chose a different path for a reason and now was the time to embrace that decision.

The show whizzed by in a blur of applause as one by one my cast mates walked out and read their pieces. Despite having heard those stories several times, I sat awed by the power in storytelling. Being wrapped up in someone's words when they are shared from a place of vulnerability is so powerful and inspiring it's hard to describe adequately. I could have listened to twenty more. My turn came and went in seconds. I knew there was a large audience out there but I couldn't see it past the lights. I knew I made people cry from the sniffles. My funny line got a laugh. I walked back off to loud applause. Job done.

When the show ended we drank champagne. We celebrated each other's triumph in not tripping, vomiting or fainting on stage and went out to greet our family and friends. I know why I did this show. I know that having something besides parenting is vital to my mental health. What I didn't know was how much it would affect me. The hunger it would stir in me to find an outlet for this side of me. I didn't anticipate the effect it would have on those who watched - what it would stir up in them. The inspiration that is found in listening to people tell their stories - whether their stories rile you, amuse you or cause a long held dam of feelings to burst in you.

My take away is this - tell your story. It can be to a stranger on a park bench, anonymously online or to an audience of hundreds but tell it and feel the joy/relief/freedom of telling.

Happy Mother's Day!

To all the mother's in the world - those that are celebrating, those that are hoping, those that are grieving, those giving birth, those fighting illness, those who are planning and those who have gone before us.
May you enjoy peace and beauty today.

Walk The Line.

Parenthood is like walking a tightrope. Slip ups tend to be catastrophic and the path to success is narrow and hard to walk. When I planned this - I planned to have a baby. As I've blogged before I didn't think about the twenty plus years of all consuming commitment that was attached. Emerging from the baby/toddler years finds me wanting more balance in my life. If I am going to be a successful parent for the long haul I need some other things to focus on - at least some of the time. Obviously, I am not alone in this. It's why many parents go back to work, even if their finances don't dictate it. It's why mommies are such an enormous presence in the blogging world. I am not re-inventing the wheel here. I am however doing it the only way I know how - loudly, publicly and with large amounts of fear attached.

Listen To Your Mother is in two days. In just two short days I will stand on a stage and bare my soul. I will make Brene Brown proud and embrace vulnerability. I am nauseas typing this. I'm not shy. I don't mind public speaking. I have been known to enjoy being the center of attention. This? This is way out of my league.

Like many other members of the cast (we have a feverish communication going) I am having nightmares, losing sleep and fretting about my appearance. I have only experienced anything like this once before - my wedding. Just like when I was preparing to get married - I have dreamt about arriving in front of everyone only to realize I am naked. I have shopped frantically for the perfect outfit/shoes/jewelry (only to settle on things already in my wardrobe.) I have feared no-one will show up even although I know tickets have been purchased. I am a mess.

Vulnerability is a bitch. It may turn out to be a liberating bitch but for now it's just a plain old bitch. I am scared. I am regretting my choice to read a sad piece. I like funny. Funny is - well funny. People like funny. But funny is safe. I made a conscious decision to leap from safety. I want to leap back.

I know, deep down in the pits of my stomach, that this experience is good for me. That it is awakening me from being mom 24/7. I know that a healthy parent has other things in their life. I have listened to my cast mates in rehearsal and marveled at their tenacity, skill and courage. I know that shows like this touch peoples lives and encourage them to find their way to their goals, hopes and dreams. I just wish I could do it from my couch, in my jammies.
That's not how it works though. So I will bare my soul publicly and see what it brings. I will just do it feeling like I am going to throw up, mess up or trip up. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Peer Pressure.

I was greeted this morning with a bombardment of news about the woman in New Jersey who took her kid tanning. I watched it on the news, where self righteous newscasters read the story, while acting as judge and jury. It quickly spread like wildfire across Twitter, Facebook and every other social media site there is.

I joined in with a witty little comment about Oompa Loompa's and went about getting my perfectly parented cherubs off to school. Then I watched the woman defend herself on the news. In my view, her skin color alone speaks to her mental health. Even if you find this type of tanning attractive - the woman is clearly medicated. She may be high but the healthcare professional in me sees signs of psychotropic drugs. Either way - it appears to me that this woman is not well.

It made me sad, then ashamed. Apart from anything else - how is this national news? Two American soldiers died in Afghanistan today. Many more civilians died too. What are we thinking? Why do we allow ourselves to be led down this ugly path by the media? I have sunburned my children - more than once. Once my daughter had blisters from the poor care I took of her skin under the Mexican sun. Why didn't I get put in jail or get nationally mocked and chastised?

This is only a story because of the mother's appearance. We are addicted to judging and mocking. I know it doesn't have quite the same advertising revenue potential but what this woman needs is help. Maybe she needs information. Support. Guidance. You know those old things. Sure, we weary parents need some laughs, some entertainment, but let's not stoop so low. There are plenty of opportunities to mock and laugh (if you must) so called celebrities who choose to put themselves in front of the media in exchange for large sums of cash.

I believe it trickles down. I think when a story like this gets such media attention the judgement rolls down hill. We are lulled into a false sense of righteousness. We start looking to find fault in each other's parenting. This poor women is likely just like you and I in many ways. Trying her best, making mistakes. She has a story we most likely will never know. If we did, we might see her differently.

I don't want the mainstream media to set the standard for parenting. I don't think they are objective. I think they are the last place we should look. Parents struggle under the weight of peer pressure. They stress and grieve under the torment of their children being bullied, then we whole heartedly participate in this - national bullying. At least I did. I am off for my slice of humble pie.